For the Highlander's Pleasure

Finn’s eyes glittered in the torchlight with a predatory gleam. Outside, thunder from a spring storm rumbled along the lands and sent a tremor beneath her feet.

“Ignoring it only makes it worse,” he confided, his voice so silken it sent shivers of longing through her. His fingers sifted through the hair at the base of her skull, lightly skimming her neck.

She tipped her head back, seeking more of his touch. Her eyes closed, shutting out everything except the way his hands felt on her. Pleasure tripped through her, taking the place of the burning need until she found herself pressing against him again. His thigh parted hers, a hard, heavy weight between her thighs even though her skirts muted the sensation.

Blindly, she gripped his shoulders, holding him in place. With her eyes shut, she could keep him close another moment without guilt swallowing her up. Just now she needed the relief only he could provide. It was all she could do not to rub her whole body against him like a cat.

“You’re so warm.” He spoke over her skin, his breath a soft whisper along her neck as he bent to kiss her there.

She arched back, curving into him. Inviting whatever he could give her for this moment. His lips trailed kisses lower, claiming the place her wayward neck cloth had once covered. With his teeth, he clamped on the butterfly brooch and tugged it away from her collarbone, exposing more skin.

In a trice, he kissed her high on her chest, licking a path down toward the tightly laced bodice. Down toward one plump swell straining against the fabric.

Her hands roamed his strong back as he bent there, fingers learning the intricate play of taut muscle. The sound of her breathing filled her ears, her needy sighs impossible to hold back, especially when his thigh pressed at that most intimate of places. She did not realize that was the greatest source of burning, but there seemed to be a connection between the ache of her breasts and the sharp twinge deep between her thighs.

As his tongue dipped beneath the material of her chemise, she could not contain her moan. Her legs failed her and she would have fallen if not for his thigh holding her up. She clutched him to her, a wild thing in her need.

He lifted his head, his eyes hot with passionate desire.

“I can quell the burn and leave you a virgin still,” he whispered. “Where is your chamber?”

For a moment, she could scarcely understand him, her body too busy mourning the loss of his mouth on her quivering flesh. But then her brain seemed to catch up with his words. She blinked at the mention of her virginity, the blatant sensual negotiation forcing her to come to her senses at last.

Shame flooded her.

“Nay.” She shook her head, trying to tell her body that it could not have what it wanted so desperately. The desire did not come from her heart after all. It came from an herb that she never should have touched. “I must not. That is—I should not ever…”

Sweet merciful heaven. She could only blame the herbs for so many transgressions. No one had forced her into this man’s arms. Who knew such hungers lurked within her that they could override all sense so quickly?

Edging away from him, she straightened her gown to cover her breasts. She would leave the keep at once. Both to warn Morag of Finn’s arrival and to strangle the wise woman with her bare hands for providing a vile batch of herbs that had made Violet disgrace herself in front of the warrior knight twice in one day.

While she formulated the plan, her companion contemplated her in silence, his persuasive hands mercifully removed from her wayward flesh.

“You are a peculiar woman,” Finn observed softly, lifting the torch from its ring on the wall and turning from her as easily as if they had not been panting madly over each other moments ago. “But if you change your mind—”

“I will not.” Or, rather, she prayed she would not. She lifted the hem of her skirt to extricate herself from the corner and hasten ahead of him in the passageway. “Your chamber is at the top of these stairs. I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask you to make your own way from here.”

She needed to escape the scent of him—the sweet wood smoke of the hearth fire on his tunic and the berry-wine taste of his kiss.

As the thunder rumbled again outside, she thought a run through the coming rain might be just what she needed to cool off.

“Wait. Look at me,” he commanded, raising the torch high and illuminating the harsh angles of his face. His sea-blue eyes. The mouth that had been so much softer than she ever would have imagined.

She might have ignored him and hastened to her own rooms, but how could she find her way in the dark? By the rood, she was not thinking properly at all, her wits muddled and her heart racing erratically