The Highland Fling(63)

“I wish.” He sighs and moves his hands up until they reach my hips.

His brow rises, and his eyes meet mine. “Are you wearing knickers?”

It was only a matter of time before he figured it out. “No, I’m not. I was wearing a thong and didn’t feel like sleeping in it.”

“So you climbed into my bed bare-arsed?”

I laugh and poke at him. “Wishing you kissed me now, huh?”

“Wishing I did a whole lot more.”

“Then, what was the holdup?”

“Wasn’t in a good headspace,” he admits, and everything clicks into place.

“You don’t want our first time to be clouded by memories of your brother.”

He nods. “Aye.” One hand comes up to my cheek, and his thumb pulls on my bottom lip. “You’re special, Bonnie. Annoying and irritating and stubborn—”

“Uh, is this going to take a turn down Niceville? Because those aren’t compliments.”

“If you’d let me finish,” he snaps, making me laugh and rest my head on his chest. Still grumpy, will probably always be grumpy. “As I was saying . . . irritating, stubborn, sassy, but you also have a warm heart, and I hate to admit it, but you’re funny too. You deserve a kiss that isn’t just something to do on a rainy night, but because it’s backed up by a special moment.”

“Like right now?” I ask, wrapping my legs around him and pulling him in even closer.

His eyes search mine, indecision weighing heavily.

Right now could be perfect.

Middle of the night.

Confessions falling past both of our lips.

The need to be close.

The air seems to stand still.

His eyes caress mine.

His breaths are short . . . yearning.

And right when I think he’s about to pull away, he lowers his head, drawing closer, making my heart lurch in my chest.

Please don’t let this be fake, please let this be a moment—the perfect moment.

Lightning flashes, and there is only a breath between us.

Thunder booms, shaking everything beneath us.

Then, his lips press against mine.

I suck in a sharp breath and instantly run my hands up his neck to his cheeks, where I hold him, not wanting him to pull away but to stay locked like this, his soft lips moving gently over mine, exploring, testing . . . tasting.

For such a brute of a man, he kisses with impressive intention. There is no sloppiness or driving need to prove something. Instead, he’s careful but intense.

Hunger sears through his lips as they move against mine, and his grip on my cheek and the soft press of his body against mine belie his outward calm. His tongue swipes across my lower lip, asking for more, and I oblige, opening wide for him. When his tongue meets mine, I groan against his mouth and grip him tighter.

Achingly incomplete until this moment, I get lost in our fervent passion, in his heavy breaths, in the low and sensual groans floating past our mouths.

Kissing this man is everything I hoped it would be.

Ardent.

Needy.

Consuming.

Overpowering.

World changing.

Another flash of lighting illuminates the room, but this time the thunder takes seconds longer to boom, heralding the storm’s retreat.

His kisses slow, his grip loosens, and with one final press to my mouth, he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine.

“Hell,” he mumbles.

“Yeah . . . agreed.”

His eyes connect with mine, and a lopsided smile tugs on his lips. “I think you’re trouble.”

“I think you might be right.”

Picking me up again, he lowers me to the ground and says, “Let’s head to bed.” He takes my hand in his and guides me to his bedroom. I slip into bed, and he lies down on the other side, flat on his back. He sticks one hand behind his head and wraps the other around me, pulling me in close to his side.

I settle into him, and as my hand travels to his chest, the tension that had laced his muscles is gone—he’s relaxed.

The storm quiets outside, and Rowan does too, his breathing evening out. He’s drifting off to sleep, but I’m buzzing. Desire pumps through me, need consumes me, and before I can stop myself, I allow my hand to roam his bare torso, lightly dragging my fingers over his abs, taking in every perfect indent, every curve. His stomach is carved as if from granite, and it’s such a huge turn-on that I find the ache between my legs increasing with every swipe.

I need to stop.

Right now.

But instead, my hand travels down to the waistband of his boxer briefs. I glide my fingertips over the elastic, wondering what he’d do if I just moved my hand a little farther.

What would I find?

Would he be hard?

He hasn’t shifted or moved since I started touching him.

His breathing hasn’t altered.

What would happen if I just . . . slowly . . . moved . . .

His hand that’s wrapped around me tugs at my shirt, exposing my skin as his large palm slowly grips my rear end.

Oh . . . dear . . . God.

I bite my bottom lip as my arousal spikes.

I don’t move.

My breath is held captive.

My pulse feels like a jackhammer in my throat.

And then he glides over my backside, feeling, exploring, his palm rough and calloused, making the pass of his hand that much more heady . . . luxurious.