When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(41)

His mouth fell on hers, hot and masterful. His hands were everywhere, smearing even the cleaner parts of her frock with mud. All Maddie could do was cling to his coat while the forbidden sensations swamped her.

His tongue swept into her mouth. Seeking, demanding. She could taste the frustration in his kiss. Whether it was left over from last night, this morning, or the entirety of the past decade, she couldn’t guess. Whatever the cause, he obviously meant to avenge it with this sensual onslaught.

And Maddie could not bring herself to object.

She loved the rough, possessive way he was touching her. His hands roamed her breasts, her hips, her backside. Her nipples came to tight points, as if they recalled last night’s attentions and were ready to beg for more. When his thumb found one of the aching peaks and teased it, she moaned with helpless pleasure and relief.

She let her head fall back, and he lavished soft kisses on the vulnerable skin covering her pulse. His gentleness and thoroughness made her feel cherished. Precious.

Wanted.

She’d never dreamed she could feel this desired by anyone. It was almost . . .

Oh, how ironic. It was almost a dream come true.

No, she told herself. Don’t be a ninny. She couldn’t let herself think that way.

She’d been struggling to keep her foolish heart out of this, keeping him at arm’s length with conditions and rules. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. All too easily, she could create a story in her mind. Spin a tale of devotion that would be just another lie—-one she told herself. She didn’t want to imagine that Logan could care for her.

He didn’t care for her.

But he wanted her.

This heat between them was real. This grappling kiss was the truth. And the hot ridge of his arousal pressed against her thigh was far too big to be any trick of her imagination.

He lifted his head and looked down at her. “Maddie.”

When he whispered her name, the cold was forgotten. So was the mud, his teasing, the pain in her leg. The rain kept falling, pushing her further into the shelter of his embrace. Melting her will to resist.

She touched a hand to his cheek. Gone was the fierce Highland warrior. The rain plastered his hair to his brow and dotted his face, giving him a wet--puppy look: lost and in need of love. Every bit as confused as she felt inside.

“Oh, Logan.”

And now, despite all her best attempts to avoid it, here it came.

Her heart started telling her a dangerous, dangerous tale. The story of a decent, loyal man who’d treasured her letters, dreamed of her nightly, survived battles and marched across continents to come home—-not to a castle or a glen but to her. And even now, when he held her in his arms, he lacked the words to explain all the emotion in his heart.

It was nothing but a silly fiction.

It had to be.

But she couldn’t block it out any longer. She put her arms around his neck and wove her fingers into his hair, pulling him close.



Chapter Thirteen

Logan should have pulled away. They needed to seek shelter.

But he couldn’t bring himself to let her go.

The rain had plastered her frock to her skin, leaving little to his imagination. He saw all of her, in perfect contour—-her pale skin, her puckered nipples, the blue tint to her quivering lips. She was vulnerable and trembling.

She needed warmth.

And he needed this.

To hold her. Guard her. Feel her pounding heart pressed close to his and know she was alive.

Because, though he would die before he’d admit it, he’d been frightened for a moment there, when she’d been caught in the mire.

He’d drawn her close to reassure himself. He’d kissed her because she’d seemed to want him to.

But now his shy, timid bride was kissing him, and he’d lost control of everything.

Her fingers sifted through his damp hair. Her sweet, tentative tongue stroked his. The longing pierced him to the core. He felt faint with it.

He tightened his grip in the back of her dress, pulling her body flush against his. She sighed into the kiss, wriggling closer still. Her belly brushed over the ridge of his cock. A tremor moved through his thigh muscle.

God, he wanted her.

This was madness. They were both caked with peat and mud below the waist. There was no way he could take her virtue here, on the ground in the rain and cold.

But he couldn’t bear the growing tension anymore. His cock throbbed in vain, trapped beneath the wet woolen folds of his plaid. He was desperate for some kind of contact. Resistance. Touch. Heat.

He had to take control.

In a swift motion, he rolled her onto her back, wedging himself between her thighs. When his cock finally found the friction it craved, he groaned with pleasure.

She cried out in pain.

Logan pulled onto his elbows immediately. He searched her startled expression. “What’s the matter? You’re hurt.”

“It’s just my leg. I . . . I wrenched it coming out of the mire.”

Jesus. She’d been wounded all this time? And here he’d been mauling her on the hillside as if she were a lamb and he were the last Highland wolf.

“Dinna be worried. I’ll have you back to the castle at once.”

He loosened the extra folds of tartan draped over his shoulder. Tucking her close to his chest, he wrapped the plaid around Maddie’s body to warm her.

Then he hefted her into his arms.