Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(38)

Was it so bad to want to feel like this? To crave the closeness? To know that she was a woman a man could want?

What if Patrick was the man she'd been waiting for?

She gasped, feeling the warmth of his breath sweep over her skin. His mouth was achingly close, but he was giving her time. Too much time. She didn't want to think, she wanted to feel. To take the moment of pleasure that he offered without thought of the consequences.

Desire warred with cold, hard reality. It was wrong. An impossible situation. A guardsman was not the right man for her. Her cousin and brothers would expect her to marry a chief, a laird, a man who would help foster the preeminence of clan Campbell—even an Englishman would be preferable. What good could possibly come of it? It would only make her yearn for something she could not have.

But her body wasn't listening. Her hands twined around his neck in silent invitation to take what he wanted. To give in to this fire that had been burning between them from the first.

Just for a moment, she vowed. Just one kiss. Ever since that day in her cousin's bedchamber, she could think of little else. The teasing brush of his lips had only made her hungrier to taste him fully. She would do her duty, but she had to know what it felt like to have his mouth on hers, to taste his passion—this man who made her knees weak simply from looking at him. From the first, this rough, dark warrior had intrigued her. She would simply appease her curiosity, that was all.

His mouth covered hers, and for an instant everything stilled. Every nerve ending that had been set on edge in anticipation exploded in a rush of pure pleasure. All that mattered was the exquisite feel of his velvety soft mouth on hers, of dissolving into warmth and heat. Of his firm lips possessing her. Of their breath melding together. Of the connection forged in passion and desire.

God, it was even better than she'd imagined.

Her body ached for him to touch her. Ached in ways it never had before. Lizzie felt the world spin under her feet, drowning in a sea of pleasure.

Her mouth opened against him, and he groaned. Sinking into her with an intensity that told her she was not the only one affected by this kiss. His fingers plunged through her hair to curl around the back of her neck, bringing her mouth more fully against his, as if he would devour her slowly and thoroughly. Very, very thoroughly.

His tongue slid into her mouth with long, slow strokes, fueling a hunger that she feared could consume her.

It came over her so fast, with such force, she couldn't have prevented it even if she wanted to.

She realized her mistake right away. The passion stirring in her blood was like nothing that had come before it. With John she'd felt a girl's curiosity, a girl's desire. But the intense emotion gripping her now went far deeper and was far more dangerous. Her desire for Patrick Murray was elemental. Like food and air, she needed him.

She couldn't get close enough. Wouldn't be close enough until her body melted into his. Until he was deep inside her, filling her and crying out her name. Loving her.

She sensed that he was holding back, having care for her innocence. How could she tell him that it wasn't necessary?

She kissed him back, sliding into the damp heat of his mouth. Meeting the thrust of his tongue instinctively with her own. Savoring the dark, delicious taste of him.

He growled and kissed her harder, bringing her body more fully against him, until it seemed that she'd melted into him. Chest to chest. Hip to hip. Soft curve to hard granite. He wedged her between his legs so that she could feel the heavy weight of his manhood straining against her.

God, he was big—and, like the rest of him, hard as a rock. The erotic knowledge settled somewhere low in her belly, clenching tight. And she was wicked, because she wanted to crawl over every inch of him. To feel him thrust up high inside her. To be connected to him in the most primitive, beautiful way.

Her body dampened with desire. She opened her mouth wider, taking him deeper, her tongue circling his in a frantic rhythm. His mouth moved over hers with less tenderness and more raw desperation, his hard jaw scratching the tender skin around her mouth until it tingled and burned.

No gentleman indeed. No gentleman kissed with such raw passion. Patrick Murray was a wickedly carnal man who wasn't afraid to let her see the depths of his desire.

He covered her breast with his big hand and she arched her back, pressing into the hard curve of his palm. He dragged his mouth down her throat, sliding wet, hot kisses over her fiery skin as his hand gently plied the soft flesh of her breast. The raggedness of his breath on her damp skin sent shivers sweeping over her.

His hair was soft and silky under her chin, warm from the sun. She had to touch it, to run her fingers through the dark, silky strands.

She could feel his control wane. Feel as the smooth, deliberate movements dissolved into a frenzy that matched her own. His hands were on her back, on her hips, on her bottom. Lifting her and circling her hips against him until the sweet friction made her quiver with need. She moaned, gripping his shoulders to hold herself steady as her body was racked with desperate shivers.

Her breath came quick. Her heart pounded.

He kissed her again, more insistently. His hands were in her hair. His tongue was deep in her mouth, her throat. He kissed her until her head spun. Until her knees weakened. Until all she could think about was collapsing on the ground and feeling the weight of his hard, muscular body on top of hers.

Her skin felt too tight for the sensations erupting inside her. She felt anxious and restless—poised on the precipice of something strange and wondrous—but not sure how to reach it. Something well beyond the short-lived pleasure she'd experienced with John Montgomery.