Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(70)
His eyes were dark with passion. “I can't. I'll hurt you.”
“You won't.” Her hands gripped his hard flanks and pulled him forcefully against her, lifting her hips to take him even deeper. “Please …”
It was all the encouragement he needed. He let go, and she welcomed him with all the love and acceptance in her heart.
He sank into her again, holding her gaze as he touched the deepest part of her. Again and again. Harder and faster.
He was amazing. All his power, his fierceness, unleashed inside her.
She clenched him tighter with her body, dragging each stroke from him. Until the violent crescendo reached its highest peak. Until all the love she felt for this amazing man converged into one perfect moment of sensual bliss.
It was magic.
This was love. What had happened with John Montgomery paled in comparison with the breathless splendor she felt in Patrick's arms. Not just the pleasure that overwhelmed her body, but the closeness. The emotional connection that made everything so intense. Every touch. Every kiss. Every stroke reverberated through her like wildfire. She felt cherished. Protected. Loved.
And at that perfect moment—when her heart stopped and her body clutched in one last gasp—they touched heaven together.
Their shared cries of release tangled in the warm, sultry air of their pleasure.
The warm rush of his release was caught in the rippling tide of her own.
Their eyes met and wouldn't let go—not even when the last shudder of their bodies had ebbed. And what she saw there touched her soul.
Tears of happiness blurred her vision. Lizzie had found her heart's desire. She loved him, and he loved her. He might not be ready to admit it, but the truth was there in the emerald depths of his heated gaze.
Patrick rolled to the side so as not to crush her, feeling as if he'd just run into a stone wall. Every bone in his body crushed. Every muscle ripped to shreds. Once he'd spent almost a week on the run in the Lomond Hills, evading a score of Campbells, without sleep or food and very little water. He felt like that now. When it had all been over, he'd slept for two days.
What the hell had come over him? He'd never lost himself like that. He'd been wild. Out of control. Possessed by passion unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Passion that had consumed him, wringing out every last ounce of his strength.
His heart tightened, gazing at the woman collapsed beside him like a rag doll. He swept his hand over her flushed cheek. “Did I hurt you?”
Her eyes were bright with happiness, giving him an unwelcome twinge. “Do I look hurt?”
His gaze slid over her red swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, her adorably messed hair, and her ivory br**sts rosy from his kisses. No, she didn't look hurt, she looked very thoroughly ravished.
And sensual as hell.
If he hadn't just had the most amazing orgasm of his life wring him dry, he would be tempted to take her again— just so he could see if it had been real.
“You look beautiful,” he said honestly.
He saw the pleasure she took from his compliment, as if it were a rare treat, and vowed to tell her often so that she would never forget it. Her smile, bereft of its usual uncertainty, deepened to pure radiance. It hit him square in the chest. She should look like this always. Happy without restraint. Secure.
She lay in his arms for a moment, the curve of her body nestled intimately against his. Her cheek and the palm of one soft hand rested on his chest. Absently, her fingers traced the narrow path of dark hair on his stomach. Her hair was spread out like a flaxen veil on his chest, tickling his tanned skin.
So this was contentment. Would that they could stay like this forever.
When the pounding of their hearts had steadied and their breathing returned to normal, she propped up her chin on her hand and ventured a wary glance at him. “Are you disappointed?”
He stilled, not needing to ask what she was talking about. Lizzie hadn't been a virgin. Though part of him had guessed the truth, he admitted a moment of disappointment to have it confirmed. He was a man, after all, it was only natural. She was his woman, and he wished that he'd been the first. Irrational, unfair … definitely. But also honest.
That initial flare of disappointment, however, had fled when he thought of the hurt she must have suffered. He suspected the identity of the man she'd given herself to, and it shed an entirely new light on the events he'd witnessed— and played an unknowing role in—that day. His body clenched. How could the bastard make love to her and then treat her that way?
He'd taken too long to respond, and she misinterpreted his reaction. “I can understand if you wish to reconsider …” Her voice fell off unsteadily.
“Nay!” His reaction was swift and forceful; the swell of fierce emotion made him tighten his hold around her. “There is nothing to reconsider.”
The loss of her maidenhead to him was nothing to what it must have cost her. If anything, it eased his own sense of guilt about taking her.
Holding her in his arms like this, just the two of them, he found it easy to forget the complications that awaited them beyond. Life married to a MacGregor would be nothing like what she knew. He had nothing to give her. But he would do everything he could to make her happy.
He ached to taste every delectable inch of her body, cover her creamy soft skin with his hands, and make sure she never regretted the decision to marry him.