Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(96)
Her body flooded with those memories.
She didn't want to think, she only wanted to feel—him, inside her, filling her. Her hips circled against him, rubbing the thick column of his manhood. He felt so good. Too good. She couldn't wait …
He broke the kiss with a groan, his breath coming hard and fast; his eyes burning hot with desire. “Not so fast, my sweet. Not this time.”
Jeannie wanted to cry out in protest, but she could see the resolve tight on his face and knew he would not be dissuaded.
She knew what he was doing, forcing her to acknowledge what was between them every step of the way. No longer would she be able to hide behind blind passion. He wanted to strip her bare—not just her clothes, but her soul. The thought of what he could reveal terrified her, but she was beyond caution.
Without another word, he started to remove his clothes, holding her gaze to his the entire time.
Jeannie couldn't move, couldn't breathe, utterly transfixed by the incredible man before her. He unfastened the thick leather belt at his waist and tossed it to the ground. The intricately wrapped plaid came next, the thick, heavy folds falling into a pool at his feet. He still wore his brogues and sat on the edge of the bed to remove the soft leather boots. He stood again to remove the linen shirt, but she stopped him.
“No, let me,” she said, her voice husky.
His eyes locked on hers. If he was surprised by her bold request, he did not show it. Instead his gaze seemed to burn even hotter.
She was not an innocent girl any longer, but a woman who knew what she wanted. And right now she wanted to touch him more than anything in the world. To spread her hands across the wide spans of muscled chest and feel his heat, feel the raw energy pulsing from him.
To know that this was real and not a dream.
His eyes followed her every movement as she reached forward and slid her hands under the front edge of his shirt. She gasped at the contact, at the erotic sensation of hot, smooth skin. Just touching him made her dissolve into a puddle of hot, liquid need.
Duncan made a sharp sound and jerked, his jaw clenched and the muscles under her fingers suddenly rigid. He didn't seem to be breathing, but she had no doubt what she did to him.
His reaction only encouraged her—she felt emboldened by the sensual power she wielded over this fierce warrior. She splayed her fingers over the steel bands of his stomach, marveling at their precision, yet wickedly aware of the thick, swollen head of his erection jutting just below her wrists.
He wore nothing under his plaid which meant …
She looked down, a bold, naughty streak she didn't know she possessed taking hold.
Her mouth went dry. Her memory hadn't exaggerated. Thick and long, the round head swollen and heavy with blood, his manhood rose prominently a few inches above his waist between heavily muscled thighs giving proof to his virility. She blushed, realizing she'd been staring. But the wanton attention only seemed to make him grow even larger.
She reached out, but he grabbed her wrist to stop her from touching him. His jaw was clenched tight and the muscles in his neck bulged. He shook his head. “Nay,” he said, his voice harsh and pained. “Not yet.”
Blushing harder, but strangely pleased, she returned to removing his shirt.
Slowly, she skimmed her hands up his chest, lifting the shirt. When she reached his shoulders, he raised his arms and she had to stand on the bed to take it all the way off.
Tossing the shirt beside the plaid, she ran her hands over his shoulders, his arms, his back, as if memorizing every ridge, every bulge of muscle with her palms. He was completely naked, and utterly magnificent. His muscles sculpted to perfection, every ounce of his flesh hard-wrought steel. His virile strength was daunting.
He stood completely still, but she could tell from the harshness of his breathing that her exploration was torturing him.
She tore her gaze from his chest and looked into his eyes. “You've changed so much,” she said softly, unable to keep the wistfulness from creeping into her voice. The boy had become a man. He'd left her a promising warrior, and returned an indestructible legend. Her fingers absently traced scars, the remnants of battles she knew nothing about.
“I hope for the better,” he said lightly, cupping her chin and forcing her gaze to his. His tone turned serious. “There's still time, Jeannie. It's not too late.”
Her heart squeezed. She hoped so. Uncertainty clouded her consciousness, until he dropped a soft kiss on her lips. A kiss that quickly turned insistent. Demanding. Wiping out all thoughts of the troubles facing them and returning her to the moment at hand.
She circled her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, a body that she'd primed with her touch. She could feel the fire blazing under the surface, ready to engulf her in flames. All too aware of his nakedness and that only the thin linen of her nightraile separated them, she sank against him, sliding her body down to position him between her legs.
He drew back, his eyes dark with passion and shook his head. A predatory glint sparked in his gaze. “Now it's my turn.”
The sensual promise in his voice quickened her pulse. She eyed him warily. Though she was far from a maid, she could hardly be called experienced in the art of love-making. She fought back the needle of guilt for the failure to her husband. Francis had deserved more than duty and quiet acceptance.
But she could no more force her body to passion than she could her heart to love. She knew that now. With Duncan she never had to try, it was always there. Bone deep. On an elemental level that could not be feigned. With Duncan she'd never felt self-conscious. Never been uncomfortable. Making love to him seemed the most natural thing in the world.