Highland Warrior (Campbell Trilogy #1)(70)

“If what hurts?” he asked innocently.

She gave him a playful tap on his chest. “Your shoulder, you wretch.”

His attempt to appear contrite was ruined by the boyish twinkle in his blue eyes. “I promise.”

Sometimes she forgot how young he was. His authority and battle-hardened exterior made him appear much older than his seven and twenty years.

God, he is beautiful. The hard, masculine lines of his face lightened by playfulness. His eyes even crinkled at the corners when he smiled. The effect was utterly devastating.

He took her breath away.

She stood up and moved to the door, sliding down the metal bar so they would not be disturbed. She could feel his eyes on her every step of the way.

“There are a few problems,” he said.

It was her turn to look at him questioningly. “Such as?”

“Our clothes.” He sat back against the pillow with a wide grin on his handsome face. “I’m afraid my arm hurts too much to be of much help in removing them.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

He nodded solemnly. “I guess you’ll have to do it on your own.”

“And what will you do?”

“Why, watch, of course.”

“Of course,” she said dryly. With her back to him, she removed her arisaidh and folded it carefully on the chair. She looked over her shoulder, catching him staring at her bottom. “I don’t suppose I could bother you to help me untie my laces.”

“I might be able to manage.”

She returned to the bed and stood with her back to him as he unlaced her kirtle and then her stays. His fingers seemed to caress her skin as he worked the ties, lingering at the sensitive small of her back, sending a shiver of awareness down her spine.

When he’d finished she shrugged the gown off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. The stays were loose enough for her to shimmy them over her head.

Though she wore only her sark, the room seemed to be getting warmer, and she could feel a flush spread over her skin.

She could hear the hitch in his breath as each piece of clothing hit the ground and knew that watching her—even from the back—had aroused him. She started to work the ties at her neck, but he reached out to clasp her wrist.

“Let me see you, lass,” he said, all playfulness gone from his voice.

She turned around to face him, cheeks burning. She might be embarrassed, but she couldn’t claim to be unaffected. There was something deeply sensual about undressing before a man knowing his eyes were on your every move.

Slowly, she untied the sark at her neck, then bent down to slide off her slippers, giving him a view of her br**sts swaying from behind the open neck of her sark.

He swore, and she hid a smile, savoring the moment of feminine power.

He sucked in his breath as she slid her sark up to her thigh and rested her foot on the edge of the bed, taking her time sliding her stockings off her legs.

Her body dampened, knowing what he was thinking, knowing how badly he wanted to see her there.

Her eyes met his. His gaze was hot, burning with intensity. “Take it off,” he hissed.

She slid the edge of the sark higher, still giving him a view only of her thigh, then higher to expose the curve of her bottom, moving the fabric up her sides and over her br**sts as she lifted it over her head and let it drop in a puddle beside her bare feet.

She peeked from under her lashes and saw his gaze slide over her br**sts, her stomach, her bottom, and then down her legs.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

“Except for me crooked nose,” she teased.

He laughed. “Especially because of that crooked nose.”

And under his appreciative stare, she felt so. She lifted her eyes to his and moved her foot to the ground. He lowered his gaze to between her legs, and she swore she tingled as if he’d touched her.

Her need for him was primal. She reached for him, sliding her hand along his stomach as she untied the waist of his breeches, releasing his straining erection from behind the tight confines of fabric. She moved over him on the bed, straddling him as she slid her hands behind his taut bu**ocks and worked the pants down his legs, desperate to have him inside her.

His hands were on her br**sts, kneading and squeezing, pinching the taut tips as she worked. She rubbed her aching mound over his thickness, needing to feel him between her legs.

She was so wet and hot, throbbing for him, but she wanted to prolong the sensations pulsing through her body.

“Oh God, you’re killing me. I need to be inside you.”

He covered her breast with his mouth, pulling her nipple between his teeth and sucking hard. Demanding. Her head fell back as she arched against him, and she rubbed a little harder, sliding over him until the area grew slick with need.

He touched her with his thumb, caressing the most sensitive part of her, and she exploded, contracting against him as she cried out her pleasure.

While the spasms still rocked through her, he took her hips and thrust inside her, taking her so deep that she cried out again. There was nothing like this feeling of utter connection, a feeling that she now recognized was based on something far deeper.

She could feel it rising again, filling her, the desperate craving . . . he pulled her down hard against him so that their bodies touched and rocked, and the friction, the exquisite pressure, sent her flying over the edge again as the sweet contractions rippled through her body.