Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(67)

“Nothing would bring me more pleasure than to have your hands upon me.”

Clumsily, she worked at the laces and then allowed her hands to glide down his muscled arms and to his taut abdomen, where she gathered the material and began to push upward.

He helped her tug it over his head, and her gaze settled on the stitched scar curving across his chest. As he had done with hers, she leaned forward and kissed every inch of the mark, her lips lingering over the puckered flesh.

His heart thundered against her mouth and his breath escaped his mouth in a long hiss.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve dreamed of this?” he asked. “Your mouth on me, the sweetness of your kiss and caress. ’Tis more than I could possibly have ever wished for.”

She ducked her head shyly, her cheeks heating at his fervent words.

He reached to cup her jaw, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone as he gazed tenderly at her. “Ah, lass, your shyness is so endearing.”

She rubbed her face into his palm, aching for more of his caress. Then he slowly rose, standing before her so that she had access to his leggings.

The ridge of his arousal was readily visible, and she swallowed nervously as she began to divest him of the last of his clothing. Finally his hands covered hers and he assisted her in pushing them down his legs, and he stepped free.

He was a magnificent sight standing before her. All male, hard, muscled, the ultimate warrior. Scars crisscrossed his body, some old and fading, some, like the one on his chest, much newer.

’Twas evident that this was a man who’d fought in many a battle. He bore the marks of the most seasoned warrior, a testament to his strength and training.

From the dark hair at the juncture of his thighs, his erection jutted upward, thick and heavy. She’d learned to fear such a sight, because she knew it meant only pain and humiliation for her.

But this was a testament to his arousal and his need of her. Her. A scarred lass with nothing to offer him, her virtue long ago taken against her will.

It was hard not to shrink away in shame all over again, for she was not worthy of this man or of his regard.

Bowen eased down onto the bed again, taking in the instant change in her demeanor. He stroked her hair, allowing his hand to run the length of her tresses as he stared at her in question.

“Why that look? As though you would turn from me in shame?”

Her eyes were haunted. Sadness clung to them, drenching the pools with a wealth of unspoken emotion.

“Once I would have been worthy of you,” Genevieve said in an anguished voice. “I was innocent and untouched. My parents were of noble birth, and I was fostered in the king’s court. I attended the queen herself.” She looked up, her face filled with sorrow and the knowledge of all that had been forced upon her. “Now I am no more than the lowliest whore. Certainly not fit for a warrior bearing the Montgomery name and kin to one of the mightiest lairds in all of Scotland.”

Rage filled him. He was awash in it until it flamed his senses and burned through his veins. “Not worthy?” he said, his voice gruff and unyielding. “ ’Tis I who say who is worthy, and there was never a woman more worthy of my regard than you.”

A look of wonder slowly lit her face. Her eyes widened and then lightened. She stared at him as if he’d just single-handedly defeated an entire army on her behalf.

“Oh Bowen,” she breathed.

He slid his arms underneath her legs and lifted and rotated so he could position her on the bed. He laid her out like a feast—and, indeed, she was. A feast for the eyes and the senses. He could hardly contain himself, so great was his need to touch her.

With trembling hands, he stroked up her soft belly, just above where the dark patch of hair shielded her most feminine flesh. It beckoned to him, and the urge to delve his fingers into her sweetness was strong, but he didn’t want to rush. If it killed him, he was going to be exceedingly patient. And it very well might.

He caressed the satiny skin over her rib cage, and then up the valley of her br**sts, as he gazed at the perfection of the plump mounds. Perfect, pink-tipped br**sts. Her ni**les were enticingly round and erect, inviting his mouth to suckle.

When he cupped one of the dainty globes in his palm, she went still, not even a breath escaping her lips. Her ni**les puckered to rigid points, and tiny chill bumps broke out and raced across her chest.

“You are beautiful, Genevieve,” he said hoarsely. “There is not a lass more beautiful.”

For a moment, he thought he’d spoken wrongly. That he’d gone too far and that, in his effort to make her feel beautiful and womanly, he’d come across as insincere.

But then she looked at him and her eyes glowed with vibrant light. She looked … content. It was a look she hadn’t worn until now, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d had little to be happy about.

“You make me feel beautiful,” she said, her lips trembling with emotion.

Her words hit him right in the chest, and he went weak all the way to his feet. He leaned over and brushed his mouth across hers, sipping at the nectar of her lips. “ ’Tis glad I am of that, lass, for ’tis the truth that you are more beautiful to me than a thousand Highland sunsets.”

He nibbled his way down her jaw to her ear, and then spent several long moments eliciting soft moans from her as he teased the delicate lobe. He licked and nipped until she fidgeted restlessly underneath his seeking hands.