Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(75)

Bowen grasped her shoulders, his fingers tight. “I am sorry, Genevieve. ’Tis something I should have done long before now. Selfishly, I wanted you here with me and I allowed you to suffer as a result. Teague and Brodie will remain here to see to the mess that is the McHugh clan. I’m taking you from this place, and you’ll not be treated in this fashion again.”

She threw her arms around his waist and hugged him. Her cheeks were wet, but she kept her face buried in his tunic so that he would not see the intensity of her reaction.

But he knew.

He hugged her just as fiercely, and then finally he pried her away and cupped her chin, his eyes sorrowful and full of regret.

“The joy in which you embrace this news shames me. I should have sent you from this place the moment I knew of your plight. I’m sorry, Genevieve. I’m sorry that I caused you more pain.”

She leaned to kiss him and placed both hands on his face. “ ’Tis glad I am you didn’t send me away from you. The night spent in your arms is one I’ll treasure forever.”

“I would spend this one with you as well,” he said gruffly, his eyes ablaze with desire.

A flutter worked deep in her chest. Her mouth went dry as he bristled, all delicious warrior male. And he wanted her.

It made no sense for a man such as he to want a woman scarred when he could have any woman he wanted at the crook of his finger.

She’d seen the looks the McHugh lasses had thrown his way. She’d heard the blatant invitations, the coy smiles, the boldness with which they made their desires known. And yet not once had he looked their way.

“I’d like that,” she said softly as she rubbed her cheek along his chest.

He grasped her shoulders and lowered his head to capture her mouth in a breathtaking, smoldering kiss. There was more demand in his movements tonight. He wasn’t as patient or tender as he’d been the previous night. It was as if he’d lost all ability to hold back and he wanted her with a desperation that overtook him.

Excitement coursed through her veins. Heat flushed her skin as her body responded to his demands.

“I want you,” he rasped. “God, Genevieve, I want you so. You’re like a drug in my blood. An addiction I have no desire to ever conquer.”

He picked her up as if she weighed naught and carried her to the bed, where he dropped her with a soft bounce.

He stood over her, looming, big and fierce, as he quickly divested himself of his clothing. He stripped his tunic over his head and she sucked in her breath at the expanse of muscles, the rock-solid breadth of his chest and his thick shoulders and arms.

So strong, able to protect, and yet capable of being exquisitely tender and loving. So very loving. There was nothing she delighted in more than lying surrounded by those huge arms, knowing that he’d allow nothing to harm her.

He pulled his leggings down and hastily pried his leather boots from his feet, tossing them across the room with no care.

He was magnificent, a study in a warrior’s form. Beautiful. Scarred and beautiful.

Realization was stark and strong as it struck her that she was willing to forgive his scars and even considered them beautiful. A mark of who he was. What made him the person he was. Aye, they made him beautiful, and yet she was deeply shamed by the mark on her face. She’d never viewed it as a badge of honor, proof of her survival and the ability to overcome devastating odds. But she was willing to grant those attributes to Bowen, denying herself the same accord.

They both bore scars. They were both survivors. These were marks to be borne with heads held high. Could she ever accept that and stop hiding behind her shame and humiliation? It was a nice thought, but the deepest scars were those unseen, the ones on her heart and her soul and her mind. And those were the most difficult to overcome.

“I’m going to take your clothing piece by piece so that I may enjoy seeing each part of you bared before me,” he said in a husky, passion-laced voice. “And then I’m going to love you until dawn’s rays reach through the window and signal our departure.”

Her pulse leapt to life and she arched restlessly, impatient to feel his hands on her body, coaxing it to life.

Never had she known pleasure at a man’s hand until now. Until Bowen.

He settled on the edge of the bed and began working at the lacings on her dress. With patience he’d not displayed while undressing himself, he worked at disrobing her, removing her clothes piece by piece, his gaze soaking in her body as it was bared.

“You are a sight to behold, lass,” Bowen breathed as he divested her of the last remaining piece.

She lay naked on the bed, vulnerable and open to his look, his touch. Her ni**les were achingly erect, anticipating his mouth and hands. And her most feminine flesh pulsed as she remembered his mouth and tongue stroking over sensitive points.

Never could she have imagined the act of coupling as being a give-and-take, an act of mutual pleasure on the part of the man and the woman. With Bowen it wasn’t just him taking, her giving and being left with naught.

He gave all he received and often more. He was patient and exacting, ensuring that he gave her as much pleasure as she gave him.

For that reason, she wanted this night to be special. One that he’d long remember. Relying on her instincts—she’d never done more than lie and endure Ian’s brutality—she levered herself up and smoothed her hands over Bowen’s broad chest.