The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(91)

He couldn’t get enough. His mouth was ravenous for her taste, his hands eager to roam every inch of her, and his body aching for more pressure.

She moaned and shuddered, her tiny fingers clutching—digging—into his shoulders, visceral proof of how much she wanted him.

A bolt of heat struck hard in his groin, filling him. Making him swell. Throb. Bead.

He wasn’t going to last.

Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her over to the pallet. He broke the kiss only long enough to set her down and tear off his shirt before coming down beside her.

Her eyes widened, traveling over the spans of bare skin. Nay, “traveling” wasn’t quite right. “Feasting on” was perhaps more accurate. He was not unaccustomed to women admiring the effects of warfare on his body, but with her it was different. With her, it mattered.

“My God, you’re beautiful,” she blurted.

He smiled. “Warriors aren’t beautiful, lass. I thought you were good with words?”

She blushed, even though she knew he was teasing her. “Very well, ‘perfect’ then.” Her eyes went to the cut he’d suffered in the battle with the English the previous morning. “The wound does not hurt?” He shook his head. As he’d told her, it was no more than a scratch. “What is this?” she asked, outlining the mark that bound the Highland Guard on his other arm with her finger.

Ah hell. “Nothing.”

She ignored him. “It’s the Lion Rampant with some kind of band and inscription.” She squinted in the candlelight. “Or inveniam viam. ‘I shall find a way,’ she translated. “Fitting for a tracker. It sounds like the inscription for a sword.”

“It is,” he said. He had the same mark on his sword. The Lion Rampant tattoo, encircled with the torque-like band of a spiderweb, was the mark used to identify each member of the Highland Guard. But many of the warriors had personalized it with weaponry or mottos. Ewen had done both. He had two pikes crossed behind the lion and the inscription on his sword below.

His arm flexed under her fingertips, and thankfully she moved on. She reached out and spread her hands over his chest and arms. “You look as if you are made of steel.” She lifted her gaze to his shyly. “You know, I never liked muscles before, but I think they’ve rather grown on me.” Her palm spread over the bulge of muscle on his upper arm and squeezed. “Aye,” she said, her voice growing a little huskier, “I am quite appreciative.”

Another blast of heat rushed over him. He swore and kissed her again before her words could drive him any crazier.

He had every intention to take it slow. To savor every minute of what might be the only time—

He stopped. Don’t think about it.

Instead he concentrated on how good she felt, tucked in under him. He held her cradled against his side, half-propped over her, so as not to crush her with his weight. It also left his hand free to explore, and he made damned sure to leave no part of her untouched. He cupped her breast through the thin fabric of the chemise, brushing his thumb over the taut peak, before sliding his hand back over her waist and hips, and then her bottom, lifting her against him until her leg wrapped around his hip.

Their groans and moans blurred together when he started to rock gently against her. Slowly he increased the pace, mimicking the rhythm with his tongue, as the slow, gentle circles became a fast, hard grind. He let her get used to his size. Let her feel every inch of his length as he moved his body over hers.

But the playacting separated by a few layers of linen and wool wasn’t enough for either of them. The frantic race of her heartbeat and quickening breath, between increasingly urgent gasps and moans, matched his own.

Tension pounded through his body. He was so damned hot. Fevered. His body an inferno of need. Sweat gathered on his brow as he fought the instincts pressing inside him. Every one of his muscles was flexed hard, shaking with the effort to find restraint. To find control. To make it last.

But it wasn’t going to last. Not this time. It felt too good, and he wanted her too intensely. From the first moment he’d seen her in the forest, half-naked and fierce as a Valkyrie, he’d been waiting for this moment. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that even to himself, but the truth had finally caught up to him. Or maybe it was fate that had caught up to him.

He knew it was too hurried. Too rushed. But he had to be inside her. Now.

With one hand, he unfastened the ties of his breeches and slid them over his hips. The cool blast of air over turgid skin made him groan with relief.

Finesse was beyond him. His hand felt big and clumsy as he reached for the hem of her chemise, easing it just enough to give him access. He forced himself to tease it out. To let his hand rest on her thigh a moment before he touched her. But she wouldn’t let him. She started to squirm, to moan, to lift her hips to meet him.

So he gave her what they both wanted, sweeping his fingers over her dampness, before sliding into the tight feminine heat. He groaned. So wet. So damned hot.

A sharp squeeze of desire fisted at the base of his spine. He wanted to be inside her so desperately, it took everything he had not to lever his body over hers and thrust up hard inside. The knowledge of how good it would feel crashed over him in a hot wave, nearly dragging him under.

But he had to make her ready for him. She was an innocent, damn it, and he was going to make this good for her, even if it killed him.