The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(48)

At least she was no longer alone. He was kissing her harder now—deeper—without as much smooth control. The stubble of his jaw scraped against the tender skin of her chin as his mouth moved over hers, plundering with raw intensity.

His groans were echoing her moans. His breathing was just as hard as hers, the hammer of his heart just as fast, and his skin just as hot.

She felt a burst of heady feminine pride and pleasure, knowing that she could do this to him. That he was just as affected as she.

His mouth fell to her jaw, and then to her neck, the wet heat of his breath making her shiver and shudder as he kissed a hot trail along her fevered skin. The hand that had been wrapped around her waist slid up to cup her breast, and the relief of the pressure was so acute, all she could do was moan and press herself deeper into the big, warm hand that seemed imprinted on her body.

He bent her back, arching her against him, kissing her again as he plied her breast with his wicked touch. Cupping and squeezing, pinching her nipple gently between his fingers until it drew to a hard peak.

Sensation exploded inside her. Oh God, how was he doing that? How could something feel so good? How could such big, brutish hands wield such exquisitely wrought pleasure?

She thought she’d died and gone to heaven. And then she knew she had when he replaced his hand with his mouth. Somehow he’d loosened the laces of her gown enough to slide his mouth under the edge of the fabric. The feel of his warm tongue circling her, before taking her gently between his teeth and tugging, sucking…

She cried out, a strange, pulsing heat pooling between her legs.

Her cry seemed to do something to him. He swore and the smooth, unhurried movements became more insistent, more purposeful.

She didn’t know how it happened, whether she’d pulled him back or he’d pressed her down, but somehow she was lying back against the pillows, and he was stretched out on top of her—or half on top of her. For someone so big and presumably heavy, he certainly felt good. She liked having all that solid weight pressing down her—it gave her an odd sense of security and closeness.

She opened her eyes long enough to glance down and see his dark head bent at her chest as he continued to suck her deep into his mouth. But then the needle of pleasure was so intense she had to close her eyes again as another cry escaped from between her lips.

He was saying things, murmuring against her skin in Gaelic. She didn’t need to understand the husky words to know that he was telling her all the things he wanted to do to her.

Her body shivered with wicked anticipation as his mouth covered hers again. He drew back once, long enough to look into her eyes. It was dark, only a sliver of moonlight slipping into the room from the shutters, but she could see the fierce emotion in his gaze. Emotion that made her heart catch and her breath quicken. His eyes were burning hot. He wanted her. She could see that. But it was more than want. It was a look of possession, a dark look of primitive intensity that made her feel as if he’d just staked a claim right through her heart.

By all rights his expression should frighten her. She knew what he wanted to do. Knew she should say something to stop him. Knew that what she wanted right now was impossible.

But the look entranced her. She couldn’t turn away. Even when she felt his hand sliding under her skirt and guessed what he was going to do. Even when he touched her and her entire body felt as if it had been shot through with a bolt of lightning.

She gasped, trembled, every nerve ending standing on edge as his finger lightly brushed over the tender place between her legs.

Oh sweet heaven! A rush of heat and dampness seemed to gather there. If she had been able to think, she might have been embarrassed and wondered at the strange throbbing. But then he touched her again and all she could think about was how good it felt and how much she wanted him to touch her more.

The light brushes of his callused fingertip weren’t enough. A soft sound escaped from between her lips—part whimper and part plea. Her body was shaking with a strange restlessness, as if wanting to move but not knowing how.

He touched her again, and finally she could no longer hold back. She lifted her hips against his hand, unconsciously seeking the pressure that her body so desired.

He made a fierce sound that was almost a growl. His face was dark and tense, his jaw clenched tight, as if the measured strokes of his fingers were costing him every last bit of his control. His gaze seemed to burn right through her, singeing her with its intensity.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said tightly. “I can’t wait to make you shatter.”

Rosalin didn’t understand what he meant, but she didn’t care because at last he was giving her what she wanted. He was cupping her with his hand, rubbing her, and finally—Oh God in heaven!—sinking his finger inside her.

He stroked her just the way he’d done with his tongue, plunging and circling until the pleasure overwhelmed her. Until the desire had nowhere to go. Until the gentle pulsing became a hard spasming. “Robbie! Oh God, please!” She arched under him, crying out, as sensation gripped her body in an iron hold and finally let go, catapulting her into a celestial wave of pleasure so intense, so acute, so magical, she felt as if she’d glimpsed a piece of heaven.

Robbie. Watching her release, hearing her cry his name as pleasure swept over her, did something to him. It wasn’t just the primitive response of his body—which had been stoked and primed to the breaking point—it was a feeling that centered somewhere in his chest and squeezed. The feeling that if he didn’t have her, that if he didn’t make her his, he was going to die.