The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(93)

“We came so close before,” she whispered against his neck, the warmth of his breath sending shivers over his burning skin. “I want to know the rest.”

A bead of sweat slid down his temple. The cool room was fast growing warm and sultry.

She stretched against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her eyes found his. “Show me, Arthur.”

The bold request snapped the last thread of his reserve. With a growl, he pushed her up against the door, pinning her hands back on either side of her head, and kissed her. Nay, devoured her. He feasted on her mouth with his lips and tongue, kissing her as if he’d never be able to get enough.

She met his fervor with her own, sliding her tongue against his, mimicking his erotic movements with her own.

The roaring in his head got louder.

His body got harder.

It wasn’t enough. He leaned into her, fitting his body to hers, and rocked. Gently, and then more insistently as she started to writhe and whimper in innocent frustration.

He wanted to lift up her skirts and sink into her. Feel her shatter around him as he drove into her hard and deep. Over and over. Claiming her as his.

But she was so responsive—so pure in her pleasure—a swell of tenderness rose up inside him, and he pulled away.

She blinked up at him, her eyes swimming with passion, her lips softly parted and swollen from his kiss. “Please, don’t—”

“Shhh.” He stopped her protest with a soft kiss. “I’m not stopping.” It was too late for that. He was a man, not a bloody saint. He wanted her too badly, and she’d pushed him too far. Recriminations would come later. Right now, she was his.

But he wouldn’t take her like a rutting beast against a door.

He unfastened the Campbell brooch that he wore to secure his plaid and spread it out on the stone floor. After sitting, he held out his hand.

She didn’t hesitate, but slid her hand into his with a smile that tore at his heart and allowed him to lower her down beside him. There was just enough room to stretch out between the barrels of wine.

He slid his hand in her hair and drew her face to his, kissing her with all the passion and emotion teeming inside him. Kissing her as if she meant everything to him.

Anna gave herself over to the sweet possessiveness of his kiss. She curled against him, feeling warm, protected, and sheltered from the events taking place outside the magical bower of his embrace. She felt ...

Peace. In his arms she felt the sense of peace and contentment that had always eluded her.

He slid his hand through her hair, cradling the back of her head in his big, callused palm. His thumb caressed soft little circles at the back of her neck.

She could kiss him like this forever. Lying beside him, molded together, feeling the hard strength of his body pressed against her. His warmth a protective cocoon around them. The long, languid strokes of his tongue making her hot and boneless. It was perfect.

But when the long, languid strokes grew more demanding, when his kiss became harder and deeper, when his hold around her tightened and she became aware of the hard column of steel wedged against her stomach, kissing wasn’t enough.

She felt that strange sensation building inside her again. The awakening. The stirring. The restless energy that pulsed between her legs, making her feel anxious and desperate for pressure.

But this time she knew what would happen. She remembered his hand between her legs. His fingers inside her. The sharp spasms of release. She remembered the plump round head of his manhood pressing intimately inside her.

She moaned, circling her hips against him, wanting the relief that only friction could bring. Her body was on fire, her ni**les tight and achy as they raked his chest.

Her hands roamed over the broad span of his shoulders, the hard muscles of his arms and back, trying to draw him closer. Though beneath his plaid he wore only a tunic, chausses, and braies, the thin layers of wool and linen had become a maddening barrier. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to feel the heat of his skin pulsing under her fingertips.

He must have sensed her frustration. Wrenching his mouth away, he unbuckled his belt and jerked the tunic over his head, tossing it to the side.

His chest was as incredible as she remembered. Broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, flat stomach bisected by rigid bands of steel, the smooth plane of tanned skin marked by various-sized scars. The worst was the star-shaped scar on his upper arm near his shoulder—the type of mark left by an arrow. And she could see the marking on his arm clearer now: the Lion Rampant, the symbol of Scotland’s kingship.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Lord, he was beautiful.

“Keep looking at me like that, lass, and this won’t last that long.”

The huskiness of his voice sent a shiver of desire running down her spine. She blushed. “I like looking at you.” His eyes darkened. “You’re magnificent.”

Unable to wait a moment longer, she flattened her palms over his chest, gasping at the sharp sizzle of contact.

He made a deep, guttural sound and drew her into his arms again. This time there was no holding back. She could taste his desire. Feel his need in the erotic thrusts of his tongue.

It was all happening fast now, but each moment burned sharply in her mind. She wanted to remember everything about this. The way he tasted. The way his mouth felt on hers. The rough scrape of his beard on her chin. The heat of his skin. The power of his muscles flexing under her palms. The hard pounding of his heart against hers. She wanted to remember every sensation. Every smell. Every touch.