The Recruit (Highland Guard #6)(79)

All he could think about was being inside her. He wanted so badly to come that it hurt.

But when he held himself over her and looked into her eyes, he knew he had to find a way to pull himself back from the edge.

If she knew how easy it was to control him, he would never be able to break down the wall she’d erected between them.

So he countered her attack with one of his own. Before she realized what he intended, he slid down her body, positioning his face between her legs.

“What are you—”

He brushed his lips over her.

“Oh!”

She bucked, and he took the opportunity to slide his hands under the soft curve of her bottom to hold her steady. He kissed her again, rubbing his jaw against her mound as his tongue slid inside with long, languid strokes. She tasted so good, so soft and silky smooth, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He made love to her with his mouth and tongue, her back arching and her hips rising to meet the wicked onslaught of his kiss.

She was breathing hard, frantic little moans echoing in his ears. He knew he could make her come, but he purposefully drew it out until she was writhing in agony.

He lifted his head, looking up at her. The subtle curve of her belly made his chest swell with a strange emotion. His voice was oddly rough when he spoke. “Look at me, Mary.”

Her eyes were soft and unfocused, so heavy with lust it made his c**k clench. Holding her gaze, he flicked her with his tongue. She shuddered. She was his. He held his mouth against her, giving her the pressure she yearned for, and sent her flying over the edge.

Mary had never felt so close to anyone in her life. Looking into his eyes as he’d kissed her like that …

She’d never imagined sharing that kind of intimacy with anyone.

When he’d finally given her the release that she’d craved, she was so tired, she forgot to fight back.

Barely had the ebb of pleasure started to slip away when he was pushing inside her. Filling her. Becoming a part of her.

He forced her gaze to his as he took the final thrust of possession. At least that’s what she told herself. It wasn’t that she couldn’t look way.

He moved inside her slowly at first. But then the battle became too much for both of them. He surged once. Twice. And then his body stiffened and jerked as the spasms of his own release hit.

When it was over, they were both too tired to speak. He rolled to the side and tucked her against him. Strangely, she didn’t fight it.

The battle had been won, but by whom?

Eighteen

Mary woke to the warmth of sunshine on her face and the scent of flowers in her nose. She stretched like a lazy cat in the sun. Surely it must be a sin to feel this good? Opening her eyes, she discovered the source of the smell. A small sprig of lavender lay on the pillow beside her. She smiled, bringing it to her nose to inhale the delicate fragrance.

Aware that the source of her gift was watching her from across the room, where he stood by the basin with a razor in his hand, she lifted a brow. “Flowers today?”

The first morning, he’d surprised her with a warm bath. The second, with a pretty ribbon (she didn’t have the heart to tell him it was one of her own). The third, with a batch of her favorite sugared buns that she’d mentioned the day before. And today it was flowers.

As if his seductive passion at night wasn’t hard enough to resist, now she had to contend with his courtship during the day. But even knowing it was only a contest to him, and that the attention wouldn’t last, she couldn’t help but be amused—and touched. More than she wanted to admit. She’d never put much store in romantic gestures before, but she could not deny the spur in her heart. The gestures might be speciously motivated, but they were not without thought.

“Do you like them?” He frowned. “I know you mentioned pink roses were your favorite, but given my recent allegiance I wasn’t sure that would be wise.”

“I should think not.” The pink rose had become a subversive symbol of Bruce sympathizers after Isabella MacDuff, the Countess of Buchan, had worn one in her cloak on her way to be imprisoned in a cage. Unwittingly, Mary shivered and pushed the image away. She knew how close she’d come to sharing such a fate. But that was all behind her now. “They’re perfect,” she said, inhaling the small bouquet again. “Don’t tell me you picked them yourself?”

He lowered the blade from where it had been scraping against his jaw—a very hard, very masculine jaw—and grimaced. “I wish I had. I sent my squire to find them. My squire who has yet to learn to keep his mouth shut.”

She tried to bite back her smile. “Damaged your fierce reputation, did he?”

“More than you can imagine,” he said dryly.

Mary sobered. “You don’t have to do this, you know—whatever it is you’re doing.”

Their eyes met and held. For longer every time. Just as it was becoming harder to drag her gaze away.

Had he taken her words as a challenge to give up? It wasn’t how they were meant.

“Aye, I do,” he said softly, and then more lightly, “Don’t worry, I’ve had my share of needling; I can take it.”

“You? What do you have to be teased about? From where I sit, you’re infuriatingly perfect.”

A cocky grin spread across his face. “Do you think so? I wondered if you were ever going to notice.”