The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(92)

“Don’t, Muriel.” His hands went around her waist to push her away. It was so tiny he could almost span it with two hands.

But she wouldn’t let him stop. “Why not?” She swept her hand down his chest, over the taut bands of his stomach muscles to the bulge that swelled between his legs. He let out a slow hiss when he felt the weight of her hand covering him.

He wanted to weep with pleasure, it felt so good.

She slid up next to him again, rubbing her delicately curved body against his. Heat flared inside him and his skin tightened, suddenly feeling too small.

“You want me. You can have me. I’m giving myself to you. No obligations, no conditions, just the way you want.”

The soft, seductive offer proved too much to resist. He crushed her in his embrace, covering her mouth with his, drinking in every sweet inch of her. He felt the slide of her tongue against his and told himself it was all right.

But a vague sense of unease penetrated the haze of desire. She was responding to him, but it wasn’t with the intensity and urgency of before. She’d always kissed him as though she couldn’t get enough of him. But this felt—this felt different.

His hand slid through her hair, cupping her head to bring her more fully to him, intensifying the kiss. Determined to make her want him as much as he wanted her.

It would be all right. He knew he would bring her pleasure.

His hands skimmed her back, her hips, her bottom. But even the thin piece of fabric that separated them was too much. He wanted to touch her. Feel her skin against his. Make her moan for him.

But she wasn’t moaning. Wasn’t making those soft, little gasps at the back of her throat. She wasn’t melting into him, clutching the muscles of his arms and digging her fingers into him as if she were holding on for dear life.

In frustration, he cupped her bottom, bringing her more fully against him, and started to rock. Slowly at first, then quickening the pace as desire built inside him and he felt her body start to respond. Her hips circled against his, finding the perfect rhythm.

He knew through experience that he could make her want him. He thought of all the times in the past that he’d made her come just by rubbing against her. And how she’d take him in her hand and give him release. But they’d always stopped. They’d never taken it to the final step.

He’d lived like a damned monk for years, damn it.

Finally, he heard the moans he’d been aching to hear. He kissed her harder, feeling her surrender to the maelstrom surging between them. He cupped her breast, felt the nipple tighten between his fingers, and let out a deep guttural groan of masculine satisfaction when she arched into his hand.

His body pounded. His c**k swelled harder, knowing she was almost ready for him. Knowing in a few minutes he was going to be inside her.

He broke away, looking into her eyes, as he gently leaned her back against the table and started to lift the edge of her chemise. She wasn’t going to stop him this time.

She looked exactly the way he’d dreamed she would look at this moment. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen and gently parted, her hair gently mussed. But something was wrong. Her eyes … Her eyes …

Oh, Jesus.

She was surrendering to him, but she didn’t want him. She didn’t even like him. What she was feeling wasn’t love, it was lust.

The realization broke through the haze of passion with a fist of clarity. Making love to her wasn’t going to change a damned thing. It wasn’t going to prove they were meant to be together. And it wasn’t going to change her mind. It would only make her hate him more.

She was right. He was trying to force her—bend her to his will. But she was stronger than he. This woman who’d survived so much.

He pushed her away, keeling over as if he’d taken a blow to the gut. In that moment when she was giving him exactly what he wanted—what he thought he wanted—he knew it wasn’t what he wanted at all. And what he’d wanted, he’d lost.

He wanted her back. The girl who’d looked at him with love in her eyes. Who’d made him feel as if he were the most important person in the world to her. Who’d trusted him enough to give him her heart and a body that should never have wanted a man’s touch again.

How could he have done this to her? He loved her.

It was time to start acting like it.

“Go,” he said hoarsely, disgust at what he’d done making his throat thick. “Go back to Inverness. I never should have brought you here. I’m … God, I’m sorry.”

She didn’t look at him again. She picked her clothes up from off the floor, donned them quickly, and left without a backward glance.

He loved her enough to let her go.

Twenty-one

Helen had plenty of time to think about all that had transpired. During the long, mostly sleepless night while she waited for Magnus and Kenneth to return safely (even though neither of them deserved her worry), and the even longer and far more arduous day of travel, she could think of little else. Having one’s heart crushed tended to have that effect.

She’d thought she and Magnus might have a chance. That he’d softened toward her—toward them—but it had only been a promise to William.

Or was it?

Once the initial stab of hurt dulled, she began to wonder if that was truly all it was about. Perhaps it had started out that way, but what about what had happened in the forest? Magnus might like to think it was only about protecting her, but his promise to William didn’t have anything to do with the passion that had exploded between them.