The Viper (Highland Guard #4)(88)

He turned back to her, his handsome face painfully still. “Since my wife died.”

“But that was …”

“Ten years ago,” he finished flatly.

Bella couldn’t believe it. How could a man who exuded virility have existed like a monk?

She must have voiced her question aloud without realizing it. He laughed harshly, giving her a pointed look. “There are other ways to find release.” She blushed, realizing he was talking about pleasuring himself. “I was busy fighting most of the time. It wasn’t difficult until recently.” The heat in her cheeks intensified—he was talking about her. He shrugged. “It isn’t all that unusual. There are the Templars, for example. Many warriors believe it adds to their strength.”

He tried to fob it off as nothing, but she knew it didn’t have anything to do with religion or his warrior’s strength. “How long are you going to keep punishing yourself, Lachlan?” she asked quietly.

“I’m not punishing myself.” He gave her a suggestive look. “Or don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” she said huskily. Only too well. Her body burned with the memory.

He held her gaze in the firelight. Night had fallen as they spoke, and the old stone building had grown darker. More intimate. More dangerous.

She was painfully aware of how close they stood, and how easy it would be to reach out and put her hands on his naked chest. A naked chest that had taken her breath away. She’d never seen anything so magnificent. Powerfully built from years of living by the sword, every inch of his lightly tanned flesh had been honed to perfection. Broad-shouldered, arms stacked with layers of bulging muscle, not an ounce of extra flesh marred the hard planes of his chest and tightly banded stomach. All she could think about was putting her hands on him and feeling all that strength under her touch.

Realizing she was staring, she lifted her gaze back up to his. His eyes glowed dangerously. “It’s not a good idea, Bella.”

The soft warning in his voice didn’t give her pause. She thought she’d be content with passion, but she was wrong. She wanted more. Much more. He cared for her, and she intended to prove it. “Why?”

“I’ve nothing more to offer you.”

But he did. If only he would see it. She put her hands on him, feeling a blast of heat shoot through her. Lightning. It was as if she were harnessing lightning. Her nerve endings snapped at the contact, the hard, warm flesh singeing her palms. She could feel the muscles straining under her fingertips. Fighting to be set free.

God, how she wanted him!

The muscle at his neck stood out like a taut rope. His fists clenched at his side. “It won’t change anything,” he warned.

But it already had for her.

She’d take the chance. Bella had never shirked from a fight, and she wouldn’t start now. Without another thought, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.

Seventeen

He pulled her down on his lap and kissed her. Kissed her in a way that seemed to reach down to her toes, claiming every inch in between. It was both hot and possessive, less furious and frantic than before but every bit as passionate.

Bella gave herself over to his seduction. God, did he know how to kiss! Each skilled stroke of his tongue, each smooth caress of his lips, seemed calculated to draw her in deeper, eliciting every ounce of pleasure from her that he could and leaving her weak and boneless as a poppet of rags.

Her pleasure. A bubble of warmth rose and burst inside her. He cared about her pleasure. It wasn’t just lust—not in the way she knew it. Tender was the last word she would use to describe Lachlan MacRuairi. Yet when he held her in his arms and kissed her, tenderness is what she felt.

She wrapped her hands around his neck, sinking into him, crushing her br**sts against his magnificent chest. A chest that was every inch as hard and unyielding as it looked, but so much hotter. She could feel everything, the thin linen of her shirt a paltry barrier. But what would it be like to feel his skin on hers? To feel her ni**les rake that hot, steely flesh?

She let her hands slide over his broad, muscular shoulders and down the rippling bulges of his arms. Her fingers clenched, unconsciously testing his rock-hard strength. His muscles flared, flexing even harder.

She shivered, a deep feminine thrill of appreciation shuddering through her. To be so beset by a few muscles—no matter how impressive—was really quite lowering. But there was something deeply arousing about his physical strength. About a man who was built not only to assail but to defend and protect.

She loved the way it felt to have those big arms wrapped around her, all those hard slabs of muscle cradling her softness.

One big hand was splayed over her bottom possessively. He pressed her closer, nestling her against him and letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

If the size of him was any indication, it was quite a lot.

Quite a lot indeed.

She squirmed. Moaned. A rush of heat pooled between her legs at the visceral reminder of just how good it would feel.

He groaned, and the sound reverberated down to her toes. His hand plunged through her hair to cup her head and bend her back. She opened her mouth wider. Drinking him in. Meeting the slow, insistent strokes of his tongue with her own.

They were drowning in heat, in desire, and in each other. She never wanted it to end.

Lachlan knew this wasn’t a good idea, but he couldn’t seem to stop kissing her. She just tasted so good.