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His smirk stretched those appetising, sculpted pieces of sin she could do very well without, thank you. “You should act as noble, fair dame,” he devolved in kind. “Except we don’t need it, do we, after the day on the hill.”
The mention of the most explosively delicious day of her life did it for her. She snapped, lost it. The fever of fury mixed with the one of explicit craving made her neglect her determination to walk the line.
Her hands did bunch his flawless shirt then, ruining it with wrinkles, and yanked him to her, their chests bumping in tragic provocation. “Stop it. Stop it, you scoundrel!” Catriona did not decide if it was a command or a supplication. Maybe both, maybe neither, or maybe a plea for him to stop talking and do something, instead of stop tempting her. A plea for h
im to cease devouring her with his eyes and start devouring her with his mouth, his arms, everything. A plea for him to stop this ache, this lawless starvation, and do something, for blast’s sake!
His head bent to her, putting them mere inches apart, square hands holding her upper arms. His breath blew as ragged as hers, meeting in the narrow space between them in equal fashion as they desired their mouths to do. “I could stop it with my mouth the same way I stopped it with my fingers,” he rumbled almost inaudibly, but the images he evoked in her mind were blindingly clear and impossibly tantalising.
And she saw her weak, wanton self lying somewhere, anywhere, even on this floor and letting him do that, feel his stubble tickle the spot where she hungered for him the most. Because if he kissed her there the same way he kissed her, it would be—
Blasting depths of hell!
Her centre flowed with so much molten heat, she feared it would show through her skirts.
“Damn you!” Her words swore, but her tone aired a pleasured, long moan, as if he were at it already.
His response registered with a hard imprint on her belly. “If you want a man, I can be one for you,” he murmured, taking the torture up one notch. One desperate notch.
The blasted man did not need to offer—she would have asked herself. Offered herself. She did not want a man. She craved him. Only him.
The worst. The most wrong. The most indecorous. The most clandestinely delicious man in the world.
Their stares clasped on one another. Neither moved, neither dared. One simple flutter of lashes might make fragile resistance crumble in an unpredictable mess. Even their ragged breaths stalled. Her fingers tightened on the crisp fabric of his shirt, the muscles of her arms quivering with the conflict her will raged of either pushing or pulling him to her. And then slap her mouth to his to end the torment. Or start it, who knew.
A sudden image of Anna weaved its way into her foggy mind, throwing virtual cold water on her senses. Catriona must resist for the love she held for her sister. Nothing here helped her. Even less the giant now glued to her. Hot, big and hard. Everywhere.
With a determined move, she pushed him, the act making her give a few steps backwards. “What I want is refreshment after this long ride.” She turned her back on him, lest she grab him again and take them down to the floor, down to hell, to paradise; she trudged to her chambers, mind cleared, body in an insane heap of frustration.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sleep had been an unaffordable luxury for days, Fingal thought as he walked down to the stockyard that morning. Not even fisting himself several times in the night brought relief. He had gone beyond these palliatives, it seemed. His flesh clamoured for the real thing. The real woman. Her. The only one he should keep at arm’s length.
For all he held sacred in this world, the woman was a veritable shrew. The moment she clutched her dainty fingers on his shirt and pulled him to that curvy body of hers, he nearly came undone. He admitted, if only to himself, he had taunted her, baited her, said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Or perhaps the right thing, at the right time. He pushed her, and got his just desserts. Dessert, that was definitely the term. Because it had all been sweet, her sweet breath on his jaw, her sweet middle cradling his unruly desire. That sweet moan she gave when he provoked her even farther.
Of course she had not kissed his brother. The manner she had come on to him spelt it in capital letters on her delicate brow. Still, he had baited. And was rewarded with the fiery woman doing fiery things to him. He should have avoided it, spared her. Kept a drop of decorum.
He would not have had it in any other way.
Even if, afterwards, he must rush to his chamber and try one of those ineffective palliatives.
He should taunt her more times. Because it aroused the hell out of him. She did, in reality.
“Alright, I’ll talk to him a little more and you try again.”
“Aye, miss.”
Her voice and one of the stable lad’s alerted Fingal. Rushing, he neared the stockyard to see Fiadhaich in the middle with the bridle on, the amazon caressing his nose. The lad had a saddle in his hand, lifting it to the horse. The latter was not cooperating much.
“What the bloody hell are you doing, Dave?” he asked his employee.
“Helping Miss Paddington, my laird.”
“Good morning to you, too, Mr McKendrick,” the impossible lass said as if she did nothing more serious than jaunt in the park. In London.
If she called him that once more, he swore he would carry her somewhere quiet and make her scream his given name. Countless times.
“I’ll take it from here. Thanks, Dave.”
