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“You know we cannot,” he growled on her, the vibration driving her to desperation.
His denial filled her with despair. The undiluted lust claimed satisfaction; his refusal made the ache unforgiving, her body roaring for his aid.
“Take me, Fingal,” she pleaded.
But he merely used an unsatisfactory finger, the merciless scoundrel! On the brink of exploding, she yanked him by his hair, only he never budged from his calamitous task.
And then it was too late, because the explosion he conflagrated was a veritable earthquake, more poignant, more acute than anything that came before in her life. Her screams echoed for the second time that afternoon. The whole world quieted when he came to lie by her side, wrapping her as her head rested on a bunched shoulder.
A long time passed before she could exact her revenge. Without warning, her head lowered to where his erect member rested on his belly, her dark strands waving around her.
Cinnamon eyes looked down at her. “Sassenach,” the rumble alerted. “Don’t even think—" Her lips closed around the reddened glans. “Blasted, bluidy hell!” With a hiss, his head fell back, revelling in her tongue exploring the tip. “Hold the stem,” he instructed. She did, and his breath faltered. “Suck me deep.” As she followed the directive, that obscene expletive escaped from him again. “Move your hand up and down.” He groaned, panting and moving his pelvis to enjoy her suckling to full extent.
He allowed her to work on his distended penis as she registered the spicy scent of him, the steel hardness covered in smooth skin until he got harder and bigger.
“Emily,” he grated, his hand trying to pull her off him. “Let go.” She paid no heed to him as he had done to her. “I’m going to—” Something undulated in his member, his hips erratic now. “Ah!” he rasped at the same time her mouth filled with his release, and she had the chance to taste it, salty and creamy, at last.
They lay entwined in the sun, Fingal rasping his stubble on her nape, her hair all over him. A sense of peace, of rightness, invaded him. It could be the warm weather, the still surroundings, the aftermath of the most blinding, mindless release that had ever wrenched out of him. But it was the woman.
Any rational thought he might have had evaporated the minute he saw her in the water. Dusky breasts showing through the soaked fabric of her chemise that now heaped like rags not far from the tartan. Savage starvation dominated him. The way her pupils dilated as he undressed had rocketed his temperature sky high.
And he sent the whole damned thing to the devil.
He would have sold his very soul for this moment. And did, naturally. He had no idea of the price his conscience would extract from him for this. And he did not care a bit.
Only for everything to turn tragic at her pleading. Damn it all! He had been an inch from granting it and plunging in her wet, hot channel. The unbearable pleasure would have torn him in so many pieces, he would have forgotten his own name.
He resisted with a dark resolve hard to explain, so she would leave at least with that intact, if nothing else. She had bestowed her reward soon enough, though, with a mouth that was a fantasy come true. And she tore him to pieces all the same with her willingness to give as much as to receive and single-minded fast learning.
It was getting hard again, for pity’s sake.
“Hm,” she moaned, wriggling her delectable backside. “Shall we do it again?”
The insatiable lass! He jumped up before things became serious. “Time to go,” he commanded.
The sun tilted to the west anyway.
His woman turned to look up at him, languid and inviting on his tartan. He hardened. The wretched flesh had a mind of its own.
Talk about insatiable.
Would he ever stop wanting her?
Probably not.
She got up too and stood before him in her dazzling beauty, full breasts, tiny waist, shapely hips and legs.
Call him weak, call him a scoundrel, call him mad, but he grabbed her by the waist once more and kissed her as if this afternoon had never existed. Her lithe shape clutched to his arms and legs, hair flying in the breeze, unreserved.
Clawing to a shred of self-control, he untangled their bodies. “We’re playing with fire, Sassenach,” he said and put distance between them.
“It does feel rather hot, yes.” Those molten dark eyes travelled over him.
It was a challenge to rip his gaze from her but he did, picking up his tartan and dressing before they headed back to the manor in the day’s waning light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She must tell him her full name. Catriona sat on the back-entrance steps late that night, unable to conjure sleep. It was only fair to do it.
