Page 63 of Dark Seduction

“Oh, God. It’s not over. You’re biding your time. You’ll never rest—not until you’ve vanquished Moray or somehow paid him back, equally.”

He faced her, his gray eyes burning. “One day, we’ll meet again. I may die. It won’t matter. Because I will take him with me—this time.”

Claire panicked, not for herself but for Malcolm. “Is your power equal to his?” She already knew that answer. “Haven’t Masters tried to vanquish him for centuries? Two wrongs don’t make a right!”

“The day will come,” he said, so softly chills swept over her. “Dinna fear fer me. The day I die, if Moray dies I be pleased, Claire, very pleased.”

Claire couldn’t speak. Impossibly macho, impossibly heroic. Damn it, he was the one who was going to die.

He reached out. “Canna ye have some faith in yer man, lass?”

Her man. She looked up and he met her gaze, his regard sweeping and intense. “I have faith. I’m just so worried now.”

His smile began, so soft and so beautiful it left her breathless. “Ah, lass, ye have a care fer me.” His grasp tightened. “But ye will fight me anyway.”

She bit her lip. It wasn’t a question and they both knew it. “Sometimes,” she said carefully, her heart slamming so much she thought she might explode, “a difference of opinion between a man and a woman is a good thing.”

He reeled her in with another soul-shattering smile. “Aye,” he whispered. “A very good thing. Ye let me worry, Claire. Let me worry—let me fight—let me please ye…now.”

She was in his arms, her breasts crushed by his iron chest. The night was velvet on her bare calves, her cheek. And Malcolm was as hard as a rock against her belly, her waist. This was it, she somehow thought. And now, there was only one possible conclusion to their opposing world views. “Malcolm,” she breathed.

His gaze moved over her face, his large hands sliding over her back. He smiled, touching her lips with his mouth, just once. “Aye, lass, I ken what ye need from me. An’ye ken what I need from ye.”

Claire inhaled as his hands slid lower, firmly grasping her bottom over the denim skirt and linen tunic, pulling her entirely against a very impressive erection. “Oh.” His arousal was burning hot, even though her clothes.

He ran his tongue along her full lower lip. Claire gasped, while his hands delved lower, beneath the brat and leine, over her miniskirt, fingertips perilously close to where she wished them to be, on the back of her bare thighs. He licked at her lips, the tip of his tongue relaxing, murmuring, “Ye still wear the rag.”

“It’s…a…skirt.”

“Nay,” he breathed. And he took her mouth with his.

Claire forgot about everything except the man she wanted. She moaned in pleasure, holding on to his huge shoulders as he turned her, pressing her against the wall, his mouth firm and commanding, forcing her to part her lips for him. His tongue swept deep. If he could make her throb greedily in a near climax with his tongue down her throat, she knew she’d die and go to heaven when they made love.

So much heat ran through her, swelling her sex impossibly, that she could not stand it. But before she could beg him to either take her down to bed or take her there, against the wall, he reached between them, beneath her skirt. The moment his fingers found her turgid flesh, spreading her there, she flung her head back and sobbed as pleasure exploded over her. And then she felt the massive tip of him, bare, hot and slick, pressing against her swollen lips. He rubbed himself back and forth, breathing hard, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, spinning mindlessly, so much pleasure cresting. He seized her thigh, helping her wrap it around his waist.

His face pressed to her ear, he murmured, “Hold on tight.” And he thrust hard and deep.

Wet, hot, huge strength. Claire gasped, blinded by having Malcolm finally inside of her, stretching her wide. His size was shocking, and she felt the power bursting from his erection. Claire felt a violent climax begin, making the first one pitiful in comparison, rolling over her in greater and greater waves. Pleasure escalated impossibly, until there was only mindless ecstasy, spasm after spasm, as he slowly and deliberately moved his massive length and breadth inside her. He gasped and she sobbed and keened.

Malcolm began thrusting with real urgency. The waves kept building. Claire thought she might die. This must be what he had been talking about, pleasure in death. She was shattering over and over in a black universe of ecstasy and she was never coming out. She didn’t want to ever return to reality again.

Malcolm gasped. She felt him expand, lengthen, explode. Hot seed scalded, going deep. And it didn’t stop…

Claire did not know how long she had been in the throes of either multiple orgasms or a single endless one, but at some far point in time, her body finally softened, giving up its greedy grasp on pleasure, and she began to float back into Malcolm’s arms. He kissed her cheek. Still dazed, she realized he remained hard and engorged, his entire body shaking, as if he hadn’t come. But that was impossible—except—she wasn’t imagining things. In fact, unless time moved differently here, she was beginning to think his orgasm had been extraordinary in duration, as well.

He kissed her cheek again and Claire realized she rode his waist, her back pinned to the rough rampart wall. And to make matters even more interesting, her body was warming to his once more as he impaled her still.

“Let me take ye to my bed, Claire,” he murmured in the sexiest tone she had ever heard.

Desire flamed. “We don’t need a bed,” she said thickly. She could not manage even the briefest separation.

And he started moving inside her again, long and slow. “I canna fuck ye properly against a wall.”

She smiled against his face. She couldn’t imagine what that meant. “Then hurry.”

He pulled away, holding her as she came to her feet. “Lusty wench,” he murmured, his eyes ablaze.

No man had ever looked at her with so much heat. Claire hollowed, desire fisting in her gut, her knees useless. And then she froze.