Page 107 of Ghost of the Ton

Murdoch glanced at Mia.

“Ye dinnae have the right to even look at her!” Hamish roared. “Or do ye wish to forfeit yer eyes also?”

He grasped Murdoch by the lapels, pushed him toward the door, then tossed him outside as if he weighed no more than a child.

“Begone!” Hamish cried as Murdoch stumbled backward. “If I hear ye’ve come within sight of this cottage, I’ll have ye turned out of Glenblath with one hand less.”

He slammed the door then turned to face Mia.

The expression in his eyes changed into an emotion more primal, more intense than the fury it replaced.

Raw, base desire.

He fisted his hands, shaking as if he fought to control the intensity. Then he pulled Mia hard against his body and crushed her mouth with his. A groan of pure need reverberated through him, feeding the desire that swelled deep within Mia. His tongue pressed insistently against her mouth, and as she parted her lips to welcome him, he shuddered, a low growl filling the air—as the dominant stag claimed his mate. He lifted her up and carried her backward until they collided with the chest of drawers. She wrapped her legs around his waist, desperate to ease the ache between her thighs. As if he understood her need, he slipped his hand between them, moving toward the source of her heat.

Mia let out a cry as a fizz of pleasure sparked, and she parted her legs wider to chase the sensation, pressing her center against his fingers. Ignoring the shame at her wantonness, she surrendered to the need, letting her body plead for what she could not ask in words.

“Do ye want me?” a low voice growled.

She nodded against him, her breathing ragged.

With a savage grunt, he thrust forward. Mia bit her lip, tasting blood as she felt a tight pinch in her center. She clung to him, trembling, then he shifted position and thrust once more with a sharp exhalation. She cried out as the ache swelled, but her body relished the sensation as it came alive with each movement, pleasure flaring in the pit of her stomach. He thrust again, increasing the pace as the sounds he made grew in urgency, the low, primal grunts heightening in pitch to needy groans and cries. Then, at last, with a roar, he buried himself in her one final time. Her body burst and waves of pleasure battered at her—deeper and more intense than the pleasure she’d taken at his hands. Unable to withstand such exquisite ecstasy, Mia tilted her head back and screamed his name.

“Oh, woman! Oh!” The man inside her let out a cry, his voice filling her mind, spiraling in the air until the world dissolved, leaving nothing but him. Her man. The beast who’d fought for, then mounted, his mate.

When his voice grew hoarse, he pulled her to him, enveloping her body in his arms. He continued to shift inside her, his movements weaker, while she arched her back to draw him deeper inside.

Then, at last, they grew still, bodies trembling, hearts beating in unison.

As the fog of desire faded, Mia opened her eyes. Shame returned to conquer the pleasure at what she saw—herself, clinging to the man who had just debauched her against the cabinet, her thighs widespread, the flesh rosy with lust, skirts bunched to the waist, her hands clinging to him, urging him to mount her—a mare in heat. With a cry she pushed him back. Ignoring the sense of loss as he slipped outside of her, she lowered her skirts.

She met his gaze, searching for a shame to match hers, but all she saw was primal possession. For him, she was nothing but a conquest. But for her—she was now ruined, her dream of freedom and a future gone.

“What have I done?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Hamish’s semihard cock still twitched with need, as if his body could never get enough of the woman he’d claimed.

And how delicious had been the claiming! All the more for his having waited so long.

Then she pushed him away, as if his touch disgusted her. The fog of lust that throbbed with every heartbeat dissipated as he heard her cry.

“What have I done?”

He blinked and met her gaze.

Horror and disgust glowed in her hazel eyes. She lowered her skirts and slid off the cabinet. Then she backed away, fisting the material of her gown and rubbing at her legs as if to remove the very essence of him. He caught the sharp scent of rutting.

“Unclean…” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Lord save me—I’m ruined. All hope is gone.”

He pulled out a drawer and retrieved a cloth, which he handed to her. Wide-eyed, she stared at it.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“It’s to clean yerself with, lass—to wipe my seed from yer legs.”

“Your…seed?”