Page 28 of Sins of the Highlander

She seemed to be taking her time over it.

So slippery and wet.

Rob suppressed a groan as his cock twitched at the thought of her damp curls. And her fingers sliding through those intimate folds, all sleek and soft and tender.

He wondered if she ever pleasured herself.

Some night, all alone in her bed, did she ruck up her chemise, lick her finger, and find that little spot that sent delight racing through a woman’s veins? Would a virgin merely toy with herself, working herself into unrelieved frenzy because she knew no better? Or would she have learned how to rub herself until the tears came and her insides spasmed?

Oh, to see Elspeth in truth as he envisioned her, thrashing on sweat-damp bedclothes, her back arched and her body shuddering in release.

The imagined moment made him ache till he thought he’d explode.

Then she bent at the waist to run the soapy cloth down her legs, treating him to a sight of those damp curls and her glistening slit.

There was a tight, wet welcome.

Oh, to swive her till he couldn’t see straight. To grasp her hips while her fingers splayed on the floor and plunge himself into her sweet flesh up to the hilt.

Without his conscious volition, a soft curse that was almost an endearment, escaped his lips.

She straightened immediately and turned toward the sound, her eyes wide in the dimness. Then, like a doe surprised by the hunter, she froze.

Her breasts were high and exactly the right size to fill a man’s hands. He’d love to explore the crease beneath each one. Her nipples were drawn tight.

Rob could almost taste them, sweet and responsive between his lips.

His gaze raked down past the little goblet of her navel to the triangle of chestnut curls at the apex of her thighs. Such sweet nether lips.

Then he met her gaze again. Her mouth opened softly, but she didn’t say a word. Her tongue flicked over the bottom lip.

Was there anything that would convince her to flick it over his cock?

Merciful God, it had been nearly two years since he’d felt a woman’s touch, since he’d lost himself in the abundance of feminine softness. Every day of abstinence was now rising to torment his flesh with need.

Lust was no surprise. Present a man who’d not known a woman in a while with the sight of a naked one, and there was no power on earth that could restrain his cock from rising.

But the tenderness in his chest nearly knocked him down. He longed to hold her, to whisper endearments, to kiss away her fears and offer her the protection of his body as well as its need.

“Elspeth,” he said reverently, as if her name were a prayer.

That broke the spell. She covered herself, one arm across her breasts, the other hand protectively splayed between her legs.

He continued to look at her, drinking in her exposed skin, all rosy and fresh. It would be like silk under his touch. His hands would know every inch of her.

She snatched up the remains of the velvet skirt and held it before her, but her neat calves and ankles were still bare to his gaze.

“How long have you been there?” she demanded.

“Long enough.”

If she was waiting for an apology, she’d wait till the Last Trump sounded.

“Rob, the haggis’ll get cold,” Angus Fletcher’s voice sounded beneath them. “Tell her to hurry.”

“The haggis’ll get cold,” he repeated woodenly. Rob was ravenous, but it wasn’t food he wanted.

She swallowed hard, as if she couldn’t find her voice, and clutched the skirt to her body. The uneven hem drew his gaze down to her bare feet and neat pink toes.