Page 39 of Sins of the Highlander

Elspeth pulled her hand from his shoulder and rolled over to face away from him again.

“I still hate ye verra, verra much, Rob MacLaren,” she whispered. “Dinna think otherwise.”

Chapter 13

Rob strained against the cords at his wrists, but he couldn’t free himself. His arms were outstretched, and for a moment, he wondered if he was being held in a cell beneath Drummond’s stronghold. Then he realized he was lying spread-eagled in the middle of a soft feather tick, bound at the wrists and ankles.

It was dark, but there was a storm brewing outside the castle. Occasional lightning flashes showed him that he was in his bedchamber, captive on his bed.

And he was naked.

The door creaked open, and light from the torch in the hall sent a shaft of gold spilling across the rushes on the floor. A woman was silhouetted by the doorway, but since she was lit from behind, her face was in shadow.

She walked in without a word, and the door closed behind her, plunging him into almost total darkness once more.

“Who are ye?” His question circled the room in sibilant echoes.

It also went unanswered for the space of several heartbeats.

Her footfalls rustled across the floor. Once she was beside the bed, she whispered his name.

“Ye dinna know me, Robin?” Her voice was hollow and bloodless, a reed whistling in the wind. “I am the last wisp of dream when ye first wake. A ghost in the corner of your eye that disappears when ye look at it direct. I am that space between one breath and the next, where all things are possible but none are required.”

She was no more than a dark shape, but her form was pleasing, and when lightning brightened the room like day for a blink, he caught a glimpse of her milk-white breasts. The bodice of her gown was cut so low, her taut nipples peeped above it. His cock rose of its own accord.

“Why am I bound?” he asked, struggling against the cords.

“Because ye dinna have the will to free yourself.”

“Will ye release me?”

“No,” she said softly. “Only ye can do that.”

He felt a hand on his shin. He’d expected her touch to be cold and wraithlike, but her palm was warm as a freshly baked bun. Now that he thought on it, she even smelled like fresh bread. His mouth watered. This strange woman wakened hungers of every kind.

Her hand slid up past his knee and circled his groin with maddening nearness.

“Ask what ye will, Robin.” Her fingertips teased the small hairs on his scrotum. “In this place, all questions are welcome, though not all are answered. All knots will be untied. One way or another.”

One question burned his brain hotter than the others. Even though he feared to ask, he heard himself say, “Am I mad?”

So many named him thus, he had to wonder if there wasn’t some truth to it.

“No, not as ye mean it. Ye’re only mad in the way all men are.”

She kneaded his balls, and his cock twitched in pleasurable agony. He heard the rustle of velvet. When lightning flashed again, he saw she’d shed her gown, but her long hair obscured her features. For a moment, he thought she might be Fiona, but the voice wasn’t right.

“Will ye show me your face?”

She laughed. “My face is the last thing most men ask to see when I come to them by night.”

Then she lowered her head, and her hair brushed over his cock, a thousand silken fingers. His hands bunched into fists, and every muscle in his body clenched. He was helpless before her. His eyes rolled back in his head as she ran her tongue along his length from base to tip.

Then she took him into her mouth.

The whole world went wet and warm. She lashed him with her tongue. She sucked. She rained kisses on him, drenching him, engulfing him.

He fought the downward pull of his groin.