Page 32 of A Touch So Wicked

Damian turned her around and began unfastening ties and buttons. Her gown fell away and she tried to grab it, but Damian would have none of it. He pulled her hands away and it pooled at her feet. He made no move to remove her knee-length shift as he lifted her out of the gown and brought her into his arms.

“You can’t begin to know how much I want you.”

“I know naught of what you’re talking about. You were the first man to kiss me.”

Damian looked properly abashed. “You mean Tavis Gordon never…I can’t believe it. You’re a lovely woman, Elissa, ’tis hard to believe no man ever tried to kiss you.”

Damian thought she was lovely, Elissa thought with pleasure. But the pleasure quickly vanished when she realized a smooth-tongued rake like the Demon Knight would say anything to get what he wanted. Fortunately she knew better than to believe his flattery. There wasn’t an Englishman alive who could measure up to a braw Highland laddie.

His lips hovered scant inches from hers; she smelled wine on his breath, and something else: his own special scent she would recognize anywhere. He was going to kiss her. Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it. Why was he still standing? He was supposed to be unconscious…or at the very least, groggy. She stifled a smile when he staggered.

Then his lips swooped down on hers and her thoughts scattered. She was aware of nothing but the taste and feel of him, of his hands roaming freely over her, of his hard body pressing urgently against hers. Her eyes drifted shut, and when she opened them, she found him watching her with hooded intensity. Her breath caught. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She called forth her strength and tried to push him away, but her resistance was halfhearted, a fact of which she was all too aware.

“You’ll not escape me,” Damian murmured against her lips. “I’ve been ready for you since the day we met.”

He grasped her hand and placed it on his groin. “That’s what a man in need feels like, Elissa. How much do you know about what takes place between a man and a woman in bed?”

“Enough to understand ’tis wrong outside the bounds of marriage,” she snapped.

“I’m talking about the physical aspect. Do you know what’s going to happen tonight?”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“You’re wrong, sweeting. I can’t possibly let you leave now.”

Before she could form a coherent thought, he scooped her up and placed her in the center of the bed. Her breath hitched painfully. It didn’t take an experienced woman to know he was a man in rut, fully charged and eager to take what he wanted.

She stared up at him, mesmerized by his taut expression. There was a sleepy look about his eyes, and a lazy, sinfully sensuous slant to his smile. Why was he still able to function? Had Nan failed her? Then she took a closer look. His pupils were dilated and his smile drooped a little. Pray God he passed out soon.

He didn’t. His knowing smile increased her panic and she raised up on her elbows. His gaze dropped to her parted lips, then moved slowly downward, lingering on her linen-clad breasts and the sweep of her bare legs. When he dropped down on his haunches beside her and whispered in a low, driven tone precisely what he intended to do to her, Elissa lost the ability to breathe.

She swallowed convulsively as he covered her body with his and his mouth found hers again. His kiss sent spirals of heat charging through her body, and she hated herself for it. This was an Englishman kissing her, a man who looted and stole from Highlanders, and, aye, killed them.

Guilt rode her relentlessly, and she renewed her efforts to resist him, but his superior strength overwhelmed her. And then something strange and frightening happened: she started kissing him back. Her hands crept around his neck, pulling him closer, and her lips softened and molded to his. She heard him laugh, a dark and seductive sound deep in his throat, and she knew the misbegotten blackguard had won.

“Let me take off my clothes first,” Damian panted into her ear. He tore off his clothing and tossed it aside.

Had Elissa been in control of her mind, she would have leapt from the bed and fled. Yet she could do nothing but stare at him with mouth agape. She looked her fill at his broad, sculptured chest, bulging biceps, and thickly muscled legs. Though she tried to avoid it, her gaze was drawn to his thick manhood. A gasp left her lips. She never imagined a man in full rut would be so huge. He would kill her.

Fear pummeled her. But before she could flee, he grasped the hem of her shift and stripped it up and off. One dark hand held her in place while, with the other, he reached down and touched her between her thighs.

“Nay!” She trembled, shaken by violent stirrings of arousal. Devil take her, she liked that too well.

“Shh.” He dropped down beside her then shook his head, as if bewildered by something.

“What is it?” Elissa asked, hoping, praying that the drugged wine was finally working.

He shook his head again. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd? Would you like some more wine?”

“Nay, I want my wits about me when I make love to you. Spread your legs, sweeting,” he whispered.

He pulled her beneath him and settled between her thighs. His lips brushed her breast and he drew the tender nipple into his mouth. Elissa moaned and arched against him as he began to suckle her. Then she felt something warm and hard and thick probing against her center and waited fearfully for the pain. She knew so little about how this was accomplished and had hoped to wait for her wedding day to find out. Now a despised Englishman would despoil her and for some strange reason the only thing she regretted was allowing herself to be seduced by the enemy. What kind of woman was she to betray her principles for a moment of pleasure?

Guilt rode her mercilessly.

“Elissa, look at me.”