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“You’re not Scottish, Ravenwood,” she scolded.
“Call me Raven,” he whispered hoarsely.
She gulped. Small intimacies, familiar names. She’d known that his intimate friends called him Raven. Not Daniel, not Ravenwood. A new name. A new intimacy.
“Remove your shirt, Raven,” she whispered boldly.
Solid arms folded around her, his head in the crook of her neck, his breath rustling across her cheek like wind through the last remaining leaves of an oak tree in winter.
“You’ve always wanted to touch me, Indy, and I want to touch you,” he whispered.
“Where?” Please let it be where she hoped...
“Here.” His hand skimmed across to her belly and lower, cupping her mound through her thin shift. Exactly where she’d hoped.
The shift melted away and he flicked his fingers over her sex in the way she liked the best. He was so good at this part. He was good at all the parts.
She found her bliss quickly, arching backward into his arms, surrounded by his strength and consumed by passion.
She reached behind her, tracing the shape of his staff through the wool of the kilt. She slipped underneath the kilt, finding the hot silk of him, sliding her hand around him. He moaned into her ear, thrusting into her palm.
His hand moved to cover her throat, shifting her head to one side so that he could kiss her while remaining behind her.
Throat exposed and vulnerable in his large hands.
His kiss rough and uncontrolled.
She loved the way his fingers closed around her delicate throat. She knew he would never hurt her. That he only wanted to give her the most exquisite pleasure.
Again, and again... and again.
His lips tasted exactly like Peatmoor Old Scotch whisky. When he broke the kiss she giggled. “Mellow. Soft. Delightful,” she quoted from an advertisement for the whisky.
“Mellow time is over,” he said forcefully.
His hands closed around her hips, lifting her to her knees. His body fell across her back, his weight so heavy, his hardness nudging between her legs.
She fell forward onto her wrists, bum raised in the air.
His arm curled around her waist and his fingers spread the lips of her sex.
“I’m going to take you from behind,” he growled.
He bent her forward onto the carriage seat... only the carriage had disappeared. They were on an enormous bed with midnight-blue velvet curtains around them.
He pinned both her wrists with one large hand while he positioned himself behind her.
He moaned, louder this time. It didn’t sound like a moan of pleasure. Had she hurt him somehow?
“Raven...?”
A low growling, like a cornered animal.
Indy lurched awake. She brushed damp hair away from her eyes.
Raven was moaning in his sleep. In the darkness he was only a huge shape curled on the carriage seat, one arm flung over his head.
He moaned again, louder this time. He must be having a nightmare.
