Page 16 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
Then he stilled, his hands on his hips, his kilt slung low enough she could see his healing wound. He just…looked at her. Just stared. His lips were curled into a secret smile, but his eye…
Nicola swallowed.
There was suchheatin that one blue orb, the color flickering and dancing in the sunshine like the loch itself. She was almost glad he was missing an eye, because, for certes, being looked at bytwosuch eyeballs would have her tipping right over the side to cool down.
Ye’re being fanciful. He’s just a man.
Just a man, aye, and she’d seen plenty. She’dhealedplenty. She’d even seen some naked, although never aroused, the way she’d seen Ramsay the second day of her stay here at the convent. She’d pretended nonchalance, but it had been hard.
Just like him.
She bit her lip. Hard.
His gaze dropped to that lip, and if anything, the heat, thedesire, increased.
He was staring at her the way a man stared at a woman whom he wanted. Heneeded. He was staring at her with promise—the promise of pleasure, aye, but also the promise of action.
He was staring at her the way a man stared at a woman he was planning ontaking.
And the knowledge made her breath catch in her throat, her stomach clench, her heart pound faster. She wanted him, aye. She wanted him to take her.
To hell with Da.
To hell with Da’s ultimatum, or to Mother’s constant needs, or to Oliphant Castle in general. To hell with the King’s Hunters and head wounds and missing memories. Here and now, he looked like some ancient god, pulled from the loch, and she…
She…
Well, she was just as wet.
When he suddenly bent at the waist and reached for her, she lifted her arms, trusting him.
In another brilliant display, he lifted her straight out of the rowboat, and she had the sensation of flying once more. Then she was standing beside him on the dock, his strong hands still wrapped around her wrists.
And she still couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
“Nicola…” His gaze was on her lips once more, and when she pulled her lower one between her teeth, his nostrils flared.
St. Crystal’s teats, could he feel—sense?—how she felt? How hemadeher feel? They’d known each other a short time, and although he had no idea, they had reason to be enemies.
But here and now…she wanted to taste him.
So, aye, she was leaning toward him eagerly when his hands ran up the sleeves of her damp gown and wrapped around her. She felt his palm splay across the small of her back, covering most of her damp skin. His other hand cupped her neck, warm and firm, pulling her toward him.
And then…
His lips were warm, aye, and when they captured hers, she tasted loch water, tiny droplets. Then his bristles tickled her, but ‘twas easy enough to ignore as her entire being centered on the sensations his lips were causing in her.
‘Twas as if there was a string attached from her lips, running to her nipples and then down to her core, and he was tugging hard at it. To her surprise, his tongue swept along the seam of her lips, and she started. Not because it was shocking—she had read Wynda’s book, after all, and knew how a man was supposed to kiss a woman—but becauseit felt so fooking good.
Eagerly, she returned the caress, pushing herself up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. It must’ve been the right response, because he growled low in his throat, and she captured and returned it with a moan of her own.
His hand dropped from her neck to her chest, and when his finger brushed against the top of her breast—through the wet linen of her simple gown—she groaned again and arched her back, offering herself to him.
Taking that as encouragement, his fingers circled her nipple. The material covering it was still damp enough to convey each tiny movement of his…she felt as if his fingers were directly on her skin. Her nipples puckered into little buds, straining toward his touch.
When he finally rolled the hard bud between his fingers, she bloody near fainted.
She must’ve made a sound, because he straightened away from her lips, gazing down at her in concern, his hand still cupping her breast. “Nicola?” he murmured. “Lass?”
