Page 105 of A Scot Is Not Enough
His laugh was a delight.
“You like to watch, don’t you?” His voice roughed with seduction.
“You... yes.”
He turned and faced her, the wet cloth trailing this way and that on his torso. Her gaze tracked it like a cat following a toy dragged along on a string before pouncing. His roving hand washed the length of his penis. Eyelids drooped. His, hers—the pleasure was mutual, the air electric.
Honey ran thickly in her veins. Her limbs were heavy and warm, and the flesh between her legs swelling tenderly.
Alexander wetted the cloth. “Don’t you want to put down your tray?”
“It is silly, me holding it.”
She set the tray on her bed which earned her an arched brow. She simply smiled and slathered blackberry jam on a crumpet and took a bite. Tart, sweet preserve squished at one corner of her mouth. She walked to her high-back leather chair, the blanket falling off her back.
His laugh was the texture of sex. “Now we’re getting down to business.”
When she sat down and crossed her legs, leather groaned.
He swiped a long trail over his thighs. “I’m jealous of your chair. It gets to feel your bottom before I do.”
“And I get to watch you.”
Black hairs matted wetly on sinewed thighs. Droplets trickled over his knees, then his calves where muscle flared. The legs of a man given to running. Pure artistry.
“You missed a spot,” she said.
He put cloth on his hip. “Here?”
She shook her head.
He washed his navel. “Here?”
“Lower.”
He scrubbed his abdomen. “Here?”
“Lower.”
Tension drew a line, his eyes to hers. Hot, combustible, charring the air. Her upright barrister moaned when he dragged the cloth over his dark nest of curls and cupped them.
And rubbed.
No finer torture existed than the agony of anticipation.
The muscles at his navel clenched. His nipples were points on his chest. His thighs taut as his toes turned white, pressing the floor. The linen cloth danced in his hand. Her handsome Englishman arced forward, a slave to it. Hanks of hair bracketed his face. Bronze eyes pooled, glossy and dark. The wordprimitivedidn’t do him justice. He was carnal passion stripped to the bone. Animal yet refined.
She gripped the armchair, the crumpet forgotten. “You would make a nun blush.”
His eyes lit with fierce need. “I will have you.”
“Or I shall have you.”
It was a dangerous thing to say. Like red meat tossed to a hungry beast. His nostrils flared and his mouth stretched a furious line. When she uncrossed her legs, he looked every inch a fire-breathing dragon. Alexander dropped the cloth, his penis jutting.
Blood pulsed in her ears, louder than last night’s thunder. There’d be no finessing this. No slow, tender joining. No quick insertion of a sponge preventative (the smart woman was vigilant about those things). Usually, she was. But she scooted forward, her bottom rubbing leather, her legs spread, lascivious and wide.
She ran her fingers through her cleft, wetsnicksfollowing each stroke.
