Page 65 of A Scot Is Not Enough
He broke their kiss but held her, his magical hands drugging her with sensual touches.
“Mr. Sloane...” She was breathing hard, her words drifting.
“Call me Alexander.”
The gift of his Christian name imparted, she dragged her mouth across his cheek, slow and hot. Alexander shivered against her. She couldn’t remember what she had wanted to say; she craved his mouth like a famished woman. Their lips met. Her fingernails dug into the fabric of his waistcoat. King Street’s noise—laughter, voices, carriages rumbling—drifted through the open window. Being in his arms, danger was a whisper gone.
She was safe.
When was the last time she felt likethis? As if she could indulge in hours of bed sport and sleep for days, contented.
She suckled his lower lip, moaning when he expertly soothed a sore spot on her shoulder.
“Keep doing that and I shall never leave your side,” she said against his mouth.
“I should be so fortunate.”
His lips were sensual lines. With her fingers, she traced the outline of that soft tempting flesh.
“Tell me, do you want a quick tup? Or a—”
A knock at the door and a voice called from the other side.
“Alexander. It’s me, Gideon.”
Alexander groaned. “Bloody hell. My brother.”
“And this was such a promising assignation.”
“We’re not done,” he growled.
His warm, lean body slipped away from hers. She touched her hair and tried for the practiced mien of an experienced woman, but her hand was shaky. His calm hands started the work of righting his clothes. How demoralizing. Her cricket-playing barrister recovered quickly from his seduction while she trembled like a leaf.
“I deeply regret this interruption.” His tenor scraped low notes.
She was hot and breathless, blinking at hairpins on the floor.
“Miss MacDonald?” He cosseted her shoulder.
She tipped her face to him. Of course he knew her Christian name, but like a proper gentleman, he would wait for her leave to use it. But she was too muddled to say her own name.
Three rapid knocks came again. “Alexander?”
“A moment, if you please,” he called out.
Sensuality’s ephemeral glow was evaporating.
“My hairpins...”
She knelt down, collecting those fallen hairpins. Her hair would be an easy fix. Not so with her clothes—orher soul. His kisses rattled her. She’d need the day to recover.
What would happen if she gave her body to this man?
Anticipation shot warm honey through her veins. The pins for her sacque gown shined between floor planks. There was no rescuing them. She was on her knees, jamming hairpins in place, when she spied her hat and a footprint on crushed straw.
Alexander dropped to one knee, his grin denting sideways. He drew a tender circle around her exposed left breast.
“Though it pains me, you ought to put away your lovely breasts.”
