Page 64 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Because you are the goddess of Swan Lane.”
Lips parting, she was stunned.
He took advantage of the moment and kissed her hotly on the neck. He found the low spot behind her ear. Her tiny hairs brushed his mouth. He kissed, he nibbled, tasting the sweet salt of her skin.
She arched her neck and whispered, “The goddess of Swan Lane . . . it’s poetic.”
Silk wrinkled and bunched in his hands. Cloth ripped and she groaned.
“Poetry. Not a skill I claim, but”—he interrupted himself to suckle her neck—“don’t expect more...”
He couldn’t finish. Two pink crescents peeked above her bodice. With her bodice askew and her sleeve torn, Miss MacDonald’s fevered enthusiasm threatened to unveil her charms before he did. Her shaky hands flew over his waistcoat buttons.
“Don’t stop!”
Chaotic heat ricocheted in his limbs. Don’t stop kissing her? Staring at her nipples? Running his hands through—
He groaned, a deep, guttural rumble.
Her lusty hand sliding over his placket shocked him nicely.
“You’re long and hard,” she purred.
The goddess of Swan Lane bit his earlobe. Searing pleasure shot from where her teeth marked him to his ballocks. His laugh was a husky foreign sound.
“So, that’s how it is when you don’t want to want someone.”
She rubbed the length of his phallus, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
“Imagine what’ll happen when I decide I do want you.”
Air hissed between his clenched teeth. He slid his hand into her bodice. Soft flesh warmed the backs of his fingers. One tug and dress pins popped off, and her stomacher was a nipple-freeing three inches lower. Breasts like crumpets, the bottom curve a finger’s width thick.
Exquisite.
Her sacque gown gave way, sliding lower. He jammed it down to her elbows, trapping her. A half smile forming, she warmed to his game. The Scotswoman arched her back and thrust her breasts at him.
She was breathing as if she’d finished a sprint.
“Kiss me.”
His gaze tripped over the sensual delights of a half-undressed Miss MacDonald in the afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the gold crowning her head and a wash of darker strands like rich threads. She was life. Tender, teasing, smart. A woman to wrest his soul from its colorless existence.
“Where to kiss first... Here?” He touched her mouth, her breath steamy. He dragged his finger gently down her lips, her chin, to skim her breastbone and the scant valley between her breasts. “Or here?”
Her skin pebbled. Anticipation stretched, a new torture. Lust and affection shined in the deep pool of her eyes. She was learning—he would give as good as he got.
Mr. Sloane’s eyes flared darkly. Her proper barrister-cum-government-man was everything dangerous. Queue mussed, a gash on his forehead, the seductively masculine dent of his mouth. He fisted her hair and gently lifted it off her neck, glorying in the color and texture of her hair.
“You would tempt a monk.”
“A man should know his options.”
“You are my only one.”
She gasped when their bodies pressed together. His mouth on hers, a passionate connection, as alarming as it was melting. He massaged the back of her head, her nape. A thousand tingling sensations washed her spine. Mr. Sloane was well-practiced in the art of making her want more. She wound her arms around his neck, her body arching against him as if it knew.This is home. He is home.
His lips moved over hers. Lush and hungry, sending joyous messages up and down her limbs. She kissed him back with a fervor she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Concentrated and hot as if to make up for not kissing him the night they met. It wasn’t tender and sweet, but desperate and primal and knee-weakening.
