Page 17 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Look at what happens when we kiss?
Mr. MacLeod pulled her closer.
No man hewn from the Highlands ought to kiss this thoroughly. This lightly. His body was a bulwark, while his mouth took her with conquering kisses. Delicious shudders skimmed her spine. Dampness gathered between her legs, a natural response to one fine kiss following another.
But Mr. MacLeod was doing so much more.
Tightness unwound inside her. She could be strung together with cogs and wheels, and he knew how to make the machinery fall apart. Only the Highlander could do it. He knew what made her tick.
She drew in a devastated breath.
Arousal claimed her. Everywhere.
She belonged to him. Her mouth, her waist, her feet, which felt as if they stood on a cushion of air. Mr. MacLeod held her tight. His sole primal display. If he undressed her now and took her on the grass, she’d find his hand prints on her stays. The Highlander blocked the sun, the cold.
Pleasure was his gift.
Their breaths mingled. The earth teetered. She gripped his sleeve with one hand and reached higher with the other.
Was it grasping of her, wanting to touch him this much?
Her lips slipped open under his, and her gloved hand was cupping his cheek when their string of kisses ended.
Mr. MacLeod’s eyes, inches from hers, had gone black, save the thinnest ring of weathered blue. Her knight errant was breathing hard. The tender ferocity of their kisses left them stunned. Filled yet wanting more—prisoners of their own flesh.
She stepped back, her gloved fingers rasping his whiskers. She touched her lips with a delicate hand, sunlight piercing her eyes. Each kiss they shared was a pearl she’d treasure.
“That was…”
She couldn’t finish. Her heart was so full to bursting, it hurt. They were both frayed around the edges.
“Like I said, lass, you are a challenge.”
Mr. MacLeod was a beast in his great coat, his lungs working to meet his body’s demand. He turned and put both arms around a barrel and heaved it off the back of her dray. Ale sloshed inside firmly joined wood. A muscle ticked in Mr. MacLeod’s jaw as though he was furious. For a kiss? Rather a string of them? Or he badly needed to burn off his desire.
For that reason, she stepped aside and let him work.
Sparrows landed on the stony wall. Church bells began to ring, the sound similar to the joyous ringing in her body. Carlisle’s streets would flood with merry folk, and Mr. MacLeod would soon be among them. He’d find a public house open to weary travelers. Her shoulders sunk, defeated; it was a shame he couldn’t rest at Eden House. A point that had been made; she’d not make it again.
“You asked what would I do if I had a day to myself.” She was speaking to Mr. MacLeod’s back as he set the barrel against the wall. “Aside from kissing you…”
He went briskly by for the next barrel. A stern glance under the brim of his cocked hat warned herDon’t say it.
“Don’t worry. I won’t say what naturally follows passionate kisses,” she said in a voice more alto than it ought to be.
“Good.”
She coaxed a word out of him. Excellent. But the Highlander was moving faster, unloading the barrels, as if he needed to get away.
“Have a care. Excess agitation ruins the ale.”
Inside was an oat brew, sweet yet substantial with perfect foam when properly poured.
Only one barrel remained in her dray. Mr. MacLeod rested his arm on it, his eyes raking her as if she were a morsel he’d devour. If women showed signs when they’d been well-kissed, then, Mr. MacLeod had his. His queue was mussed where her fingers had been, and his cravat was twisted and off-center. Carmine smudged the knot nearest his chin.
She raised her hands to fix his cravat.
His warning eyes stopped her.
