Page 40 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
He groaned. Her fingers were scratching a light pattern on his smalls. Skin underneath warmed to her touch. He was breathing hotly on her neck, her collarbone. Kissing. Taking. Seizing her for himself.
He gripped her bodice and gave a tug. Pins flew, fabric ripped.
But her lovely plump breasts popped free. An offering for him. He’d take them both.
When he dragged his tongue softly over the tip of her nipple,finallythe lass groaned. Good. She needed to be as uncomfortable as him.
Her body was his future—an animal thing to feel. But there it was. Life, elemental and pure. Already his hips pumped against her. He was ragged from waiting, from years of waiting for her. How did his body know? She is his future.
He was at her mercy. Kissing, demanding, nipping soft white flesh.
“I’m going to bury myself in you. Forever,” he said surlier than he ought.
It was the closest he came to a declaration. Sabrina didn’t notice. She was suckling his neck and her hands were scratching his ballocks.
“Sabrina…” he was ragged, angry. Needy. “I can’t…”
“I know…” her lust-drenched whisper was equally ragged.
He wanted to bury himself in her. Now.
She cupped his face with both hands, her eyes liquid and dark. “Take me,” she said, frantic and whispery. “Take me. Take me. Take me.”
They were grasping for now and forever. Nearly wordless, yet giving promises, giving their bodies to each other. His fingers sought her thighs, a journey, a discovery, tracing pale slim contours. Hidden in the shadow of her petticoats was the promise they both sought.
His gaze held her captive.
He reached into that shadow and drew a slow, tender line.
“Ohhhh.” The sound fluttered from her lips.
Another stroke, then another, and he could stand no more. He pressed his groin to her. Hard flesh to her soft wet opening. Nudging, pushing slowly until he sank into her. Their eyes connected. He was lost. Again.
Sabrina stroked the back of his head and smiled as if this was where he belonged.
As if this was home.
Chapter Fourteen
Sabrina awoke to the sweetest memories. She hugged her sheets to her chest, pleased. Last night’s entertainment was far superior to Lord and Lady Rutger’s ball. After her tumble with Rory, they’d lingered and talked. He’d whistled, stoking the fire.
She’d propped herself up and watched. The irony was, they’d never made it fully out of their clothes. Guests would come soon—but touching each other had become a necessity.
“That song…it’s the same one you whistled on the way to the garrison. What is it?”
“'Soldier for a Lady.' Very popular amongst army men.” Rory walked to the bed, delighting her by singing to her. “A soldier I am for a lady. What beau is armed, e’re completer, when face to face, her chamber the place—”
At this she laughed, joyously.
“—I am willing and able to meet her.” Rory crooned, planting himself on the edge of her bed.
She rubbed his thigh appreciatively and listened as he finished.
“The challenge is love, I take up the glove, Tho’ I die at your feet in the action.”
A palpable banging started in her chest. His eyes were intense, and she knew. The roving Highlander had taken his first step in saying he loved her.
She was humbled. “A wonderful song. Even better is how you sing it,” she’d said.
