Page 52 of The Groom Wore Plaid
“I was not worried about being embarrassed,” he said.
And his plaid fell to the floor, leaving him wearing the shirt she’d sewn. It was ridiculously tight across his hips, and she almost felt strangely touched that he wore it at all. She reminded herself that he was doing it to annoy her, not to please her.
Then he turned toward the window, and she couldsee the perfect outline of his—she hastily lifted her gaze and called upon every skill she’d developed to keep her emotions hidden away. She was an expert, after the parenting she’d had.
“Then why did ye agree to let me see the contract?” she demanded.
He said nothing at first, just stood where she could see him—practically every part of him. And she only arched a brow and waited, willing herself not to perspire. He was tall, and leaner than some she knew, but oh, every muscle was put together perfectly. When he bent to unbuckle his leather shoes and remove his good stockings, she swallowed heavily, then got herself back under control.
“I didn’t wantyouto be embarrassed, Maggie,” he said. “When you’re my wife, you won’t want others to remember your reluctance to trust me.”
She frowned, not knowing if he was being overly confident or simply considerate. And then he began to pull up his shirt—with difficulty at first—and at the sight of his bare thighs, she almost whirled to give him her back.
But she didn’t. It was exactly what he wanted, to intimidate her, to fluster her, to show some kind of superiority. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a man naked, after all.
But it was the first time she’d seenhimnaked, and that made all the difference. Every part of him was perfectlymade, from the width of his muscled shoulders to the narrowness of his hips. And his manhood . . . it looked very large.
He asked in husky voice, “So you want to see what you’ll be marrying?”
“And now I’ve seen it,” she said in a bored voice, and walked past him. She could almost breathe again when she reached the door.
She heard quiet footsteps approach behind her.
Over her shoulder, she said, “Tonight when ye return, ye’ll show me the contract.”
He didn’t answer, and she made herself hesitate with her hand on the door handle.
“Owen?” Though she managed to use a warning tone, her voice had an uneven edge that made her wince.
“Yes?”
His breath actually touched her hair, and gooseflesh rippled across her skin. She could swear she felt the heat of his flesh even through all of her garments. Trembling, she realized if she opened the door, she’d back right into him.
“I wish you’d wear your hair down,” he murmured.
She shivered as his fingers touched her hair behind her ears, then slid along her neck beneath the bun of her heavy hair, leaving a fiery path. Why was she tolerating this? Oh, because she wanted his goodwill about the contract.
She was lying to herself.
He kissed the slope of her neck, right where it met her shoulder. With a sigh, she let her head fall forward, giving him more access. He nipped her and she shuddered. His hands spanned her waist and then moved up her torso to cup her breasts and pull her back against him. She could not feel his skin but the knowledge of it against her burned.
“Blasted stays,” he murmured against her ear.
She, too, was wishing them to perdition, but then lost her breath as his fingers trailed along the top, where her breasts rose above. When he dipped a finger down between them, she cried out. With his other hand, he turned her face so that they kissed across her shoulder. She arched to reach his hungry mouth with her own, and didn’t notice that he’d begun to pull up her skirts, until a draft of air from the open window blew across her thighs.
She broke the kiss. “Owen! I said no touching!” But her voice sounded unconvincing.
But then his rough palms were sliding up along her hips, and it felt wicked and sensual and so necessary to her very existence. Her skirts got in the way, but he pushed them up and forward relentlessly.
And then he pressed himself against her bare backside. She felt the heat of his erection, the length cradled between her cheeks. She groaned, knowing she should fight this but unable to. She was trembling and weakand overcome with a passion that seemed to burn in her blood. He held her hips hard against him and rubbed himself slowly.
His breath was hot and fast against her ear. “Maggie, lass.”
Her name was only a guttural whisper, but just the sound alone increased her need for him. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and for a frustrating moment, actually wanted to touch herself.
As if she’d summoned him, she felt Owen slide one hand across her belly and then lower. She forgot to breathe again, anticipating yet fearing his touch. When he cupped between her thighs, the sensation was so exquisite that she moaned, dropping her head back against his shoulder. His hand began to move then, spreading his fingers, dipping between her folds, moving deeper. He stroked her, and the sensation flamed inside her, higher and higher. His other hand caressed the tops of her breasts, then he tucked his finger beneath her stays to slide roughly across her nipple, as if he strummed the strings of a harp.
When he gently bit her shoulder, she felt the eruption of pleasure overwhelm her, shuddering through her, sensitizing her even more to the movements of his hand. And then he became still, his erection still pressed against her backside, his breathing harsh. In that moment, she didn’t know what she was going to do if he wanted his own pleasure satisfied.
