Page 48 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt came to a halt, his smile fading as he took in the sight of her. Emboldened by the sudden smoldering press of his gaze, Sorcha took another step, the water sluicing down the clinging linen to her waist. She hesitated, her lips numb as well as her feet, and yet every inch of her somehow sparking with life. The drenched shift would leave precious little to the imagination, but it did cover her scars, and that made her bold.
That, and the blatant desire flaring in his eyes.
She stepped upward again on the angled riverbed and took a shivery breath. The rippling surface dropped drastically, to her hips, exposing the tops of her thighs to his view. Though she was chilled, a blush heated the underside of her skin. Brandt took a visibly sharp breath, his chest expanding as he gazed at her, drinking in every newly bared inch of her. Another step, and his stare hitched on her legs, a muscle beating in his cheek.
With a stab of shyness, she paused, torn between flinging herself back into the freezing depths of the river and making a mad dash for the plaid that lay on the rocks between them.
“Don’t stop now,” Brandt said in a low, husky voice.
Sorcha felt the familiar stirring of thrill she had every time someone challenged her. Only this time, there was something different about the thrill. It wasn’t about winning the challenge. It was about sharing it, reveling in it.
She kept toward the shore, unable to stop, knowing that she could not. She didn’t want to. Brandt’s expression revealed more than simple lust. He looked dazzled, utterly fixated, as water droplets coursed from her hem down her bare knees, then her calves, and finally all the way to her ankles. No man had ever looked at her the way he did…like she was the sun and the moon and everything in between. She wanted more of it. Brandt took up the plaid again, his eyes slamming back into hers as she stepped up onto the rock and let him wrap her shivering body in the length of fabric.
And then his mouth took hers, his lips searing hot against her tingling ones. He held her close, his arms folding her against his body, her bare feet treading on his toes. He didn’t need to coax her lips to part; she opened for him, seeking the warm thrust of his tongue. Needing it more than air. With swift, sweet licks he gave her what she wanted, one hand falling to her plaid-encased hip, and another raking up through her damp hair. His fingers caught on a tangle, and the pain only made Sorcha kiss him harder. She nipped his lower lip, and Brandt growled, fisting a handful of the quickly warming plaid at her hips.
“You are exquisite,” he murmured as he rounded his free hand over her backside and filled his palm.
“No one has ever seen me like you do,” she said, her voice cracking over the soft admission. Whether from cold or emotion, she wasn’t sure. She knew she didn’t want Brandt’s hands to pull away, to stop touching her. How could she ever grow tired of his hands or his mouth? Just the weight of his gaze as she’d emerged from the river had made the deepest, most intimate part of her burn for his touch.
He pulled her closer, skimming his fingers up and down her back while his teeth found the lobe of her ear and suckled. The combination of his searching fingers and mouth, together with the open air against her lower limbs and the hot sun beating down on them, made Sorcha light-headed. She arched into him as his lips traced the shell of her ear. If possible, more gooseflesh prickled over her arms, and she sighed in pleasure.
Brandt’s beautiful mouth went still, as did his hands…and for a moment she feared his untimely sense of duty had once more caught up to his rampaging desires and had finally convinced him to stop. She opened her mouth to protest, but then he gave a frustrated grunt and swept her straight off her feet, lowering her to the warmed, river-smoothed stone. With a sound of satisfaction, he covered her body with his, his arms caging her as he kissed her lips, then her chin, and dragged his tongue down the column of her throat.
He paused with a sharp exhale at the rounded slope of her right shoulder, and Sorcha knew he’d seen some of the minor scarring there. It wasn’t as bad as the ones lower down, but ugly nonetheless. She didn’t want to hear him gasp in shock, or pull back his hands in horror. She clutched at the fabric, not wanting anything to ruin the moment.
“Brandt, no. Please.”
“Every part of you is magnificent,” he replied fiercely, staring down at her. “These”—his knuckles brushed the scars on her clavicle and moved to the ones on her cheek—“and these.”
His changeling eyes met hers as his lips feathered along the rough, reddened gouges. Sorcha shivered at the tenderness of his touch, but she wasn’t ready to expose herself fully. She didn’t know if she would ever be, but for now she wanted to enjoy every sensual jolt without feeling unworthy. If only for a moment.
“Please,” she whispered. “Leave the shift.”
“As you wish.” He nodded, his gaze clouded with desire. “This is madness. I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking about you…from thinking about touching you. What have you done to me, Sorcha?”
“No more than you’ve done to me,” she whispered.
His mouth descended to graze her jaw. “Why can’t I resist you?”
“Because I’m nearly unclothed?”
A chuckle broke from his finely molded lips, making her want them on her skin again. “There is that.”
“I’ve heard the women at Maclaren say men can become so inflamed by their desires at the sight of a woman en déshabillé that they can’t see reason…that they think with other…parts of their anatomy.”
Brandt’s eyes sparkled with mischief and humor. “Is that so?”
“Is it working?”
He laughed then, a deep-throated sound that made a lightness overtake her chest. “You’re in a shift, and I’m at your mercy, so I’d be hard-pressed to say no.”
“At my mercy?”
“Your devoted slave.”
God, she loved their banter. It was as stimulating as the feel of his powerful body on hers. She wriggled her hips slightly, the motion making her gasp as his lean hips pressed her to the warm stone at her back. She went mute, as did he, their levity transforming into something deeper and darker.
The sunlight made golden flecks appear in his eyes, while passion darkened the green to the color of a stormy loch. A lock of sun-bronzed hair curled into his forehead as he bent his head to her collarbone, nibbling along the edges of her shift. His wide palms roamed her sides and skipped past each rib. His mouth and fingers met at her breasts and he filled his hands with her linen-clad flesh, kneading and caressing. A moan escaped her as his lips closed over the taut peak of one breast through the fabric.
