Page 74 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt filled his palms with her tight curves, starting with her hips and rounding down over both firm buttocks. “God, you feel perfect,” he groaned, his lips trailing along the slope of her neck, tasting the salt on her skin. With an instinctive thrust, Sorcha rolled her hips forward, grinding against his burgeoning arousal. He sucked in a breath, the aggressive advance of her body against his doing nothing to quell his desire for her. If anything, it made him even harder, and ready to give her exactly what she wanted.
He laughed into her mouth, their tongues gliding together and apart then joining again. He’d be a damned liar if he tried telling himself this was only for her. Never had he felt so unhinged for a woman. Never had he wanted someone with such blinding desperation.
“Did you just…laugh?” she asked, her voice breathy. Distracted.
Brandt nibbled down her throat and into the hollow of her neck, his fingers climbing up to knead her heavy breasts. He pressed his thumbs over the peak of each one, straining even through her chemise and bodice, and heard her gasp.
“Purely maniacal,” he replied, rubbing hard, insistent circles over her nipples. Sorcha threw back her head and arched her back, seeking more pressure. “I’m crazy to have fought this for so long.”
She made a murmuring sound of agreement, slivered through with a moan. With a grunt, he hooked his fingers under each shoulder of her bodice and tugged.
Her hands covered his, stalling him. “No, Brandt, wait.”
“What is it, love?”
She hesitated for a beat, as if unsure of what to say. “Leave it be.”
He recalled her reticence at the river and her insistence on remaining in her shift. Was she self-conscious of her body? Her innocence made him smile. He feathered gentle kisses along her collarbone. “I want to see you.”
She huffed a tiny breath. “No, you don’t.”
Brandt blinked, his eyes focusing on her tremulous blue ones. Fear and self-disgust warred in them, hinting at secrets. “Tell me.”
“The scars there,” she whispered, unable to hold his gaze. “They’re worse than the others.” She swallowed hard. “Far worse. I’m afraid you’ll be…revolted.”
“You are more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen, Sorcha. Scars or no scars. Trust me when I say that whatever lies beneath this gown will make little difference. I would desire you if you had the body of a potato.”
Laughter glimmered in her eyes, and after a moment, her hands fell away.
Sorcha closed her eyes, her breathing becoming shallow when Brandt dragged down her bodice and her stays to expose her to his view. His heart climbed into his throat, though he wasn’t revolted. Far from it. The fullness of her breasts, tipped by dusky, petal-smooth nipples rushed into his hands. But they weren’t equal in appearance. A ragged patchwork of glistening scar tissue traversed the flesh from her shoulder across the entirety of her left breast and across her upper ribs. Shiny pink gouges marred the creamy skin, puckering the flesh in uneven lumps. The wolf had not let her escape unscathed. In fact, the scars on her face were the best of it.
His heart bled. “Oh God, love, what you must have suffered.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she whispered, unwilling to look at him. “Just kiss me, Brandt.”
“Sorcha,” he said softly as he brushed his thumb along the point of her chin.
She took a shaky breath before lifting her eyes to his. The vulnerability in them speared him. He’d never seen her so uncertain. No words, however reassuring, would be enough. Brandt leaned forward, his lips trailing down the column of her throat before kissing each breast reverently. The salt of her skin was as heady as the finest whiskey. His fingers cupped her mangled flesh, his thumb gently stroking the misshapen welts, before he laid his tongue to each one. She arched into his caresses, seeking more, and he gave it.
“Does this hurt?” he asked, squeezing gently.
Her eyes flicked open. “No…not physically.”
Brandt stalled. She meant in other ways. While she distinctly held the scars on her face as a marker of strength, these she viewed as a deficiency. A blemish against her femininity. No wonder she’d sought to remain clothed. Her next words confirmed his thoughts as she turned her face away. “They’re hideous.”
“Someone has told you this before,” he said, understanding striking him like a blow to his midsection.
She closed her eyes, her dark lashes a shroud against what he presumed to be a painful memory. “Just a few boys, when I was younger and didn’t know to bathe with my drapes drawn shut.”
He wanted to throttle them, these nameless, faceless peeping toms. Though she sounded blithe, Brant sensed effort behind it. “Who were they?”
“Boys from a neighboring clan. I fancied one of them. Or at least I thought I did.”
And he’d broken her heart, her spirit, with whatever thoughtless comment he’d made. Brandt wouldn’t ask her to repeat it. No, he needed to pull her away from it.
“The sun must have addled your brain today, Your Grace, if you worry I am anything at all like those spying gits.”
Her startled stare caught his. “Your Grace?”
