Page 95 of What a Scot Wants
“Then what does it matter?”
It mattered. All of it mattered. But she was here and in his arms and so willing. And Ronan could no more resist her call than he could change what this woman made him feel.
“Are ye certain, Imogen?”
Her answer was to lift up onto her toes and crush her lips to his. Opening his mouth on hers, he kissed her back, sipping at her.
He wanted to make it last. Savor every moment. But first he wanted to know something. “Why now?”
Her eyes met his, honesty burning in them. “It’s what we have left.”
…
A shiver chased up Imogen’s spine as Ronan’s large hands wound into her hair and slid down her back. It seemed seduction was her forte, though it felt like she was the one being seduced. Seduced by his mouth and his hands and that clever tongue. Imogen wondered what it would feel like on the rest of her…on her breasts, between her thighs. She bit her bottom lip and blushed. Curse those loose-mouthed women at Haven and her own greedy ears for listening. And then imagining later on, in her own fantasies.
But in those fantasies, the pleasure she received was from men with no names or faces. She hadn’t known or admired anyone worthy enough to take a place in her dreams. Until Ronan had come charging into her life like a savage bear in a Highland storm wind.
He moved slowly now, however, as if restraining himself as his palms warmed the silk against her skin. He explored the swell of each buttock and then the curves of her hips. Ronan’s tongue traced the column of her throat, his teeth nipping gently in its wake.
“If this is truly what ye want,” he said, his breaths hot and rapid and bringing up a rash of gooseflesh, “then I cannae deny ye.”
Imogen gripped his shoulders, holding on as relief made her legs warm and numb. If he’d refused her she would have carried that rejection with her for the rest of her life. On the way to Dunrannoch House, she had fully expected to seduce Ronan only so far before coaxing him to drink the altered whisky, which she had already poured during her few minutes alone in his room.
However, when she’d seen Grace in his study, something had changed. He did not belong to that woman. He washers. And if this was to be their one night together, she would leave no regrets behind her.
Ronan took her lower lip between his teeth and tugged. “What do ye want, Imogen? Tell me and I’ll do it.”
She slid her hands to his cravat, her fingers plucking at the knotted linen. “First, I want this off,” she said. “I want it all off.”
He laughed, the rumble of it low and hoarse. “Let’s no’ rush things, love. We have some hours yet to fill.”
“Hours?” she gasped, a beat of excitement threading through her veins.
“Aye. Have ye anywhere else pressing to be?” he asked as he worked the knot of his cravat, pulling the whole length free and dropping it to the floor. A gap of bronzed skin stood exposed, and she reached for it.
“Nowhere comes to mind,” she murmured, her fingers touching the warm, smooth skin.
He took her mouth again, his tongue parting her lips and reaching for hers in a possessive sweep. He closed his arms around her and pressed her flush against him, the hard length of his male part unmistakable. She blushed. His shaft, tool, rod, cock, whatever all the giggling women at Haven called it. The space between her thighs throbbed with anticipation.
She ran her hands down the front of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle underneath, the tight bud of each male nipple, and then circled his hips. She hesitated, and Ronan drew back from their kiss.
“What is it? If ye’ve changed yer mind, ye need only say so.”
Imogen shook her head. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
He frowned. “If I do anything to make ye uncomfortable or scared, or if it makes ye remember something ye dunnae wish to—”
“You won’t. I trust you, Ronan. I know I’m safe.”
There was no doubt in her mind of that. But she did question one thing. She drew a fingertip down his hip and around the front of his thigh.
“I want to touch you,” she said, her confidence faltering when his storm-blue eyes darkened. “If that’s something you want.” Perhaps it wasn’t.
But then Ronan covered her hand with his. “Ye can touch me, Imogen. I’m yers. Every last inch of me.”
His voice was a mere rasp, and as she moved her palm over his erection, guided by his hand, she heard him take another hitched breath. He was hard, the ridge of his cock imprisoned by his trousers as she gripped him through the cloth. Ronan leaned forward and took her mouth in a bruising kiss. She met it with just as much force, drinking him in and welcoming the brutal edge of his passion—something her one touch had seemed to ignite.
Ronan guided her hand away, placing it flat against his chest, where she felt the thrashing of his heart.
