Page 17 of The Lass Defied the Laird (Explosive Highlanders 1)

No! It would not do. “You want me to marry him!” And just like that, she lost hold on her already threadbare control.

A humourless chuckle aired out of his impossibly sensuous mouth. “You start to catch the big picture, I see.”

“Yes. We are going to sleep together!” She must make an extreme effort to keep her voice level.

No sound came from him, but he blanched visibly.

“Do you realise it?” She asked, hands flying to her waist.

His stare continued trained on her as if disbelieving what he listened to here. No, he did not think it through, did he?

She kept her ground, chin notching up, boring her glare in his, unyielding, defiant. Fuming! Because he advanced on her, nostrils flaring, square jaw ticking.

She did not stop. “You abducted me to bear your grand-children!” She forced it out as the biggest nonsense of the universe.

By his sides, his fists clenched; his lips pressed together.

“Have you thought of it?” She threw once more. “You and your— “ Gaze descending along his length, his tartan tented.

Her stare snapped back to him and he was already upon her. A cold and hard surface met her back as he cornered her against the stone wall.

“Stop it, Aileen.” He muttered the command with a trace of urgency, lacing her waist with one muscled arm. “Stop it before I go crazy imagining it!” Their bodies clashed.

Then she had to as his mouth came down to plunder hers in an assault of her senses. A blunt tongue pillaged her, entering full, merciless. The avalanche of sensations left her no choice but to hold on to him. Her arms seized his thick neck as she arched into him and lifted her head to meet is height.

His other hand tore out her pins making her glossy chestnut hair fall around her shoulders. His palm rolled her hair around it, dominating her while his tongue plunged deeper.

A moan originated in her throat, a veritable conflagration taking over every single corner of her skin. Her fingers sank in his sable hair, pulling him flush to her, their frames touching everywhere. His impressive erection imprinted on her belly and the fire melted her centre, transforming it in scorching liquid.

He turned his head to the other side, pulled her tighter, invaded her deeper, hotter, harder. She followed, her decaying person giving in to everything he demanded, wanting to fall lower, wanting him to appease the ache. Wanting relief for this desperate crave.

Hell broke loose. There existed no more limits. They went far, beyond any sensible boundary. They unleashed the demons and let them raze the little that stood yet.

Still not enough.

In whimpers, she demanded total perdition, and he responded pressing her harder against the wall, his manhood a cement sculpture against her softness. A mirage of quench and an agony of hollowness rolled into one.

He came up for air, their eyes meshing, foggy, full of insane passion. Ragged breaths mingled, he dropped her hair, his mouth falling open on her silky neck where the pulse throbbed. A fuel they did not need, but hungered for anyhow. Gasps escaped her. Then this same hand grabbed her sleeve and yanked it down her shoulder to bare one full breast. He clutched his sinful stubble mouth to the mound as if his life depended on it. Her head fell backwards, the heat so overwhelming she thought he would morph her into ashes. He did not. He just made famine acquire an unsupportable new meaning.

His calamitous lips suckled firm, she pressed his head to it on the verge of imploring him to do something, anything. Everything.

But no. It all worsened when he nibbled the poor dusky nipple only to fill his mouth again and drench her even further with torment.

“You two in there.” Sam’s voice behind the door. “Have you killed each other yet?”

As if lightning struck him, Taran pulled from her lunging to the centre of the study, his back to her, hand raking his tousled hair, jagged breath.

“Not so far, Sam.” Raspy, he called to his son. “We will come to dinner shortly.”

Aileen slumped against the wall, head falling on it, short breaths, unable to produce the slightest movement.

“Alright, father.” His steps retreated.

He pivoted to her anew, his green attention taking in her flushed skin, fallen hair, her misplaced dress, the wet, pebbled mound on show, then clasped on hers. Dark, unsatisfied. Guilty.

“I will go wash for dinner.” And left swiftly, closing the door.

It took minutes for her to be able to react. When she did, practical hands re-did her hair and her dress. But nothing on this world would make her forget that typhoon.

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