Page 67 of The Scot Who Loved Her

He stood tall before her, his intense eyes hooded somewhat, and the expression on his face caused her insides to melt. He looked as if he wanted to devour her—in a good way. A very good, wicked way. And until that moment, she’d not realized that being devoured by a man was something she could desire, but oh how she did.

“Wine?” he asked, though he made no move toward the table.

And she didn’t need wine to move through this act. Didn’t want it to dull her senses. The way she had felt in his arms before was exactly how she craved to feel. Olivia shook her head.

“I’m not thirsty. And I’m…not nervous.” She was a little nervous. But not enough to say she wanted to go to bed and do this tomorrow.

Malcolm flashed a lopsided grin. “I’m a little nervous.”

“You are?”

He nodded. “I’ve…never bedded a virgin.”

Olivia cocked her shoulder, teasing. “Who said I was a virgin?”

His eyes widened, and his lips parted as if he had something to say, but he didn’t.

“I’m teasing.”

His grin widened. “I had two thoughts that went through my mind. One was, ‘who is the scoundrel that took advantage? I’ll kill him.’ And the second was a wee thought of relief that I would no’ be the one to…hurt ye.”

Olivia approached him, clasping his hand in hers. “It won’t hurt for long and will be worth it to us both.” She’d overheard enough women talking about their wedding nights to know it wasn’t all bad.

“Oh, lass, I will definitely make it worth your while.”

Olivia’s belly did a little flip at his words.

Malcolm dipped low to brush his lips over hers, sliding his mouth toward her ear where he whispered, “That feeling I gave ye the other night? I’m going to make ye squirm over and over.”

Olivia gasped, her body instinctively arching into his as her skin said “yes” before her brain could even figure out how to form words.

The heat of Malcolm’s intoxicating mouth on hers, and the floor beneath her slippered feet seemed to tilt. He tasted of wickedness and pleasure. Olivia sighed against him, the solidness of his body enticing, as he slid his lips back and forth. His spicy, heady scent surrounded her in a cocoon of warmth and desire. Then the light, heated touch of his tongue slipped into her mouth to tangle with hers, and Olivia was certain she was no longer standing on solid ground.

This was pure bliss. And to know that the man who held her in such thrall was her husband, that she’d get to kiss him every day for the rest of her life, was a glorious triumph. A wondrous escape from everything and everyone—no more conversations with her mother telling her she had to behave this way or that. No more wondering if she’d be sent away like her sister. She was free to be herself and knew that Malcolm accepted her, loved her.

Wrapped in his arms with their passion igniting was exactly where she wanted to be.

“I want to be naked with ye,” Malcolm murmured.

“Oh, yes, please.” She stepped back, reaching for the ribbon on her body, but stilled as she caught sight of him watching her.

Olivia marveled at the man a few inches away from her, tugging at his cravat and then the buttons of his shirt, exposing the flesh of his neck, a triangle of his chest. She felt frozen, observing him undress, wanting to touch him and see if his skin felt different than her own.

His skin glowed golden in the twinkle of the candles housed in a silver candelabra on the table. A sprinkling of hair fanned over his flesh, and she wondered if it would tickle when she touched it. A swarm of bees danced in her belly as he started to lift the shirt over his head, revealing an abdomen of corded muscle and the sprinkle of hair that traveled in an arrow pattern down into his breeches. Noticing exactly where the path of her vision had led and seeing the thick bulge there, her eyes flew back up to his chest. Her gaze first found the tattoo and then the rounded bullet wound, still red but healed.

Malcolm stilled his hands at the button of his breeches, and she took the opportunity to reach for him. To press her palms to the rippling muscles of his belly. Wondering at the difference in texture and appearance. Her belly did not look like this. First of all, she didn’t have crisp hair, nor did she have these abundant muscles that formed something like a—she didn’t even know. Woven muscle was how it appeared. Squares of compactness lined with dips. She ran her fingers over the lines and squares, and Malcolm sucked in a breath.

One of his hands cupped her face, and she leaned into the warmth of his touch. The calluses on his palm lightly scratching gave her comfort, having run her fingers over those patches before.

“Och, lass, the way ye touch me…the way ye look at me…” Malcolm’s voice was low, gravelly. “Ye’re driving me mad.”

Heat flushed over Olivia’s face, and she licked her lips, anxious and thrilled all at once. Flashes of their earlier encounters propelled frissons of anticipation skating over her skin. Her nipples tightened, and a tingle danced deliciously between her legs, practically begging for his caress. Remembering what his touch could do to her sent a lusty shiver coursing through her.

“I like touching you,” she whispered, her eyes on the tattoo. She traced the outline of the eye permanently etched on his skin and then moved up to the bullet wound. “Does it still hurt?”

Malcolm shook his head, said lowly, “Nay, no’ at all.”

Olivia met his gaze, hoping he was telling her the truth, and she saw only honesty there. Malcolm covered her hand with his, flattening her palm to the wound, and then he brushed his mouth over hers, his free hand sliding down her back to clasp her bottom. He tucked her close, the hardness of his arousal, still trapped in his breeches, pressed to the apex of her thighs, and she moaned against his mouth as the contact ignited a pulsing at her center.

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