“I do no’ recall. I was drunk at the time.” He reflected with what remnants of his mind she had left him, “It did smart a bit the next day.”
“Poor dragon.” She ran her hands down his body and captured him. He came up between her fingers again like a raised sword.
“I told you I wished to see you,” she whispered while her hands did magical things. “All of you.”
“Ah.” The capacity for thought fled him. There existed only the softness of her breasts, the heat of her hands, and the blue of her eyes. He must keep sight of his goal here, though—remember that he meant to trifle with her heart.
“Why a dragon?” she persisted. “And did you need to be upstanding while it was put on?”
Perhaps. The tattoo artist, down near Falkirk, had been a lass, and not ill-favored. “A dragon is powerful magic,” he told her.
“As are you.”
He kissed her deeply, and she continued to massage him all the while. She broke the kiss and slid over his body to straddle him.
“Tell me about this one.” She touched his shoulder. “And this, and this.”Touch, touch, like sparks of fire.
“Why?”
“Because they are beautiful, and I want to taste them all.”
He growled, seized her hips, and positioned her where he wanted her. “Later.”
“Now.”
A battle of wills, was it? He smiled to himself. He had begun to learn of this woman; she would not be able to hold out long against him.
She bent forward and ran her tongue across his taut stomach. “Tell me of this one.”
“Victory tattoo got after a battle.”
“And this?” She moved to his right bicep, her hair trailing across his skin.
“Got that after I saved the life of a chief. I was in his hire—” He caught his breath. She had moved lower, far lower. He tangled his hands in her hair. “Ah—”
“And this?” The top of his left thigh, very nearly where he wanted her. He struggled to recall the marking there, and failed.
“And this?” Not waiting for an answer, she skittered her lips and tongue upward until they reached the skin above his heart.
He froze. “I told you of that one.” Geordie—the intertwined hounds they both shared, the brand of their sworn loyalty.
How could he have forgotten?
Her blue eyes swam back into his range of vision. Aye, beautiful she was—the witch.
“What is it?” she asked in a whisper. “What troubles you?”
“You must return below. Gather your clothing and go.”
“But we are not finished.”
“We are.”
“Most assuredly, my laird, we are not.”
Anger raced through him, combining with the passion he could not deny. He had a cruel and sharp tongue when in a temper, but he held it now. He would not spoil all the work—glorious work!—he had done.
How far could he push her? How much could he make her want him before he broke her in his hands?
