A tremor shuddered through him, every muscle taut underneath her palms. As if he shook from the effort of doing nothing.
She pressed her free hand to his jaw, closed her eyes, and rose upward once more—a wave of sensation propelling her.
She kissed him again, pressing her mouth more firmly this time.
Oh!
Tears pricked.
Heaven help her.
He felt familiar. Agonizingly so. The pressure of his mouth, the warmth of his touch.
Hetastedfamiliar.
Every sense roared, battering and pulsing, as if desperate to remind her that this was something she treasured.
Something she craved and needed and wanted more than—
Eilidh moaned.
His control broke. He pulled her hard against him and set to plundering her mouth.
All thought fled.
She was out to sea in truth, drowning in sensation, in the raw pleasure of him.
His hands roamed her body, as if desperate to reacquaint themselves.
Familiar. So gloriously familiar.
As if they had done this a thousand times and each moment had been more perfect than the last.
Her hands knew what to do in return, how to shape themselves to him. One threaded into his hair, hitching herself that much closer, holding his mouth against hers. The other hand pressed to his chest, fingers slipping under his neckcloth, feeling the circle of her wedding ring beneath his shirt.
No wonder she had married him.
She was a fuse, and he had just supplied the flame.
How brightly would they blaze in the ensuing conflagration?
More. She wanted more.
The hot, feverish energy of him scorched her mind, pushing past barriers.
Flame.
Burning.
Images billowed to the surface, like memories seen through smoke, her eyes blinking at the sting.
Kieran, staff in hand, turning to yell at her. “Jump, lass. Save yourself!”
Blink.
Cuthie leering down at her, his leathery smile as cruel as the glint in his eyes. “There’s no one who can save ye now, girl. You’re alone and at my mercy.”
Blink.
