It was wondering why a Holder would warn him.
Gelis dreamed of a man of spirit and hot blood.
Tall, well-favored, and with silky black hair just dusting his wide shoulders, he moved through the darkness of the small hours, naked save the gleam of his skin in the moonlight and the glint of gold banding his neck and circling one powerfully muscled arm.
Quiet as fate, he came to her, slipping into the bed and drawing her near. He tightened his arms around her, warming her with his heat and his strength. His arousal, hot, thick, and heavy, pressed against her hip, scorching her skin and making the lowest part of her belly clench with need.
That part of hermelted, on fire and tingling.
She sighed, her own arms sliding around him, seeking his nearness. She ached for his touch, there where she needed him most and her womanhood pulsed and burned with desire.
As if he knew, his hand found her. His fingers skimmed over her maiden hair, drifting ever lower to gently caress the very center of her, cupping her fiercely.
“Och, lass, forgive me. I did no’ want this.” His voice, dark, rich, and seductive, made her shiver. “But I canna resist you . . . am lost, as I’ve told you.”
She cried out, reaching to clutch his shoulders and rocking her hips to increase the sweet pressure against his seeking, stroking fingers. But the drowsiness of sleep kept her gasps and sighs trapped inside her.
And hard as she tried, as was the way with dreams, her grasping hands and her aching hips refused to move.
He kissed her anyway, thrusting his hand into the loose spill of her hair and pulling her lips to his. Murmuring ancient Gaelic love words, he claimed her mouth in a hard, bruising kiss, deep and ravenous.
“Precious lass, let me touch you,” he begged, the words hot silk against her lips. “There’s no’ a breath I take nor a beat of my heart that’s no’ steeped with wanting you.”
“Ahhhh . . .” At last the dream let her move again and she arched into him. In reward, hot, tingling need rippled through her, drenching her.
She went liquid, her mouth opening wide beneath his. Her tongue swirled and thrust, seeking and tangling with his. Their hot breath mingled, each intimately shared gasp intoxicating her all the more.
Incredible pleasure whirled inside her, bright, sinuous flames that ignited her senses and curled her toes, making her wind and stretch on the cool richness of the bedsheets.
“Ahhhh,” she cried again, this time letting her knees fall apart, opening herself to him.
“Mo ghaoil— my dear — you shouldn’t have done that,” he growled, lifting up on his elbows to stare down at her, every muscle-ripped inch of him poised above her, the bold look in his eyes making her even more hot, wet, and slippery.
He tightened his grip on her heat then, but released her as quickly. Still murmuring Gaelic love words, he smoothed his hands swiftly upward, seizing and kneading her breasts. Hot and strong, his fingers squeezed and plumped her flesh, the pleasure of it finally shattering the spell of her dream and letting her cry out her need.
“Yesss . . . Ronan!” She writhed against him, her fingers tangling in the coverlets and her thighs clamping around the plump feather pillow caught between them.
“Ronan . . .” She kicked the pillow aside and flung off the covers.
Flipping onto her stomach, she swept an arm across the cold and empty sheets.
Bedding icier than any she’d ever shared with her sister.
Impossible that a man had lain there with her.
With surety, not the Raven.
She’d only dreamed that he’d come to her.
Her own female need and desire had spun the wild, abandoned kind of passion she ached for so badly.
The heady, set-the-heather-ablaze kind of lovemaking she knew no man save Ronan could give her.
“ No-o-o!” She dug her hands into the coverlets, her fingers gripping the richly embroidered sheets and the somewhat scratchy fur throws.
“Please.” She choked on the word, a hot, scalding wetness tracking down her cheeks. “Come back — I need you . . .”
But only silence answered her.
