“What does that have to do with anything?”
She looked at him for a long moment, as if willing him to see something, and then shook her head. “What I know or don’t know is none of your business.”
She was right, and yet she was so bloody wrong. “Not all men are pups like Comyn, my lady, to be so easily turned away when you are done with them. Some might see your kiss as an invitation for more.”
The flush of pink to her cheeks told him she wasn’t unaware of her reputation. He didn’t realize how close they were standing until she straightened her spine and the dart of her nipples grazed his chest.
His knees almost buckled. He clenched his teeth against the guttural groan of pleasure that sent a flood of heat to his groin.
She lifted her chin, tilting her head back to meet his angry glare. “A man like you, you mean?”
Whether it was sarcasm or a challenge, he didn’t know, but Eoin’s control snapped. He wanted to punish her. He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to prove to her that she played a dangerous game.
But most of all he wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t see straight.
“Aye, that’s exactly what I mean.” He slid his arm around her waist and hauled her up against him. It was so bloody perfect he couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to. All of those lush, feminine curves molded against him felt incredible. He was hard against her. Pounding. Throbbing. Even when he was a lad he’d never felt desire like this so intensely. Need had reached up and grabbed him by the cock, stroking, licking, with more potency than a wanton’s tongue.
He took advantage of her gasp and lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch, the first taste of her was like wildfire. Heat engulfed him. Pleasure tore through him in a scorching frenzy. Whatever rationality he might have still possessed went up in flames when she opened her mouth and kissed him back.
Margaret had laughed when her brother Duncan caught her kissing Tristan in one of the caves below Dunskey Castle last year and warned her to be careful. She was playing with fire, he’d said. A kiss was one thing, but it could very easily end with something else. Beyond the fact that he referred to fornicating, she hadn’t understood and thought he was exaggerating.
Out of control? Dangerous? What was he talking about? There was nothing that felt dangerous about kissing Tristan. It was pleasant and nice, but she was fully aware of what was happening. She wasn’t going to end up with her feet by her ears, grunting enthusiastically, as she’d had the misfortune of witnessing more than once when visitors bedded down for the night in the very un-private Hall of Garthland.
But Margaret wasn’t laughing now. If anything her brother had understated the danger. Curiosity and experimentation might not be dangerous, but passion certainly was. And the moment Eoin MacLean had pulled her into his arms she’d felt the difference to the bottom of her soul.
Desire practically exploded between them. All those sensations awakened and primed by their dance returned even more powerfully. A blast of heat poured over her in a molten wave. The strength of his arms and powerfully muscled body against her made her weak. She felt stunned—dazed—as if she’d fallen into a bog of sensation and couldn’t pull herself out. Or rather didn’t want to pull herself out because it felt too good.Hefelt too good.
She didn’t want him to stop. Ever.
His mouth was hot and possessive. He kissed her as if he belonged there. And truth be told, it felt as if she did.
He tasted of an intoxicating mix of cloves and whisky, and she drank him in, opening her lips to taste him deeper. The deft strokes of his tongue weren’t tentative and probing like she expected but fierce and demanding. The first powerful stroke licked all the way down between her legs and nearly made them collapse.
She felt a strange fluttering low in her belly that made her moan with pleasure. He answered with a harsh groan that sounded almost like a curse. Whatever restraint had existed between them in those first few moments was gone.
His hand plunged through her hair to cup the back of her head and his kiss turned punishing, ravishing, desperate. She understood because she felt it, too. She was kissing him back with passion that seemed to spring from nowhere, borne more from instinct than from experience. In the five or six times that she’d allowed Tristan to kiss her, she’d never felt a fraction of this kind of fervor. She’d never felt anything like this at all.
All that she knew was that she wanted him—more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Her fingers gripped the hard ridges of muscle on his shoulders as if she would never let go. He was even taller and bigger than she realized up close like this, making her feel oddly vulnerable.
She wanted to kiss him, to feel his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her body, and his big, battle-hard body wrapped around her. She wanted to inhale the delicious masculine scent of pine and soap. She wanted to feel her breasts crushed against his chest and her hips pressed against his. She didn’t know how much she wanted that until she felt the thick club of him against her stomach. Good lord! And then she couldn’t seem to think of much else.
Desire crashed over her in a drenching wave, dragging her under. She felt so heavy. Especially her breasts and the intimate place between her legs. She moaned at each new sensation as he kissed her deeper and harder, silently urging him to give her more.
He answered with a groan and more pressure. Their bodies seemed to be melded together. She could feel the hard flex of his arm muscles as he drew her in tighter and tighter. Their tongues circled and sparred, waging a desperate battle of desire and urgency. Yet she never felt threatened. Even in the midst of this fierce onslaught of passion, there was an underlying emotion she didn’t recognize but trusted. It felt almost like tenderness, which seemed silly given the frenzy of the kiss. But it was there, squeezing her chest and hovering over her like a warm sentinel, silent and protecting.
His jaw scratched the tender skin of her chin, but she didn’t care. Closer... Harder... She wanted to be consumed. She wanted to melt into him. To become one.
His hand was no longer in her hair. It was on her bottom, lifting her...
The floor dropped out of her stomach. A rush of liquid warmth flooded between her legs. She could feel him, the hard column of his manhood fitted intimately against her. It felt...big. Powerful. And really, really good.
Especially when he started to move his hips in insistent little circles. Her stomach dropped again, and the place between her legs grew even warmer and more needy. Her body trembled. She ached to press back. And she would have, had the sound of the door opening not torn them apart.
He released her so suddenly she stumbled and might have fallen had she not hit the stone support of the wall behind her.
“MacLean, are you—” The man stopped, and seeing them, he swore. Still in a lust-induced daze, it took Margaret a moment to recognize Eoin’s foster brother standing in the doorway. “Oh hell, I didn’t meant to... interrupt.”
Though there was nothing overtly lascivious or suggestive in his tone, the way his eyes slid over her bruised mouth and still-heaving chest when he said the last made her stiffen.
