Bella had pushed him too far. Perhaps it was what she’d intended all along. This heat, this passion, thismadnesssimmering between them had gone on for too long. She was done fighting it.
There was nothing stopping her. Buchan was dead. Her duty to him—if she’d owed him one—was gone.
Her long imprisonment, not knowing when or if she would ever be free, had taught her to take what moments of joy and pleasure she could eke out of life when she could. There might not be another chance.
And somehow she knew this would give her pleasure unlike anything she’d ever known. She wanted to feel passion just once in her life. Even if that were all that could ever be between them. His offer was clear—as it had always been. He’d never claimed to want anything more from her than this.
She didn’t want anything more from him…did she?
On the surface nothing had changed. He was still a bastard. Still the man who was said to have betrayed his clan and murdered his wife. Still a ruthless mercenary who sold his sword to the highest bidder and claimed to care about nothing.
But he cared far more than he let on. His reaction to her questions told her that. The meaner he got, the cruder he got, the more she knew she’d gotten to him. He used his forked tongue as a weapon and a shield—to push people away when they got too close and prevent them from looking at him too closely. But she sensed a deep sadness inside him. The blackness wasn’t in his soul, but in the dark cloud hanging over it.
Still, his coarse words had shocked her. Of all the licentious acts her husband had forced upon her, he’d never donethat. The thought of Lachlan’s mouththere, his hot tongue probing her intimately…
She shuddered, her body quivering where he was so firmly notched against her.
The moment his mouth fell on hers, Bella knew there was no going back. His kiss was hot and hungry, every bit as raw and primal as the passion storming between them.
He bent her into him. Kissing her deeper. Molding her to the hard length of his body. She could feel every ridge, every bulge, every steely edge of muscle, as his body seemed to consume hers, melding together in a perfect fusion of heat.
His tongue circled against hers, urging—nay, demanding—her response.
She kissed him back, matching every carnal thrust with one of her own. His dark, spicy taste filled her senses, blinding her to anything but him.
This was no tender wooing, no smooth seduction, but a violent conflagration of desperate need between two people who wanted only one thing.
This fierce need, this desperation, this passion…she’d never thought to feel like this. Never imagined she could be so overcome. Never imagined she could feel this kind of connection to anyone. It seemed unreal that this could be happening to her. That the woman who’d experienced only coldness for years could find pleasure in the arms of one of the meanest, most feared and reviled men in Scotland.
But there was more to him than that. He was hard but not bad. Not as bad as he wanted to be, anyway. He’d just never had anyone to care for him. Never had anyone he could trust. She just needed to give him a chance. He was worth fighting for.
His mouth was so hot, each slanted movement, each swirl of his tongue stoking the flames a little higher. The heat of his kiss seemed to reach down to her toes, dragging her under. Her heart seemed slammed against her chest, fluttering wildly with every stroke.
She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into the studded leather of hiscotun, needing to feel him even closer. He was so big and strong, and on some base level she needed that, his warrior’s body as hard and unyielding as steel but as warm and comforting as the softest, warmest plaid.
In his arms, she would never be cold again.
She groaned when his big hands cupped her bottom, bringing her firmly against his hardness. A strange shudder trembled through her. Fear and excitement all at once. He seemed so…big. Every inch of the thick column of his manhood felt branded against her.
How would he …?
She bit her lip. How would they …?
Surely it would hurt?
But then he thrust against her, moving his hips in a slow, wicked rhythm that mimicked the movements of lovemaking, and she no longer cared.
Heat rose inside her. She felt the need intensify. Dampness flooded between her legs in a hot rush. Gathering. Concentrating. Coiling in a tight ball of restless desire.
Her skin flushed. Her breath hitched in uneven gasps.
He rubbed against her, increasing the friction, increasing her need.
She needed to move faster. Harder. She arched against him, feeling something strange come over her. She was climbing, reaching for something that hovered just out of her reach.
She didn’t recognize the sounds coming from her. Urgent little moans she didn’t fully understand.
He’d stopped kissing her. His mouth was on her neck, trailing down her throat, delving between her breasts. Ravishing. The scrape of his beard sending a delicious burn along the sensitive path of her skin.
