He bent forward, cupped his forehead in a hand, then raked his fingers through his hair. His desires made no sense to him. He wanted her, yet at the same time he wanted to send her away.
Turning in his chair, he looked at her gruffly. She was lying on her side with her back to him. She had the covers pulled up to her ears like an angry child.
He had offended her. She was making that abundantly clear. Was she crying?
Ah, bloody hell. What if she was?
He sat back and rubbed a hand over his face, then rose from the chair and slipped into bed behind her. He snuggled close, tucked his knees into the backs of hers, and leaned up on an elbow. Brushing the hair away from her face, he said, “You want to kick me in the nuggets, don’t you?”
“Aye,” she flatly said. “You were very rude.”
He was quiet for a minute. “I’m sorry, lass. It was a long day. I was tired and grouchy. What can I do to make it up to you?”
God!Was he really saying these things? Did she have any idea that it was bloody earth-shattering? Not once in his rough and hellish life had he ever groveled to anyone, except maybe his father when he was just a lad facing a beating.
But never to a woman. Not once. Not ever.
“There is nothing you can do,” she replied, “because you already told me you are too weary for anything, and alas, I have disobeyed you sufficiently by not going straight back to sleep.”
The ill-tempered mood that had festered inside him all day cracked a small, reluctant smile, and he shook his head at these unbelievable circumstances—for his pretty little trophy bride suddenly seemed to have him wrapped around her finger.
“Sometimes,” he said, “you drive me so mad with frustration that I think I’m going to lose my mind, and it’s almost comical. Do you know that?”
“You didn’t find it amusing five minutes ago.”
“Nay, and that’s the shock of it. You’re the only person in Scotland who can crush my wrath and mash it to wee bits in the space of a single minute.”
She rolled over onto her back and blinked up at him with those big, beautiful brown eyes. Something inside him snapped at the sight of her wholesomeness. She was like a fluttering butterfly he wanted to catch and hold in his hands.
Then she pinched him hard on the shoulder.
“Och!”he shouted. “What was that for?”
“You deserved it.”
He immediately rolled on top of her. “So I did. Does that mean we are even now?”
“No, we most certainly are not.”
He began to slowly pump his hips. “Then I’ll ask you again, lass. How can I make it up to you?”
She wiggled beneath him, and his erection increased sizably.
“You can make love to me, Angus. And do your absolute best to pleasure me greatly, and enjoy it yourself, as well.”
“There will be no difficulty there,” he replied. “I’m already having the time of my life.”
“Well, I am not. I am still angry with you. You were a brute just now.”
He kissed her softly on both eyelids. “Aye, but you’ll soon forgive me when I slide into your warm, sweet pastry and make you tremble with rapture.”
“My pastry? Good God, you are without a hope.”
He reached down to move his kilt and her shift out of the way, slipped his fingers into the luscious damp haven between her thighs to ensure she was ready for him—which she most definitely was—then he thrust into her with extravagant, soul-gratifying ease.
She arched her back and closed her eyes. “Ah, yes, that isperfect…”
He moved slowly in and out, deeply and compellingly. “Do you forgive me now?”
