He made no move to lie down again—or leave.
She rose to her knees as well, put her arms around him from behind, pressed her cheek to his back. “Stay.”
He caught her hand where it lay splayed over his chest, against his heart. He went over his rules in his mind. He didn’t dally with virgins, or women who belonged to other men—wives, fiancées, sweethearts—or even sisters, for that matter. Gillian MacLeod was all those things.
She was also everything he’d ever desired in a woman. He hadn’t even known that until he met her. He’d wandered around the earth for nearly thirty years without a clue, and now it was too late.
He knew he should fling her off, push her away, make a clever quip, laugh, and let her sleep alone. A long, cold night in the wood was just what he needed.
But she curled her hand against his chest, and her nails tickled him, aroused him, and he shut his eyes.
“Oh, lass, we can’t—shouldn’t.” His voice was thick. “Though I’ve never wanted anything more.”
She moved until she was facing him, the boughs creaking and whispering beneath her. He felt the soft brush of her lips against his.
With a groan, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her properly. She answered in kind, kiss for kiss. She drew him back down onto their springy green bed.
He ran his mouth over her chin, her throat, the slopes of her breasts. He caressed the curve of her slender waist. He’d been here before, knew her body this far and no farther.
Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings on his leather jack in the dark, inexperienced and clumsy. He pulled them open for her, as eager as she. He groaned when she loosened the laces of his shirt and kissed his chest, her mouth gentle and reverent on his bare skin.
Don’t fall in love, his fevered brain warned him.
But he knew it was already too late.
* * *
It was too dark to see, but Gillian remembered how John looked at the farm, naked to the waist in the morning sun. She’d wanted to touch him then, to run her fingers over the silver scar, the smooth golden skin. She wanted it more now.
“The scar,” she whispered, finding it with her fingertips, then her lips. “Was it from the same attack?”
“Nay.” His voice was gruff, breathless.
She kissed it again and ran her hand over the hard planes of muscle and sinew, learning the shape of his body, wanting to know every inch of him. She reached down boldly and brushed her palm against the bulge in his breeches. He grunted and put his hand on hers.
“Nay, lass. It’s not my right. That belongs to—” She kissed him before he could finish the thought.
“This isn’t about anyone else, John Erly. It’s about you and I, and what we want. This is what I want,” she said tartly.
“There are ways to please each other without taking your virginity,” he said.
“That’s not good enough. A taste, a sip. I had that at the masquerade. It wasn’t enough even then.”
“One kiss in the moonlight, and I couldn’t forget you. This—This could kill me. I suspect once with you would never be enough.”
She curled her fingers against his chest. He touched her face, kissed her gently.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
“It’s dark,” she whispered back.
“Ah, but I can see you anyway. Your eyes are as green as the hills of Scotland, and heavy-lidded with passion. Your hair is tangled with fir needles and from the wind. There are soft tendrils around your face, and against your cheeks, which are flushed.” He kissed her. “Your lips are pink from my kisses, plump.”
He kissed her again, her poet, her rogue, her lover. “More,” she said on a sigh, arching against him.
“More bad poetry and inadequate compliments?” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice.
“Nay, more kisses, more of—everything. You’re also beautiful. Is it right to say so, to a man?”
