Chapter Thirteen
Malcolm stood there,his cock pressed into Lizzie’s stomach and he wanted so much more. Being close to her wasn’t enough. He wanted to be buried bollocks deep inside of her sweetness.
And it was wrong.
So wrong.
Every fiber of his being told him to push her away. To leave the room. But he couldn’t get himself to do it. It was as if his feet were planted into the floor.
She felt so good molded against him. As if she were made to fit him and only him.
Her erratic breathing matched his own.
“Kiss me again,” she whispered, her voice husky, edged with need.
Fuck. As much as he kenned he should be a gentleman and send her on her way. That what they were about to do, because there was no denying what was going to happen, shouldn’t happen. They both kenned it would.
But he was the man. He should stop. But he couldn’t.
“Malcolm,” she called, forcing him to look at her with a soft hand placed against his cheek. As her fingers stroked his skin and then pushed through his hair, she brought his mouth down to hers. Her mouth was open, waiting for him.
And he was lost. Like a man starving, he devoured her mouth as his hands roamed over her body. He found the bow at her waist and pulled at the tie, feeling her robe open.
He paused, because as much as he wanted this, she only had to say nay and he would stop that very second. No question. He would not push her into something she did not want.
“Lizzie?”
“Hmmm,” she moaned, her lips red and swollen from their kisses.
“We need to stop.”
“I dinna want to.” She tried to pull him down to her again, but by something that could only be a miracle, he held back.
“There is nay going back if we continue.”
“I understand.” The look through her lashes she gave him had his cock weeping.
“Ye will be ruined.”
“I dinna care.”
He sighed. “I do. Your future husband will verra much care.” And that was the thought that did it. As much as he wanted to lose himself in her soft curves, he would not be the cause of her fall from society.
Thief or not, he had more honor than that.
He stepped back, and the look of hurt in her eyes hit him like a punch in the gut.
She reached for him, but he shook his head. “Nay, Lass. We canna. Ye deserve more.”
“Let me decide what ’tis I deserve.” He saw the tear drop from in the corner of her eye and he had to fight the urge to kiss it away. Guilt consumed him about how selfish he had acted.
He approached her and her eyes brightened. Only to dim once again when he reached forward and cinched her robe closed and tied it off.
“Malcolm,” she choked.
“Lass,” he moved to the bed and sat down, “come sit, let us talk.”
She sat beside him, their arms brushing, and he thought that this wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. He only had to kiss her and lean her back onto the mattress, lift the skirts of her nightdress, drag his hand lazily up her…
