Page 42 of Beds and Blades

My pulse was racing.

Skip was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room worth his attention.

He stepped toward me. The firelight slid over every ridge and valley of muscle as he moved, and I stopped thinking about siege tactics, the world I was in, or anything else at all.

He crossed the short distance between us in three strides.

When he reached me, he didn’t hesitate. One large hand slid to the small of my back, the other cupped the side of my face with that same calm, absolute authority I’d felt when he lifted me from the horse. His palm was warm, rough from years of sword work, and it spanned half my jaw as he tilted my head exactly where he wanted it.

Then he kissed me.

This wasn’t the quick, battle-charged press of the courtyard or the slow, fireside exploration in the hall. This was deeper. Hungrier.

His mouth claimed mine. The moment our lips met, his tongue swept in, slow and thorough, tasting me like he had all night to learn every secret I’d been keeping. There was nothing tentative in it.

I gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until my knees actually weakened. My hands came up instinctively, palms flattening against the bare heat of his chest.

He felt enormous against me. Overwhelming. He crowded my smaller frame, forcing me to arch slightly into him just to keep balance. One of his arms banded around my waist like a steel cable, holding me exactly where he wanted me with effortless strength. His free hand slid down my back, palm spreading wide over the curve of my ass, pulling my hips flush against his.

And then I felt it.

The unmistakable, heavy length of him straining against his pants. Thick, insistent.

Heat flooded between my legs so fast it left me dizzy. My clit pulsed in answer, slickness already soaking through the thin linen of my nightgown.

For the first time since I had arrived in Mytharo, my analytical mind short-circuited. All I could think was: He is going to ruin me with this. The thought didn’t scare me. It made me wetter.

Skip must have felt the way my body trembled against him, because the hand on my ass tightened, fingers digging in with possessive strength as he rocked his hips forward once—slow, deliberate—letting me feel the full, intimidating length and girth of him grind against my stomach.

He groaned low in his throat—a deep, rough sound that vibrated through his chest into mine—and the kiss turned fiercer. His tongue stroked mine. His stubble rasped against my chin and cheeks, a delicious burn that grounded every sensation. My nipples tightened against the linen, sensitive enough that the slight friction of his chest against them made me whimper into his mouth.

He angled his hips forward so I could feel every rigid inch of him more clearly.

Skip broke the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.

His dark eyes raked over my face, my swollen lips, the rapid rise and fall of my chest beneath the pale linen. Without a word, he reached for the nightgown.

His fingers were steady and sure—large hands making quick work of the simple ties with the same decisiveness he used on everything else. The fabric parted slowly under his touch.

He didn’t rush. He savored it, sliding the material down my shoulders with care, letting it pool at my waist before tugging it lower still until it slipped off my hips and pooled at my feet.

I stood before him in nothing but the firelight.

Skip’s gaze devoured me.

He didn’t speak at first. His gaze moved over me—slow, thorough, unapologetic—as though he had been starving for the sight of me and had finally been given permission to feast.

His chest rose and fell with deeper breaths, the heavy muscle there tightening as his hands flexed at his sides.

“Meghan,” he said, his voice low and rough, almost reverent.

He crossed to me in two strides, and his hands found my hips first—large and warm—before sliding around and down, palms spreading wide over the full curve of my ass with a firm grip.

His fingers pressed in, testing the weight and softness of it with a low sound in his throat that he did not appear to make any effort to suppress. Then he looked up slowly, found my eyes, and held them. The expression on his face was the look of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted and was discovering that reality exceeded his estimate.

“You are exquisite.”

Nobody had ever said anything like that to me.