Page 58 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

His braies hugged his sculpted form, long and lean muscles honed from a life upon the sea. Over his navel trailed that dark dusting of hair, and over his hips, his ligaments angled down beneath his braies, leading to the heavy indulgence she craved between his thighs. She’d seen the full of his tattoos and scarified patterns only from a distance when he’d competed, but up close, the detail adorned every ridge, every shadow. Scars turned into beauty.

“Sakes, ye’re covered in art.” She ran her palms over his pectorals in wonder, and his shoulders rounded from labor and down the ribbing of his stomach, feeling his muscles jump beneath her exploration. He, too, brushed a gentle finger over her chemise clinging to her curves, revealing the darkened color of her nipples. “Yer body is a masterpiece.”

“And yers is a benediction.” He scooped her into a cradle and settled back down into the water as she gasped. “Lie on yer back. Relax, and I’ll hold ye up.”

She screwed her brows together. Confused, she did as he bade, feeling his palms upon her back and rear, supporting her while her hair floated on the water and she gazed up at the sunlight blinking through the rustling leaves echoing with birdsong.

Slowly, she relaxed and relinquished herself to the sensation of the water, the muffled silence within her ears and the languidness of being so cocooned, when she felt a gentle dripping. She blinked open, not realizing she’d closed her eyes. Noticed Tormund scooping up water into his hand and letting it drizzle upon her navel, over her ribs, over her breasts that peaked wondrously as reverent light glowed in his gaze. Up the hollow of her throat and over her face so that she giggled and her eyes fluttered shut again, water sprinkling like a holy blessing.

Again and again, more water trickled as the sun warmed her cheeks and nose and his other hand fanned her hair to float around her…

His hands were busy teasing her with sensations, which meant she was floating…without being held!

She bolted up to grab him, panicking—and sinking—thrashing as she fought for footing and water suffocated her face, when those hands spanned her waist and hauled her up to the surface.

…

“What the hell, woman,” Tormund grumbled, catching her as they toppled.

“Ye let go,” she panicked in his ear, arms once more choking him, legs wrapped about him, bare and warm and, hell, her toes were locked upon his rear.

Her hair tangled about them. Sopping cords stuck to them, knotted in his hold, that had been floating like heaven’s harp strings upon the water.

“Aye, ye didna need me to hold ye up anymore,” he laughed.

“But ye said ye’d no’ leave me.”

The simple accusation gouged. Heated. Aye, he had to find a way. Had to come to terms with the secrets he protected. And would have to protect her, too, with his life, but it would be worth it. His men wanted vengeance and by stopping this ambush he’d let them down. But Owen, too, would have made the same decision if he were here and the woman he held had been his beloved. Owen had made that decision, to forsake his people’s anger. To let bygones be bygones. He’d taken Marjorie into his home and heart and laid down his sword and even if it had been for only a year, Tormund suspected that year had been worth it for Owen. Could it be worth it for him?

“Are ye all right?” came her gentle words at his ear.

“Fine,” he bit out, basking in her touch as she toyed with the end of his braid and molded herself to him.

No one ever touched him, except for one other in Inverness, but that was a different sort of love and reverence he wished didn’t have to be an intermittent blessing. No one else ever dared to, except with the tip of pointed metal.

“Ye feel lost in some deep thought,” she murmured as if she could read him, “like the weight of the world suddenly landed on yer shoulders.” How well she knew him already. “I wish ye’d tell me. Let me in.”

Those lips touched his lobe, his talon, warm breath whispering over his flesh, and he turned his face to hers, capturing her kiss.

Damn it, but he was clenching her too hard. He slipped a palm up her back to her neck to hold her there, the other onto her rear, bare and exposed to the lucky waters surrounding them, pressing her crux into him. While he’d hoped, of course, for more sharing of body parts, he really had wished to teach her this skill after she’d admitted to her boat capsizing, so if ever she had to swim herself to safety, she’d have the fighting chance his mother’d never had.

Still, her bare legs were clinging to him…and his shaft, which had thickened in steady throbs—as she’d floated like she’d arisen straight out of the Arthurian legends from that he’d learned to read as a lad—was growing heavy. Her tendrils billowing like mermaid hair—his lady of the lake—he’d watched her blossom, learn to float, and offered her bonny breasts to the sunshine above.

He wanted to always feel this lavender-scented goddess needing him, wanting him, and couldn’t help undulating against her. Didn’t want her married to another. Wanted to be bold and reach out and seize her. Shed his burdens of leadership just once and take something purely for himself and damn the consequences.

“Let me keep ye,” he breathed like a secret, dusting kisses across her cheek, back to her lips as she nodded and swallowed the rumble that rolled up his throat like thunder, as if drinking in his darkness and setting it free.

Yet having finally spoken his desire to the cosmos, he felt an ounce of dread pit in his gut. As if he’d just welcomed the fates to prove he were cursed and she’d never be safe. His grip on her neck and rear tightened at the thought. Their bodies, molded together beneath the surface, rolled and writhed.

He didn’t want to hide with her anymore. Was resolving himself that this would be different. With her. That he could protect her better than Owen had done, than his father had done, as their tongues danced and he savored the berries of her lips, took from her with increasing fervor. Tingling erupted on his skin as she scored his flesh, a finger skirting the waist of his braies, seeking.

Jesu, her fingers were sifting between them, now scoring a path over his painful main mast, vibrating over the ridges of his laces, seeking his cock. All she knew of a man, she knew of him, and she wanted him again and again, wanted more.

He pulled her rear snug upon his shaft and bucked against her through their clothes, felt her meet the thrust with pressure of her own, seeking this union with him, too, as if she loved the way he felt filling her. His fingers splayed around the back of her thigh, against her warm center, submerged in water, glossy with anticipation for his joining. He sank a finger within her, relished the hitch of her breath against his mouth and how she bore down harder on his lips, brought both hands up to clench his head and braid, tilting her face to deepen their mutual devouring as he pumped his finger.

Pulling free, he brought those fingers to his lips, suckling them clean. “Damnation, mon ange…perfection,” he growled, nipping those lips, reminding her to whom they belonged as he thrust his tongue with more possession and drank down her mews.

She writhed upon him as he thrust his fingers back within her, her sweet essence lingering on his tongue as she rocked upon him. She cried out softly and tore her lips away as she clung to him while he wound her up like a spindle, tightening, tightening, to finally let her drop and twirl apart.