Page 64 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Her stomach tightened, a thrum of desire pooling there.

“There were other things,” she murmured.

It seemed dangerous, very dangerous, to meet his eyes at that moment.

It wasn’t working. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she turned to face him.

His eyes glinted in the moonlight. A slow smile spread across his face, making them crinkle.

He shifted his weight, lifting his hand. Fingertips slid across her cheek, and she let her eyes flutter shut.

“Daphne, look at me.”

She opened her eyes, almost with effort, and met his gaze.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered.

“Is it nae always?”

Maybe, given a moment or two, she would have found the strength to either respond or pull away. But before she could do either, he leaned forward.

She was sure he was going to kiss her. Her eyes had already fluttered shut in anticipation, almost helplessly.

Instead, his lips pressed against the side of her throat, right where her pulse thrummed under her skin.

I ken about yer vow, she wanted to say. I ken ye cannae wed or have children. Well, ye can avoid marriage, but there’s nae much that can be done about Willow.

She said none of that. Instead, she let out a desperate sigh, sliding her arm around his shoulders to anchor herself.

“I have dreamed of ye, lass,” he murmured, his lips grazing her skin. “Did ye ken that? I see ye in me dreams. If ye are there and I cannae reach ye, it’s a nightmare.”

“Daenae,” she heard herself say. She couldn’t remember choosing to say it, but the words were out, so she must have. “Hunter, daenae.”

“Daenae what?”

He shifted, his lips pressing against the front of her throat. She swallowed involuntarily and knew he must have felt it. Next, his lips landed on her cheek in a delicate peck.

Nae enough.

Nay, nay, it must be enough. It’s too much. This is a bad idea.

“Ye have only to tell me to stop, lass,” he murmured, his voice a scratchy growl deep in his throat. “Just one word, that’s all it takes.”

He pulled back, and she opened her eyes, almost whining at the loss of his warmth. He lifted his eyebrows, waiting.

She couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

“That’s what I thought,” he growled.

Pulling her against him, he kissed her, a rough press of lips and the light graze of teeth.

Daphne had the vague sensation of being swept away by a river and pulled down by a strong undercurrent. She clutched at his shoulders, steadying herself as best she could, and opened her mouth to the slide of his tongue. The heat was too much, much too much, bubbling under her skin until she thought she might melt.

“Tell me, then,” she demanded hoarsely when they pulled apart to breathe, “about yer dreams.”

“Me dreams?” His hand grazed her knee, red-hot.

She flinched, shivering. “Yer dreams of me.”