Page 57 of Highlander’s Burning Touch

Deva felt her eyes were about to pop out of her head. This was too much. All of a sudden, she thought she would collapse from the sheer force of his love.

“Deva,” he said, murmuring inside her ear. “Can ye take any more?” he asked, with a slanted smile. Despite herself, Deva just laughed.

Before she could answer, Niven, pressed himself inside of her, simultaneously caressing her cheek.

Instantly Deva felt a shiver run through her. Niven brought his hand to her thighs, stroking it rhythmically, bringing a sweet jolt to her derriere.

Now it was Deva’s turn to moan. “Oh,” she groaned, as, wickedly, he turned his attentions to her every muscle.

Soon, Deva was bathing in ecstasy she couldn’t even pretend to understand. The feeling of him tight inside her released little pools of joy down deep.

And with each thrust, a slow, sweet tickle raced through her. Niven caressed her belly button, circling and un-circling with his index finger. The combination of both her inside and outsides threatening to overwhelm her, Deva lay back and groaned.

Just when she thought he could not possibly do any more, he placed his hands on her bare bosoms, cajoling them until she burned with pleasure.

“Niven, nae,” she moaned, the ecstasy becoming unbearable. All the same, she clung on tightly and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

A sweet ache ran through her as the orgasm mixed with the pleasure in her breasts. Something inside her rushed madly. She was going now, all of her passions in one place, slowly being spent.

Seeing her look of total capitulation, Niven smiled. But it was a strange, intense look, which she didn’t register. Then, she realized he was in the throes of passion. Niven screwed his eyes up tight and pumped the last of his juice inside her.

Both of them moaned as he came, his final wave engulfing her. And just when it seemed to be over, the glow of the aftershock raced through her, sending an unexpected sweetness all over.

Deva felt herself tingle, then she collapsed into his arms, falling softly asleep.

Chapter Nineteen

The snow was falling hard and fast. Through the darkened glen, Fingal faced forwards on his horse and shivered.

“It’s nae use, sir,” said Dughall, wrapping his cape around himself in a futile effort to keep the wind out. He narrowed his eyes against the stormy landscape. And from the look on his face, Fingal could guess what he was thinking.

This was crazy. The whole trip was madness. Dughall glanced about, undoubtedly wondering when the laird would finally call this trip to a halt, and they could all go inside again.

But there was a problem. Squinting into the horizon, Dughall pulled a concerned face and turned back to the others.

“The lodge is still a good way off, sir,” said Dughall anxiously. He looked over to Rory, seated on top of his white stallion, and frowned. “It’s already dark. We should never have got this far…”

He left his remark hanging in the air as he sent Rory a troubled look. Beside him, Fingal looked on, bored.

The old goat was right. The expedition was doomed. It had been since the minute they had set foot out into the six-inch snow. Not surprisingly, their hunt had been futile. No deer had come their way, and now they were stuck in the middle of the Highlands, on a bleak night, with nothing but the ice for company.

He knew it, Dughall knew it, the slack-jawed servant carrying the bags knew it. Probably even the horses knew it too. All four of them stood, waiting for the laird to admit defeat and tell them to ride to warmth.

However, Rory had other ideas.

“Nonsense,” he snapped, glaring angrily at them. “There’s every chance o’ finding a stag!” he said, somewhat unconvincingly. Fingal could not help but look at the dark, cold vista skeptically.

Rory caught his eye and started sharply. “I’ve caught many a deer up here, in the snow,” he said.

From the look on their faces, they did not believe him, but no one wanted to be the first to say it.

Dughall cleared his throat. Fingal scanned it closely. He knew well the look of suppressed irritation that he was wearing. He could tell this was eating him up inside, but who was going to tell the laird that his hunting trip was folly?

A silence fell over the hunting party, punctuated only by the wind, racing wildly around the hillside. It seemed to whistle its disapproval and shivering; Fingal could only agree. The sooner the laird just admitted defeat, and they could all get warm again, the better.

Eventually, Dughall broke the silence. Taking the laird aside, he rode up to him, seated on his graying mare. “Sir,” he said hesitantly.

Instantly, the laird looked up.