Page 110 of The Highlander Is All That

There was no call for her to smack his shoulder. “It felt wonderful . . . until you stopped.”

She delighted him so, he couldn’t help teasing. Just a little. “Ach. Do you want more?”

Her frown intensified and she arched her back. “Yes, damn you.”

“Such language,” he whispered in her ear. “Whatever would Esmeralda say?”

Ach. Probably the wrong thing to say.

She stilled and yanked his head up by the hair so she could glower at him. “How can you think of her at a time like this?”

“My apologies.” Though he was anything but repentant. One had to have thoughts to be repentant. He made a small movement to distract her, one that he knew found that bundle of nerves deep within her, because she sank her fingers into his scalp and growled. “Yes,” she huffed. “Yes.”

He had every intention of teasing her more, but just then, she clutched him with her velvety muscles and her crazed response lit a fire in his gut.

“God, Anne,” he groaned. He took hold of her hips, raised her up, and yanked out.

She wailed in protest, but he reversed direction and sank deep again.

Her shudder was worth the effort. Her body closed on his cock in an exquisite and agonizing grasp. He grit his teeth and pulled out and thrust again. And again.

He became a rutting beast then, fucking his woman with a fury that made his head go light, made shivers dance on his skin, made sweat bead at his temple.

And—glory be—she was right there with him. His wild woman. His mate.

They rose together, to those blinding heights, she scratching at his back in her frenzy and need, and he barely hanging on.

He knew when she crested. Her body seized on him in a series of agonizing quivers, her eyes went wide, and she threw back her head with a silent cry.

Relief—utter and glorious—gushed through him and he let go the tight hold on his reins, launching into a series of hard, fast thrusts, each one of which pushed him higher and higher into the ether.

When he exploded, filling her with jet after jet of hot seed, she held him, stroked him, and murmured comforting words.

It was, without exception, the most enchanting moment of his life.

He lifted his head, though it took some effort, and kissed her on the lips as they both gasped for breath and fought to calm their beating hearts.

He cupped her cheek and brushed back her hair and stared at her.

His Anne.

God. He loved her.

But he didn’t speak the words. It was far too early for that.

Besides, they had all night.

And more.

* * *

Hamish waited impatiently in the common rooms of the Yorkshire inn. He’d expected Ranald to be up at first light and ready to go, but when he’d knocked on his friend’s door, he hadn’t answered.

Granted, the inn had been raucous last night, and Ranald was a light sleeper. Perhaps he’d been kept awake all night and decided to have a lie-in, but that was very unlike him.

Anne had also not made an appearance.

One thing he’d learned living in the St. Claire home: Anne was an early riser. No doubt the cacophony had kept her awake too.