“I can. I feel you, too.”
She grunted a protest. “Dinnae use yer sweet words on me, John Huxley. I’ve questions for ye.”
With a sensual smile, he traced a line from her earlobe to her throat. “You smell good.”
She snorted. “Now I ken ye’re lyin’. Whatever’s in that rubbish pile, it isnae perfume.”
His hands moved to her waist, squeezing as he nuzzled her jaw. “The only scent I perceive is your skin. You always smell clean to me. Clean and golden and sweet, like caramel or …” Nuzzle. Tickle. “… honey.” Were those his lips?
Her hands fisted his coat. Her bones liquified into caramel and honey. “I must smell like distraction.”
“You do.”
“Fitting. Because that’s all this bonnie talk is, I reckon.” Perhaps her point would have more impact if she didn’t purr it against his jaw and rub her bosom against his chest. On the other hand, it felt heavenly to be in his arms.
Focus! She must focus. “Who were ye meetin’, English?”
“Friends.”
“What friends?”
Suddenly, he clasped her nape with lean, strong fingers and cinched her tightly against his hard body with an arm around her back. “I’m going to kiss you. Properly.”
A dozen responses flashed through her mind, starting with “About time,” and finishing with “Which parts?” But his voice and his breath and her full-body flush annihilated her wits.
“That sounds … fine,” was the best she could do.
“Afterwards, I’m going to walk away, and you’re going back into the inn with your family.”
“How did ye—”
Perfect lips brushed hers. Tingling sparks flickered to life. “After you return to Glenscannadoo, we are going to do more than kiss.”
“W—we—”
“Much more.”
“Y—ye—”
“But for now, I’ll have this, Annie. A taste to tide me over.”
Suddenly, his mouth fused to hers. And his tongue, sleek and hot, slid inside. And Annie’s world turned inside out. Because no man—Englishman or Scot—should be able to steal a woman’s soul the way John Huxley stole hers with a single kiss.
TlU
John used every trick he knew. Nearness. Flattery. Touching. The right sort of honesty at the right time. Then, the promise. And, finally, the kiss.
God, the kiss.
For the first few seconds, he kept his head. A bit of nibbling pressure. A confident slide of tongue.
Then, she moaned. Hummed against his lips. And her honey scent spiraled him into intoxication.
His mouth wanted more of her. His heart hammered against his chest. He tightened his muscles, resisting the urge to drive her higher against the wall.
Shouldn’t.
Needed to keep control. This was about distraction. She was the one who must forget herself. Not him. John Huxley did not lose control. Not with women. Not ever.
Her arms slid around his neck. Her mouth tilted. Opened. Begged him for more.
Better for everyone if he maintained command of himself. How hard could it be? He’d always managed it before. With other women. Other kisses.
She shifted so her thigh moved between his. Brushed and pressed. Shot him into the sky. Her softness against his hardness. Lush, round breasts pressing flat until he could feel her hard nipples. Delicious lips opening like a flower. Need for her spun him in spirals of heat.
He clasped her harder. Gripped her neck and pulled her mouth tighter. Ate at her like a starving animal. And it still wasn’t enough.
Soft, sweet lips. Not merely willing but eager. She whimpered and pulsed her hips against him. Circling. Grinding. Demanding.
Somebody growled, deep and primal. He thought it might be him.
How long had he lived without this? Without her? How hungry had he been? So hungry he hadn’t understood its vastness.
Until now.
Blind and hot and hard enough to take her ten times without stopping, he drove her body upward against the wall. Grasped her skirts. Raised them higher. Gave up her mouth to take her throat. God, her scent drove him mad. He hadn’t lied to her about that. She was sunrise over the loch. She was dew upon heather. She was honey and sugar and hot whisky sliding over his tongue. The wanting was like nothing he’d ever known—an inferno. His lungs couldn’t get enough air.
But he would die happy. Gladly. For one. More. Taste.
“Ah, dear God, English,” came her husky plea. “Ye’re burnin’ me alive.”
Yes. He felt his hat tumble away. Felt her fingers clawing at his hair. Felt her legs parting and his fingers sliding and the sleek, hot wetness of ripe, honeyed folds.
Whimpering as she kissed his jaw, his ear, and his brow, she panted harshly and finally threw her head back with a low moan.
Her skin tasted like her bread, soft and sweet and salty and complex. Like clouds formed of lust. Automatically, his fingers worked on stroking the ripe petals between her thighs. If he could, he would bare her breasts. Suckle them while he drove her to ecstasy. But he was busy. Obsessed. With her skin and her wet, swollen—
“What are ye doin’ to me? I’m going to … ah, English. Please. With yer hand. Faster. Dear God. Aye. That’s it.”
His cock shot so hard and tight, he was sure he would come. Right there in her arms, with his fingers strumming and sliding, with her fingers fisting his hair, with her pleasured cries in his ear.
Tightening every muscle—his buttocks and shoulders and thighs and arms—he willed himself not to release. It took everything he had. To let her come for him. To feel her body dance and writhe against his. To feel her delicate nub swell and throb against his fingertips as she cried her euphoria against his neck.
Heaving gasps undulated her body, arching her against him in rhythmic shudders. His arm swept beneath her backside and lifted her, wanting more. More of this victory. For, victory it was. Like nothing he’d ever felt.
Her pleasure. Because of him.
The mere idea of it stretched his skin tight over muscle and bone. He took her lips again while she cradled his jaw and kissed him back, lush and languid. She mewled while her soaked thighs quivered, a little uncertain, a little unsteady in the wake of pleasure.
His sanity returned gradually. First, she stroked his face with tender motions and kissed his jaw softly as she might a man with a fever. The touches soothed him in ways he hadn’t realized he needed. So long he’d gone without her. So long he’d hungered for something he couldn’t find.
But her skin and her breath, her lips and her whispers led him back from the brink.
“English,” she sighed, stroking his brows with her thumbs. She kissed his lips. Softly. Chastely. Then, she caught his gaze and smiled, her eyes as blue as cornflowers dancing in a summer field. “I missed ye more.”
And just like that, his heart broke open. He didn’t know what to say.
He’d wanted her so badly. In time, he’d decided to claim her. Make her his wife. It was sensible. She’d be a good mother. She’d guard their children ferociously and feed him bread regularly and order him about with that fiery mouth. He’d known marrying her was the right choice.