She moaned and pressed against his fingers.
Fiery bright desire raced through Roman, but he would not hurry. Instead, he slipped his hand downward to cup her warmth in his palm before sliding lower to press his wrist against her heat and caress her bottom. The frilly white of his cuff looked strangely right against her dark, golden curls.
She arched her taut body and shivered violently against his touch. Her hands came up to grasp his jerkin and hold tightly. “Scotsman,” she said, breathing hard.
There was desire in her eyes, hot and eager. But there was also fear. If she called a halt, Roman thought, he was honor-bound to agree.
“Aye, lass?” His voice was husky.
“I would see you naked.”
He exhaled carefully. “If… if ye call me Roman,” he whispered.
“Roman,” she breathed, and, shivering, kissed him.
Fire. Hot and wild and consuming!
It was all Roman could do to untie his jerkin without breaking off the kiss. But she was impatient now and pushed him away far enough to assist his efforts. She pulled the garment off. The shirt beneath was fastened with a row of small bone buttons. They opened with magical quickness beneath her skillful hands.
His chest was bare but for the amulet of teeth. Lying beside one nipple, it made him look all the more fierce and untamable, Tara thought. She skimmed her hands over his chest, unable to resist.
“When I first saw you at the inn you wore this,” she whispered, touching the wolf teeth. “You were naked, and I was the Shadow, there on a mission.” Tentatively, ever so tentatively, she touched the nub of his nipple and felt the muscles underneath coil beneath her hand. “Never have I been so tempted to pull out of a role, to touch…” She swept her palm over his nipple again, and again the muscles beneath her hand jumped. It was a marvelous feeling, full of life and heat. An experience like none other.
“Do you…” She paused, breathing hard and seeming to feel each drop of blood that coursed wildly through her veins. Slowly, she pushed his shirt off one shoulder. It was broad with bone and muscle, powerful and exhilarating. “Do you perhaps feel what I feel?” She searched his eyes, wondering.
His lips were near hers, and his hair, dark as midnight, fell across his bare skin in highlights of black and cinnamon.
“There be lightning in me blood,” he whispered.
She could not help but smile. “Burning,” she said.
“Aye,” he murmured, and kissed her. But she was no longer content to allow things to remain as they were. It was a simple thing to free the laces of his hose. The shirt slid away from his chest. The hose slipped away from his hips, and the codpiece paled beside the power of his erection.
She let her gaze settle on it for a moment, before shifting her eyes away.
Roman pressed the hose lower, but they clung to him as if loath to leave his powerful thighs. He wrestled with them for a moment, pushing them down and finally sitting on the edge of the bed to peel them away.
Tara stared at the broad strength of his back.
“Scars.” She whispered the word, and reaching out, touched a jagged strip beside his well-muscled spine.
He didn’t flinch, but turned slowly toward her.
“You have scars,” she whispered, meeting his gaze.
“From long ago and best forgotten,” he murmured, wrapping her again in his arms.
But she shook her head. “Scars are not forgotten. They are hidden or they are healed.”
“Then heal me, lass,” he whispered, and kissed her.
She leaned back into the mattress. There was excitement, yes. But there was more here. There was depth and feeling, and a man with hands so slow and strong that she felt she could die beneath his caress and not care. What was this wild longing?
His hands roamed her body, smoothing over her breasts, her thighs. His kisses followed, slow and hot and lingering.
He settled between her legs and she welcomed him there, bending her knees, feeling the warmth of his nakedness with gladness. His manhood was rigid and hot between her thighs.
His kisses slipped from her lips, down her throat, and lower until he found the crest of her breast.
She arched against the sizzling sensations. And somehow, like silver magic, he was inside. Both stopped their movement. He seemed as hard as an oaken bough. Every muscle was bunched and controlled, every fiber taut and ready.
She felt his shiver of anticipation and could wait no longer. Tightening, she bucked against him. The hounds of desire were set free. With a groan, he thrust forward.
The portal to Tara’s core ripped free. She felt it give and welcomed the opening, for now he was sunk deep within her and she could wrap herself around him and glory in the wild ride. There was no time for thought. No time for delay. They rode together at a desperate pace, gasping for air and satisfaction.
She filled her fists with his hair and drove against him, reaching for something that demanded attention.
Harder, faster. Muscles writhing, breath rasping.
She felt him grow inside her, felt the bulge of hard need, and then he was pulsing, pushing her over the edge of desire. She heard his groan, saw him arch back his head, and felt the release of her satiety. Her head felt light and her muscles useless. Her hands fell to the mattress.
Roman eased away, then rose to his feet.
So this was sex, what she had waited so long to experience. She smiled ever so softly to herself.
“How dare ye!” Roman said, looming, dark and angry over the bed. “How dare ye be a virgin!”
Chapter 17
“What?” She blinked up at him, naked, sated, confused.
Roman stood with his fists clenched and every fine muscle tight with anger. “How dare ye be a virgin?”
She was tempted to laugh, tempted, but not so foolish.
“You’re …” She pushed the hair out of her face. The amulet swung lazily against his glorious chest. It fascinated her, but she managed to keep from touching it or him. “You’re upset because I was an innocent?”
“Innocent!” He all but snarled the word, then threw up his hands to circle the tiny room and come back to glare at her once more. “Ye are na, nor probably ever were, an innocent.”
“But, I thought you said—”
“Ye lied!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger at her. “Ye lied again, even about…” He waved his hand toward her, as if encompassing her entire being. “Even about that!”
She could not help but smile now, just a mite. “You’re angry.”
He made a sound that reminded her very much of the beast whose teeth he had stolen.
“From the start ye have lied, connived, schemed! But I thought, foolishly, I see, that in this one thing…” He raised a stern forefinger to shake it at her. “In this one thing I thought ye would be honest.”
“How exactly did I lie to you, Scotsman?” she asked. Sitting up, she wrapped her arms about her bent legs to stare at him from a better vantage point. She was naked and cooling, but somehow her nudity failed to bother her. ‘Twas a fact she would have to consider later.
“How?” he rasped. “Ye said ye were a whore.”
“Oh.”
Bending his forefinger into his fist, he paced again. “Usually when a woman says she is a whore, ye can believe her. ‘Tis a fairly certain thing. For if they are apt ta lie, ‘tis usually the opposite they say. But na with thee. Nay! Na with thee. Jesu, I should have known better.”
She watched him pace. Not until this very moment had she noticed how truly beautiful he was. She’d admired his strength, his fitness, his nobility. But now even the slight bend to his nose fascinated her. The way his eyes flashed, how the muscles in his massive thighs flexed when he walked.
He shook his head. Dark hair brushed his shoulders. Scars marred his back. And suddenly she wanted to kiss those aged wounds.
“I should have known ye were na capable of honesty. What a fool I was ta think otherwise. ‘Twas obvious from the start th
at I could na trust ye. ‘Twas—”
” ‘Twas wonderful,” she murmured.
He stopped in his tracks. His breathing ceased. “Lass,” he murmured, but then he shook his head and glared at her again. “Ye’ll na soften me with sweet words. ‘Twas na as if we but shared a fine meal or a …” He tossed up his hand again, as if mere words were not enough to express his anger. “Or a stolen kiss in the wine cellar. I stole…” He closed his eyes and rubbed them. “Hell fire, I stole far more than that!”
“I may know little about the ways of men and women,” she said, still watching him, “but theft is a subject I know a fair bit about. And I would say, what you took ‘twas freely given.”
He lowered his hand to stare at her. “Could it be that ye are so naive that ye dunna realize the significance of this?”
“Significance?”
“I took yer maidenhead!”
“Somehow, I never imagined a man would be upset by such a situation.”
“Well then ye have never imagined me!” he said. The amulet danced as he thumped his bare chest. “Ye think I can simply turn me back on me responsibility?”
Tara drew a steadying breath and reeled herself in from the soft void of contentment. For a moment she had forgotten who he was—the beloved foster son of a laird, a nobleman, wealthy, privileged. But she would not forget again. “So that’s it, is it, Scotsman? You think I am binding you to me?”
His dark brows lowered a bit more over his eyes.
“You think I have tricked you and now plan to force you to pledge your troth?” She forced a laugh, but the effort hurt her chest. To cover the pain, she slipped her feet to the floor and bent to retrieve her garments. “Well, you needn’t worry, for I have no such plans.”
Clothing was strewn everywhere. She rummaged angrily through it. “And I’ll retrieve the necklace as I vowed. You needn’t worry on that account either. This changes nothing. I’ll—” she began, but suddenly, his hand encircled her arm and he jerked her upright. She gasped, peering at him through a veil of golden, misplaced hair.
“Ye’ll not,” he said, glaring into her face.
“What?”
“Ye’ll na go ta Dagger.”
She tried to pull her arm from his grasp, but he held her still, so she glared at him from where she was. “’Tis what I vowed to do, and I will do it. This changes nothing.”
“This changes …” he gritted, then filled his nostrils with air and flexed his jaw, “…everything.”
“Was this not your idea from the first? Twas it not you who insisted that I retrieve the necklace?” she asked. “Or am I going mad?”
He smiled. It was a wolfish sort of grin, beguiling, bewitching. “Yer going mad,” he said.
“Nay!” Forcing her gaze from his face, she finally managed to yank her arm from his grasp. “But ye are making me mad. I vowed to retrieve the necklace, and retrieve it I will.” She tightened her lips and her fists. “Harrington will not create another orphan. Not while it is in my power to change his course.”
“What say ye?” Roman asked.
She swallowed, realizing abruptly what she had said. He was making her lose her focus, reveal her secrets. ‘Twas a thing she could not afford to do. “I said I will fulfill my vow,” she said simply.
“Ye said Harrington would not create another orphan. What did ye mean?”
She shrugged, finally giving up on her search for clothing and tossing the garments angrily to the floor. “He is a noble. Nobles have a knack for making orphans of children. I but guess that he’s no different.”
Roman shook his head. “‘Tis na what ye meant,” he said, taking a step toward her.
“’Tis.” She backed away and scowled up at him.
“‘Tisn’t,” he said, and wrapping his arm about her bare waist pulled her close for a kiss.
The heat of it seared all thought from her mind. Her muscles loosened, and she forgot to breath.
“’Tisn’t,” he said, drawing the kiss to an end. “What did ye mean?”
She stared at him, trying to think, but his body was hard against hers. His abdomen rippled with strength and against her breasts, his chest was packed with tightly sculpted muscles.
Somehow, her arms had found their way about his waist. She bit her lip and tried to reprimand her hands for their downward exploration. But his buttocks were hard and seductive. She cupped her palms over them, skimming lower.
His nostrils flared. Between their bodies, she felt his desire stir to life.
“Scotsman?” she whispered, holding his gaze. “Could you do it again?”
Passion flared in his eyes. He leaned forward. Their lips met, but suddenly, he jerked away.
“Nay!” he said, glaring at her. “Ye are but trying ta distract me again.”
She blinked at him, feeling bereft. “I but asked,” she whispered.
He took a step forward, then shook his head emphatically and stepped back. “Hell fire, woman, ye are driving me ta distraction! Scotsman!” He turned rapidly away to rave at the unoffending wall. “Scotsman! she calls me. She doesna even use me given name. Roman! Me name is Roman!”
“Roman,” she whispered, and, quite suddenly, she pressed up against his back, with her arms round his waist and her breasts hot and firm against him.
He swallowed.
“Roman,” she repeated softly into his ear. “Can you do it again?”
“Nay,” he said, but when her small hand closed around his erection, he shuddered. “Nay, lass, I’ll na do it again. A virgin ye were, and I’ll not be responsible for yer ruination.”
He was sure he felt her smile against his back. “A bit late to worry about that, Scots … Roman,” she whispered.
“Lass…” he rasped. She was doing wicked, wonderful things with her hand, sliding it slowly along the length of his shaft. “Lass, I…”
“I’m no lass,” she said. “’Tis two and twenty, I am.”
“Ye lie,” he managed.
“Aye.” She chuckled. Her breath was soft and warm against his shoulder. “I do that. But not about my age. I have seen better than a score of years and never have I felt the magic that ballads are written about. Not until tonight.”
She tightened her grip slightly. He groaned and let his head fall back a fraction of an inch.
“I would feel the magic again. Now.”
Roman shook his head. It was, without a doubt, one of the hardest things he had ever done. Pride should have spurred through him. But pride was not one of the myriad feelings that coursed through his system. Desire pretty much overrode everything else.
“I’ll na do it again,” he said, eyes still closed, head still inclined back.
“Why?”
Her other hand had joined in the assault. It stroked his thigh, brushing his gonads, burning his system.
“Why?” He rasped the word. If he had the least bit of discipline, even a wee bit, he would move away. Instead, he stood like one in a trance. “Have ye given na thought ta this deed? Do ye na ken what the results might be? What if a babe should be planted within ye? What if one already has?”
“There is no babe,” she whispered.
He forced himself not to turn. He could not make himself move away, but he could manage to remain as he was, and as long as he did that, she was safe from him.
“How do ye know that?” he said, forcing himself to return to the subject.
“You should not assume that I am naive just because I was a virgin,” she said, stroking again. Her other hand had moved up to skim his abdomen. “’Tis not my time to conceive.”
“How do ye ken that?”
“I learn what I can where I can. Some of my best teachers have been of less than sterling repute.”
There was a steady rhythm to her stroking. He swelled and throbbed beneath her hand.
“If I were a lesser man, I’d thank God for the low moral status of yer teachers,” he rasped.
She laughed softly against his shoulder. “If you
were a lesser man, I would not be begging for your favors.”
Her right hand slipped lower to clasp his gonads in a gentle grip.
“Sweet… Mary!” he gasped, going rigid, before forcing himself to relax a smidgen. “Is it… Is it begging ye be, lass?”
“Aye. I am begging.”
“It would be…” The rhythmn of her hands seem to have set the pace of his heart. “It would be unseemly to refuse a lady’s begging,” he said, and, against his better judgment, turned in her arms.
“Aye, it would, Scotsman,” she murmured.
“And yet…” he said, wrapping his arms tightly about her and kissing her with all the passion that roared through his system. “I will refuse.”
“What?” Her lips were red and swollen, her eyes filled with wild desire.
“I will na do it again, lass, unless ye tell me yer true name.” Liam had called her Tara, and it felt right. He called her the same, but suddenly it seemed of utmost importance that she trust him with her full name.
“Tis …” she began, but he cupped her buttocks in his hands and pulled her from her feet. She wrapped her arms about his neck and her legs about his waist, letting these new sensations sear her to the bone. “Betty,” she whispered.
She was wet and open and ready, but he shook his head. “Nay, lass,” he said. “Betty is the barmaid.”
“Fletcher?” she ventured, breathing hard.
“It would be difficult ta convince me that ye are a boy just now,” Roman said, smoothing his hand along the back of her thigh, letting his fingers brush the soft moistness of her. She shivered in his arms.
She opened her mouth again, but he kissed away the lies until they were both breathless and aching.
“Who are ye, lass?” he whispered.
They had formed a steady rhythm, bumping gently against each other, reaching.
“Who I once was is of no import,” she said, breathlessly searching for fullfillment.
Roman scooped her higher, a hand on each buttock as he gritted his teeth and held her off the aching rod of his desire. “‘Tis important ta me, and I will know,” he said.
Highland Wolf (Highland Brides) Page 19
