by Wilde, Lori
Dougal pulled his lips away.
She stared at him with those incredible blue eyes, her pupils dark and wide. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip as if still thirsty for his taste.
He felt it, too, this thirst.
The audience members were on their feet, clapping wildly. “Bravo!”
“Encore.”
“Make use of that bed!”
Roxie blushed, and Dougal recognized that everyone thought the kiss was part of the skit. She turned toward the crowd and took a bow.
Suddenly Dougal was confused. Had she been playing a part? Had Roxie been a plant in the audience? She’d been so quick on her feet with the ad libs. Perhaps it hadn’t been improv after all. What was going on? Was Lucy in on this?
“You were great,” he said.
She beamed. “Thank you. Not too shabby yourself.”
He couldn’t tear his gaze off her, and then overhead, he heard an ominous creaking noise.
“Look out!” someone in the audience shouted.
Dougal glanced up just in time to see that a spotlight had come loose from its mounting. It dangled precariously by an electrical cord, swaying directly over their heads.
The crowd gasped.
Dougal reacted out of pure instinct, pushing Roxie aside just as the heavy spotlight came crashing to the stage.
6
ROXIE LAY SPRAWLED on the floor, Dougal’s big body pressed down on hers, his chest squashing her breasts, his warm breath heating her cheek. His pelvis was flush against hers, and he’d brought his arms up around her head to protect her.
Her heart thundered—from danger, from fear, from this man’s proximity. Her ears rang. Her head spun. Her womb tightened reflexively. Disoriented both by lack of oxygen and his compelling, masculine scent, she simply stared up into his mesmerizing dark eyes.
What had just happened?
Why had Dougal knocked her to the stage?
She was vaguely aware of people converging on them, talking, letting out exclamations of surprise and asking questions, but all her focus was on him.
“Roxie,” he whispered huskily, “are you okay?”
Lines of concern etched his forehead, pulled his angular mouth downward. Bits of broken glass glinted in his hair, clung to his beard. She frowned, still trying to piece together what had happened, still trying to make sense of the raging sexual awareness heightening her senses.
He rolled off her then, and air rushed into her lungs. He reached down to help her up. Once on her feet, Roxie’s gaze shifted from Dougal to the twisted metal and shattered glass that was once the overhead spotlight. Reality hit her all at once.
“We could have been…ki-killed,” she stammered.
“We weren’t.”
“You saved my life.”
“Saved mine, too.” He grinned humbly and shook his head to dislodge the glass. The simple action shouldn’t have been sensual, but the way he raked his fingers through the chocolaty strands, mussing it with his thick fingers, captivated her.
And the way his shirt gaped open, revealing his honed chest muscles and a sprinkling of dark chest hairs, sent a sharp spike of pure physical longing jettisoning straight to her sex.
Roxie blinked. What was wrong with her? She’d almost been obliterated by a falling spotlight and all she could think about was how utterly delicious Dougal looked. She didn’t have much time to consider her question because security and maintenance personnel appeared to assess the situation, while Lucy Kenyon and other staff members rounded up the guests and ushered them out of the dining room.
“You’re trembling,” Dougal said.
“Am I?” Surprised, Roxie realized her hands were quivering.
“Shock,” he said. “Spent adrenaline.”
Ah, maybe that could explain her inappropriately sexual thoughts. Chemistry, a hormonal response to stress.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back to your cottage.”
The moonlit walk across the cobblestone path deepened the odd spell she seemed to be under. The air was damp but sweet with the smell of springtime flowers, and a tinkling of flute music flowed through speakers placed strategically about the grounds. Dougal held her hand the entire way, only letting go when they reached the bungalow where she was staying.
“Here we are,” he said.
“Here we are,” she echoed.
“That was fun tonight,” he said. “The skit I mean, not almost getting beaned by the spotlight.”
“That was pretty amazing, how we got a rhythm going.”
“Like great sex.”
Why had he said that? Now all she could think was sex, sex, sex. Inhaling sharply, she met his gaze and got totally sucked in by those fascinating brown orbs. As she watched, his mercurial eyes changed from sweet milk chocolate to pure smoldering cocoa, the color a tantalizing complement to his ebony lashes and rich, dark brows.
His full lips quirked up at the corners as he shot her what she was quickly starting to recognize as a “come sin” grin. He might appear cool and controlled, but beneath that detached exterior she detected a current of something hot and taut and wild. The man was pure energy, raw and alive.
She was seriously screwed. With a sinking sensation she realized just how much she wanted him to kiss her.
He stood there, his hand at her waist, wearing the sexiest damn smile she had ever seen. How easy it would be to drag him into her cottage and make love to him. How easy and yet how utterly scary. She shouldn’t. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
Dougal moistened his mouth.
Roxie flicked out the tip of her tongue to wet her own lips.
He lowered his head.
Her heart jumped into her throat. His face was so close she could almost feel the brush of his beard against her cheek. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
He pressed his mouth to her ear. She closed her eyes and leaned into him. Her body tensed…waiting, wanting, willing.
Dougal sucked in an audible breath. She tipped up her head. The look on his face was so feral, so hungry, as if it was all he could do to control his sexual urges. Her hands started quivering all over again. Did she really hold that much sexual power over him?
“Shakespeare,” she whispered.
“Muse,” he said, playing into her fantasy.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he pulled her close, nestling her into the curve of his body. She felt the determined poke of his penis through his leather breeches, but he made no move to take things further. He was long, thick and hard, no secrets on that score. She thought of them both naked, imagined him inside her, filling her up. They stood on the stoop, swaying together in the breeze.
She tried to deny the desire pushing up through her, closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate on something other than the need knotting her entire body, but it was impossible.
They breathed in tandem, but Dougal did not make a move on her.
What in the hell was wrong with the man? How was he staying so controlled? And the more restraint he showed, the more desperately she wanted him.
She thought about all she’d missed out on in life. Fun, a good time, casual dating, casual sex. Suddenly she wanted to experience it all. Now. With Dougal. She was in England, at a hot, sexy, romantic resort. There was nothing stopping her from just enjoying good sex for good sex’s sake.
Do it. Sleep with this man. You know you want to. It doesn’t have to mean happily ever after, just happily right now.
She felt a racy sense of exuberance, of glorious feminine power. Like a moth on the wind, carried by the swell of pheromones, she let herself be swept away and did something she’d never done before.
She pulled out her best acting skills, pretending to be a saucy serving wench from the sixteenth century.
Roxie kissed him.
DOUGAL SHOULD HAVE BROKEN the kiss, pushed her away, fought his Neanderthal impulses, which were urging him to kick down the door an
d drag her into the cottage and have his way with her. He’d come here to make sure she was okay and he was trying to sort out in his mind whether the falling spotlight had been accidental or intentional.
But the fact that she—little Miss Innocence—had kissed him destroyed his capacity to think straight.
He took the kiss to a whole new level, dragged her tight against him, plundering her mouth with his, drinking her in. His head spun, his heart pounded. Some security expert he was turning out to be. He didn’t even remember where he was, much less why he was here. All he knew was that he had to have more of Roxie.
His hand had a mind of its own, slipping down to cup her tight, round bottom. His cock strained against his fly. Flexing, he curled his fingers into the soft, willing flesh of her buttocks. He heard her quick intake of breath, and he couldn’t believe what he was doing, squeezing her so possessively.
You’re out of line.
But he couldn’t stop kissing her or touching her. She was even tastier than in his fantasies. Her mouth was hot and moist and so was his. He kneaded her bottom and she trembled against him.
The air vibrated between them. The erotic promise buried in their kiss made him shudder. The push of her rose-petal lips disoriented him. His tongue traced the form and curve of her mouth. Supped from the delightful swell of her lower lip, the sculpted bow of the upper, explored the textured velvet of her mouth.
His need for her went beyond all reason. He’d never felt anything like this. He should escape while he could, but then she pulled her lips from his and whispered, “Would thee like to come inside, Shakespeare?”
No, no, say no.
But his stupid tongue did not obey. She was pulling him headlong into her fantasy. What he said was, “Forsooth, there is nothing I would enjoy more, Mistress Muse.”
She unlocked the door, flicked on the light, drew him inside the room with her. The door snapped closed behind them.
Blood pumped through his veins at a crazy rhythm. She tipped her head coyly, smiled at him. The shy girl was back, all sweet and demure. Which one was the real Roxie? The exciting temptress who’d just kissed him, or this reticent young woman who looked as if she’d scared herself with her bold moves.
“You can change your mind,” he said. “I should back out. This isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done—”
“Shh,” she interrupted, “stay in character, don’t ruin the spell.” Then she captured his mouth with hers again.
That was all it took. Testosterone surged through his body. His muscles tightened. His hands roved over the lush curve of her body, and he dipped his head to kiss her again. If she was in the mood for acting, then he was eager to comply. Whatever turned her on.
Wait, stop, you can’t do this. Remember the morality clause you signed.
The words battered at the back of his hormone-laced brain, but they sounded very far away, like a cell phone call from a tunnel—his sensible side snuffed out by instinct and molten desire.
This was so unlike him, losing control, losing his head. And yet he couldn’t deny the power of this attraction. It was nonsensical and scary as hell, but it was too real to deny. His muscles ached. His skin burned. His cock throbbed.
If he didn’t get her into bed, he felt as if he just might die from the wanting, the craving, the hunger.
She gently bit his bottom lip and he almost groaned. Not because she’d hurt him, but because her boldness and his stark need blindsided him. Had he ever in his life been this turned on?
Beyond all reason, he had to have her.
WALKING INTO THE COTTAGE was like stepping back in time over four hundred years into a medieval love nest designed to stoke the senses.
Gorgeous velvet and damask tapestries, replicas of the Renaissance era, adorned the walls. The heavy mahogany sofa and chairs were padded and upholstered in rich, dark leather. The colors were equally strong and luxurious—crimson, gold, indigo, salmon. The gas-powered fireplace, complete with a sixteenth-century-style inglenook, had been lit. Apparently it was part of the turning-down service because a basket of goodies wrapped in red cellophane lay on the trestle table in the kitchenette.
Not that Roxie really noticed. She was too hung up on the raw sexual energy rolling off Shakespeare and zapping into her.
She wasn’t sure why she was doing what she was doing. She’d never had a one-night stand or even a weekend fling, but this felt too right to be wrong. She only knew she had to have him. For once in her life, she was going with the flow and would float wherever the current carried her.
Of course, the current rolling off Dougal was more like a tidal wave, but instead of feeling scared as she normally would have, she felt wildly intrigued and uncharacteristically daring.
His hands were all over her body, but more than that, she was all over him. Kisses landed in various places, lips, noses, foreheads, chins. They pulled at each other’s clothing, eager to get naked. She plucked at the buttons of his shirt; his fingers searched for the zipper of her frock. In a clumsy tango of entangled limbs, they stumbled from the sitting room into the bedroom.
They tumbled onto the solid oak, ornately carved four-poster bed sporting an elaborate canopy draped with more opulent fabrics. The linens had been turned down, and foil-wrapped chocolates rested on the pillows along with packets of condoms. Clearly they didn’t call the resort Eros for nothing.
She was on her back, her skirt hiked up to her waist. Her sex was already slick for him.
The subtle sconce lighting cast his face in shadows. He looked savage, primitive. His cheekbones appeared razor sharp, his lips full and foreboding and his chin firm beneath the perfectly trimmed beard. This man was a stranger, but instead of being frightened, she was highly aroused. Her nipples pebbled, womb contracted, every nerve ending taking note of this very masculine male.
He didn’t move, just stood there looking down at her until she suddenly felt self-conscious. She reached up to pull her skirt down over her thighs, but he restrained her.
“No, do not hide, milady.” Dougal shook his head. “Your beauty outshines the sun. My eyes long to feast upon you.”
Roxie’s cheeks heated. She’d never felt particularly attractive. She had a crooked front tooth and her forehead was too short and her skin was too pale, and those extra five pounds she lugged around and couldn’t seem to lose converged into a round little pooch at her belly.
But the look in his eyes made her feel beautiful, and the way he was speaking—as if he actually were Shakespeare—shoved her libido into overdrive.
“There is none so lovely as you,” he murmured, and ran his palm up her calf to her knee.
She pressed her knees together, wanting him desperately, but suddenly afraid she was going to disappoint him.
He paused, held her gaze. “Your hair is the color of ink, so dark and mysterious against your creamy skin. And the way you move—soft as a sigh.” His hand slipped higher, a coaxing finger circling her kneecap.
Every muscle in her body tensed, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning.
His fingers kept tickling, exploring, teasing. She let her knees drop outward, giving him easier access. He made a noise of satisfaction and massaged the back of her knee.
He must have hit some kind of trigger point because a sizzling red-hot wire of glorious sensation shot from her knee straight up into her clenched womb. Reflexively her hips arched up off the mattress.
What a feeling!
A desperate, keening cry slipped past her lips. Tossed like an airplane on a sudden updraft, she fisted her hands, gathering up handfuls of the brocade bedspread. His hand trailed farther up her right leg, his fingers gliding over her left.
He took her by the waist and moved her into the middle of the bed and then he was there beside her, spreading her legs apart, dipping his head, touching her with his lips, his tongue a torturous taskmaster. He inched his mouth from her ankles to her calf to her kneecap, commanding her to moan and squirm and beg.
He finished slipping off her costume, leaving her wearing only her panties and camisole and slowly stroked her bare midriff. His fingers brushed against her navel, enlivening things even more. He went back to kiss her leg, moving up her thigh. One hand was teasing her navel, the other hand rubbing the back of her kneecap.
Roxie was in turmoil. Helplessly she quivered in his arms. “My lord, this is not fair to thee.”
“To what does my lady refer?”
“You are still cloaked while I am laid bare.” She surprised herself by saying, “’Tis time for me to see your naked skin.”
“These damnable boots,” he muttered, and went to work on getting them unlaced. He stood up, kicked them off, and the boots were quickly followed by his pants.
They were left in their underwear, aware of nothing but each other, the sounds of their hungry gasps raspy in the darkened room.
Roxie hadn’t seen very many naked men in real life. Her two boyfriends and that was it. And neither John nor Marcus could compare with the man in front of her. In a word, Dougal Lockhart was beefcake. Big and thick and well, just…amazing.
Looking at him made her want to do things she’d never done before. Bold things. Exciting things. Wild and adventuresome things. A dozen different emotions pelted her at once—titillation, eagerness, curiosity, giddiness, hope. Sensory input overwhelmed her—the sound of Dougal’s ragged breathing, the heat of his flesh against hers, the scrape of his beard as he claimed her mouth in another kiss.
A maelstrom of wicked delight swept her away; a rushing river of passion surging high, increasing the sexual drive that had been building since their encounter on the plane. He tasted rich and tangy like some spicy, exotic dish. She hungered for more. The tender slide of his palms underneath her breasts as he made her camisole disappear became an urgent quest to increase her pleasure.
Roxie’s nipples were rock hard, her breasts swollen and achy. She was dripping for him, juicy and ready.
