Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,27

In spite of the passion smoldering in his eyes and the heat of her own longing, despite the memory of his lips against hers and masculine strength of his body, she should push him away and flee.

She didn’t. She couldn’t.

She stepped closer, yielding to her desire as she raised herself on her toes and lifted her face for his kiss. Her fingers stopped clutching the cloth of his jacket to lie flat against his rapidly rising and falling chest.

This time, it was no gentle, seeking, tender brushing of lips. The moment their mouths met, it was as if they were torches bursting into flame, to be consumed completely.

With a low moan of surrender, she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her body against his. She forgot everything and everybody, where she was, who he was. She was aware only of the need to be in this man’s arms, to taste his kiss and feel the caress of his hands.

And caress her he did with his free hand as, with the other arm around her, he guided her back until she was against the wall of the bakery. While his tongue thrust into her open and willing mouth, he stroked her cheek, her shoulder, her arm. Her ribs and, finally, her breast.

She groaned at the pleasure his touch aroused, the sound muffled by his mouth. He braced himself with his left hand against the wall, and his right hand continued to entice her to new heights of need, his lips and tongue promising yet more excitement.

She, too, stroked and caressed, her passionate fervor growing as she ran her hands over the powerful muscles of his arms and back and shoulders. Emboldened by the craving rushing through her, she slipped her hand inside his vest to feel the heat of his skin through his linen shirt.

One of the shirt buttons gave way, and she instinctively slid her hand inside to glide over his naked chest, the hairs around his nipple coarse compared to the silk of his skin.

With greater urgency he angled himself closer, his knee sliding between hers, the hardness of his limb at the junction of her thighs increasing the already-ardent demand within her.

His lips slipped from her mouth, moving down the throbbing pulse of her neck. Panting, she arched and pushed her body against his thigh. His hand went to her breast again, kneading, as his mouth glided toward her collarbone and the edge of her bodice.

He tugged her forward against his half-raised thigh, pushing and almost instantly releasing. She had no idea why he did that, only that she didn’t want him to stop. The pressure was too exhilarating, while a tension of a sort she had never experienced before began to build.

He cradled her breast with his free hand, whisking the pad of his thumb across the tip of her bodice where her nipple pebbled beneath the fabric. Again he pulled her forward against the hard strength of his thigh. Then she pushed against him herself, over and over, as the thrilling, breathtaking tension built and built.

Then the tension shattered, like a pane of brittle glass. He muffled her cries of release by covering her mouth with his, in another searing kiss.

She had no words, no real thoughts beyond amazement, too shocked and benumbed by what had just happened to utter a sound.

Chapter Eight

As Moira stared at Gordon, her face flushed, her eyes wide with dazed incredulity, guilt overwhelmed his unsatisfied need.

What had he done?

How could he have been so weak? Shown so little judgment?

He should not have given in to the impulses that coursed through him whenever he was with her, especially when he was helping Robbie to sue her.

“Moira,” he began, although he had no idea what he was going to say, whether to try to explain, or apologize.

Her expression changed to one of stark horror, as if he’d tried to murder her. She shook her head and held up her hand to ward him off. “No,” she whispered, “no, no, no! I’ve never…not with anyone…!”

She’d never and not with anyone…what? She’d never been so intimate with a man, a thought that both thrilled and relieved him, or been so weak, a dismay he shared?

Before he could ask, before he could try to explain or attempt to excuse his actions—although there could be no real explanation beyond pure, unadulterated desire, of a sort he hadn’t felt since…of a sort he had never felt—she pushed her way past him and ran out of the lane.

He