She was lost. Never in her life had she been able to turn away a wounded animal.
Liam Mackenzie was no different. The scars he carried upon his soul were horrid and deep as those on his back. Some of the wounds remained open and bleeding, poisoning his chances at happiness or peace.
What a tragedy they both were. Bruised and beaten by those who were supposed to have loved and protected them. Tossed upon a sea of cruelty, and seeking refuge in this unforgiving world. Seeking sanctuary, but hoping for redemption.
Shivering and impassioned, Mena lifted to her toes, pressing her lips against the hardness of his mouth. This time, her tongue met his with welcoming heat as she dragged her hands down the swells of his chest and around his broad torso to wrap what she could of his big frame in her embrace. Her hands searched for a place to settle, light as moth wings at first, and then stronger as she clutched him to her.
A shudder coursed down his spine as she smoothed her fingers over the powerful stretch of his back. The wide muscles flinched and flexed beneath her touch and he groaned his approval into her mouth. She noted the scars, but only the man beneath them registered to her tantalized senses.
His hunger became a tangible thing, escalating his breath until it heaved against her. Hands were everywhere, cupping her breasts, shaping them as the tips instantly hardened and ached against his palms. Testing them with gentle, insistent pressure, molding until she could no longer think past the sensation gathering there.
A whimper of surprise escaped her as her hips tightened and jerked against a stab of need she’d not even thought herself capable of. Wet and swollen, her body called to him.
And his answered.
Chilly air kissed her ankles as his hands gathered her filmy robe until it parted. His knee gently pressed between her legs as he ravaged her with deep, drugging kisses. His solid weight pinned her in place as her robe gave way and he replaced it with his body.
The marquess swallowed her gasp as she realized his kilt had also ridden up between them, and with one smooth and sinuous movement, he’d split her legs and pressed the flesh of his naked thigh against her exposed sex.
He uttered a curse in a language she didn’t know as he moved against her, replacing her flare of panic with one of pleasure. Suddenly the hard muscle of his leg was also drenched and slick as he undulated again, creating a strange and delicious friction. His shaft pressed against her hip as he rocked against her. She knew he wanted it inside her, that if she opened to him, he’d sink every hot inch as deep as he could.
“Wait,” she said. Or perhaps didn’t say, as he never let up the pressure of his mouth, even as her lips moved. She wanted him to stop. She never wanted him to stop.
Then his hand was there, clever fingers slipping into the wet cleft and touching a place no one had ever before paid attention to. He somehow ignited frenzy into her blood with infuriatingly slow strokes. A curious heat unfolded in her core and quickly caught into a blaze of sensation.
Mena writhed helplessly against him, riding his strong thigh as more heat created more friction, which in turn built the flames even higher. What sort of pagan magic was this? How could hands so rough and raw create such smooth, silken sensations against her most tender skin?
Something was … happening. Her muscles contracted and expanded, her body seemed to open, to prepare, to warn her to brace herself against his strength because she wouldn’t be able to stand against what he was about to do. Her hands groped at his back, then his shoulders, clutching at him, then pushing him away. He ignored her feeble struggles, silently pressing her higher with his leg until she was forced to lean on his limitless strength as her toes seemed to no longer touch the ground. He held her there, suspended on the exquisite edge of a dark and unknown abyss. She could feel it reaching for her, a pulsing oblivion that knew no limit, that gave no quarter and had no end.
All she needed to do was let it take her away.
“Come for me, lass.” He breathed the order against her throat as he trailed his hot lips down the sensitive column of her neck.
And she would have, had his fingers not tangled in her hair. A thrill of fear pierced her with its icy arrow, and leached the heat from her liquid bones.
Gordon used to pull her hair.
He’d used it as a tool of submission, to lock her head where he wanted, to compel her to be still as he forced himself into her mouth. Sometimes her hair would rip from her scalp, and the sound of it would echo through her ears from the inside.
Whatever desolate, frightened sound she made when she wrenched her mouth away from his and turned her head to the side was enough to pull him out of his aroused stupor.
“Please,” she begged in an uneasy whimper. “I can’t.”
She found herself released as abruptly as he’d seized her, and Mena would have fallen if the wall hadn’t caught her.
Ravencroft flung himself to the opposite side of the room, where he braced his hands against the far wall. His head hung below his shoulders as his wide back expanded with panting breaths.
Dazed by a maelstrom of fear, lust, and shame, Mena gripped the sagging folds of her robe and wrapped them back over her inflamed body, belting it closed.
“Forgive me,” he finally said. “I’ve had too much to drink. I wasna thinking.” His voice was thicker than usual, the accent more pronounced. The few seconds of silence between them stretched on for an eternity as Mena desperately groped for the thoughts that had scattered about the darkness of her room like a child’s errant marbles.
“Ye canna go, Mena,” he ordered.
She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Leaving would be safer in some ways, and utterly dangerous in others. Her husband was still out there, searching for her.
But if she stayed …
“Andrew can keep his beast,” he rumbled, pushing from the wall and moving to the broken door.