The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,85
worthless donkey!”
He stared at her for long seconds. Slowly, his lips curled again, and his tongue darted out to wet them. His breathing now matched the racing rhythm of hers. His eyes weren’t flat any longer, nor cold. They gleamed with a strange fever. “Arrogant, am I?”
“Aye,” she panted.
“What else?”
“All the things I mentioned. And impatient, besides.”
“Is that so?”
“An impatient arse who doesnae listen when a lass tries to tell him—”
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“—that she’ll happily be his wife if he’ll give her—”
“Because an impatient, arrogant man has no reason to swallow his hunger.”
“—a bluidy minute to say how much she—”
Suddenly, she was bent in half with her belly over his shoulder. He lifted and hauled her four paces to the bed, then tossed her like a bag of tatties onto the mattress. She bounced and oophed.
“Marry me,” he rasped.
She braced herself on her elbows and eyed his naked chest. “I’ve already said aye.” She arched her back. Licked her lips. “Or perhaps ye’re eager to convince me.”
“By God, you drive me mad, Annie Tulloch.” He was unfastening his fall. Staring down at her like some English conqueror and unbuttoning his damned trousers.
She could scarcely believe the turn of events. This wasn’t how she’d pictured things going. Worse, she was so aroused, her skin fairly pulsed.
The muscles of his chest and belly were even more pronounced in the moonlight. The contours of his face remained shadowed, but the muscle in his jaw flexed and flickered.
Her breasts swelled their approval. Her legs slid against the coverlet, and her thighs squeezed against a drumbeat of desire. “Mad for me, are ye, English?” she taunted. “A wee, greedy Scottish lass has ye wound up tight, eh?”
Stripping away the last of his clothing, he ran a hand over his face as though the end of his rope was a frayed memory. With careless, practiced flicks, he found the hem of her skirts and tossed them above her knees. “Yes. And I mean to claim you.”
That rendered her breathless. Her nipples peaked until they cast moonlit silhouettes on lilac silk. Until they ached to be stroked.
“I’m going to marry you. And you’re going to sleep here in my bed. You’re going to cook for me, woman.”
Her voice turned low and husky. “What will I cook, hmm?”
His knee staked a claim on the mattress between her legs. As he crawled over her, she caught a glimpse of his naked cock.
Oh, heavens. Her belly gave a needful squeeze. Her heart kicked faster.
“Bread,” he rasped. “You’ll toast it with butter and feed me pieces with your fingers.”
She licked her lips, glancing to either side of her head where long, muscular arms now braced his body above hers. He hadn’t even touched her yet—not really. Yet she was slick and ready.
“When I’m satisfied with that,” he continued, “I’ll carry you up here and plant my babe in your belly.”
Her entire body shivered with the thrill that burst through her. “Ah, but bairns dinnae simply happen, English. I do believe ruttin’ is required.”
“A lot of it,” he growled. “You said you’d let your husband do as much rutting and touching as he wants.”
“Aye.”
“I bloody well want, Annie.”
She glanced between them at the intimidating proof of his statement. “As do I.”
“So, you’ll marry me. And cook for me. And laugh for me. And let me touch—”
“Aye.”
“—you everywhere. And you’ll never think of letting another man near you. Title or no.”
She reached up and stroked his flickering jaw. “Why would I want another man when I have my bonnie Englishman?”
His arm scooped beneath her back and raised her up into his kiss. While his tongue slid inside to play with hers, she gripped his neck and ground herself against him wherever she could—lips, breasts, hips. Nothing mattered but getting closer.
She didn’t know how he managed it, but between one kiss and the next, he removed her gown. By the third kiss, she was entirely naked, sprawled half beneath and half beside his naked body. How John Huxley knew so much about removing women’s garments, she’d rather not know. All she wanted was him. But giving a man everything without demanding anything in return was a certain path to misery. So, she gripped his thick hair and tugged until he looked her in the eye.