McGillivray's Mistress - By Anne McAllister Page 0,53
moved energetically and with purpose. Fiona moved languidly, still feeling the heat of desire. It smoldered as she watched Lachlan’s strong arms digging and pressing and molding the sand, as she admired the hard muscles in his tanned calves and thighs as he crouched and shifted, as she studied the curve of his spine and his broad back and well-defined shoulders.
And the fire sparked to life again every time Lachlan’s eyes met hers.
“Hey, how come I’m doing all the work?” he asked, grinning and flicking the hair off his forehead.
“I’m the contractor,” Fiona told him. “And you don’t mind getting your hands dirty.”
“You don’t either,” he reminded her. “All that clay.”
She remembered her hands in the clay, remembered them sculpting his body. She’d finished that piece finally a few days ago. And she’d done a pretty good job if she did say so herself. Of course, she’d had a lot of inspiration!
Her gaze roved over him now.
“Okay, that’s it! Enough castle.” Lachlan jumped to his feet and, grabbing her hand, ran with her into the water, only letting go when he dove beneath the surface.
On fire now, Fiona ran with him and dove, too.
And when they came up, Lachlan kissed her.
It was a gentle kiss. Asking, not demanding. If it had been demanding, she could have resisted, her defenses would have saved her.
But she had no defense against his gentleness. Against him.
Not any longer. He’d got under her defenses. He’d made her love him.
She kissed him back. She touched him, running her hands over his arms and shoulders and down his hard wet back.
And he touched her.
It was everything Fiona ever dreamed of and more. Her fantasies had been wonderful. Reality was so much more.
The kiss that began as a gentle question within seconds became a demanding conflagration. His hands were learning her curves, making her tremble. Her body was turning to quivering jelly. And Lachlan’s was turning to steel.
And then he lifted her and carried her out of the water up to the blanket on the beach under the palms where he gently laid her down. Then kneeling beside her, he ran his hands over her. She could feel the fine tremor in his fingers and smiled at the knowledge that he was affected, too.
And then there was no more reflection, no more thinking. Only feeling. Only touching.
Her swimsuit vanished. His trunks disappeared. And feverishly she explored his body with her hands, learning through them what the clay had only approximated. When she sculpted, the clay felt alive.
But not like this.
Clay was not hot the way Lachlan was hot. It never grew under her touch, never responded as eagerly as the man did, his muscles tensing, his whole body growing taut, the breath hissing between his teeth.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his desperate fingers learning her slickness, her secrets.
Fiona gasped, then shuddered, her body straining for his. “Now, Lachlan! Now!”
She reached for him, grabbing his hips as he slid hard and full inside her. “Yes,” she said, reveling in it, at the same time sensing that it wasn’t enough.
And then he began to move.
They were too hot, too hungry, too desperate. It couldn’t last.
Didn’t.
It built and built and built. And then it exploded, a fire-ball, Fiona thought. As much as she could muster any thoughts at all.
And yet after, with Lachlan spent and trembling in her arms, she didn’t feel shattered at all. She felt like a piece of her sculpture that had been through the fire of the kiln. Tested. Fired. Finished.
Made whole.
She smiled into his shoulder. She pressed light kisses along the line of his jaw. With her fingers she drew lazy circles on his sun-warmed back, walked them down his spine, over his buttocks. Hard buttocks, she thought, squeezing experimentally.
“You’re asking for trouble,” Lachlan mumbled against her cheek.
“Am I?” Fiona said hopefully, fingers moving.
He rolled off her and laughed, looking younger and happier than she had ever seen him. “Give me a few minutes,” he vowed, “and you’ll find out.”
A few minutes later she found out he was right.
This time when they made love it was with slow, leisurely thoroughness that left them both sated and satisfied—for the moment.
And when they sailed home that evening, with the net and float tucked securely away, Fiona stood at the wheel with Lachlan’s arms around her and marveled at the fact that, sometimes, dreams really did come true.
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS WELL AFTER DARK by the time they got back to the harbor.
Fiona, hugging the net to her chest, watched