Chapter Twenty-Five

Jeannie had never before had a man in her bed, had never wanted one. No sane woman should, she told herself fiercely even as she eased her body between the blankets and against Finnan MacAllister’s. Oh, she might have imagined it back in Dumfries, tried to conceive what it would be like. Nothing she had ever imagined compared with this.

And she would defy any woman to keep away. Had she not tried to argue herself out of this while lying in Aggie’s cot up in the loft? As well try to keep wasps from a honey jar.

This particular bed was too small for the both of them. And Finnan MacAllister was not in any way a small man. She found herself lying half on top of him, and the sensation was…

Stunningly wonderful.

Full contact she had from her breasts on down, and she could feel all of him, hard muscle and more.

“I would not hurt your arm—”

“Jeannie,” he breathed and swallowed the rest of her words as his mouth captured hers in a wild demand.

And oh, she had craved this, the heat and sweetness of it, the claiming. His lips molded to hers, and his tongue invaded her, making his desire more than plain. She melted like tallow when the candle is put to flame.

Take me, she begged him in her mind even as his tongue caressed hers intimately and his hands, already moving, spread their heat through her night dress. He should not be using that arm, she thought quite clearly, an instant before all rational thought flew away.

His hand slid from her shoulder downward and, as if in answer to prayer, paused to cup her breast. Fire raced through her from his fingers, a potent conflagration.

He broke the kiss, and his breath whispered over her lips as he spoke her name again. “Jeannie.”

She moaned and gave him little kisses, rained them upon him. She caught his lip between hers and sucked it in. She wanted him inside her so much she could barely breathe.

No one had ever told her a woman could ache for the taste of a man, or for the feel of him hard between her legs. But every part of her cried out for him now.

Following her desire, she let her hands move also, stroked the muscles of his chest, fingers trembling with delight. Daring in her need, she continued to trail her touch downward. He lay more than half undressed, chest bare, stomach bare except for an interesting and tantalizing pattern of hair. Her fingers encountered no barrier until they met with his trews. She explored the laces, her fingers intelligent in the dark, and untied them with an agility she might never have imagined.

He moaned then. Even as she slid her hands around him in a deliberate caress, he made a sound deep in his throat and kissed her once again.

And oh, he felt hot, so hot, the burning brand of desire. Like a woman drunk with delight she slid fingers that seemed suddenly too small for the task up and down the length of him. His whole body jerked in response.

Now she broke the kiss and began to withdraw from him. “I am sorry. Should I not—?”

“Do you not dare stop.” The growl of the words made her shiver. She caressed him still more deliberately, sliding her palm up and down the great, hot length of him.

“What do you want, Jeannie MacWherter?”

Must he ask? It had to be more than plain. A woman did not present herself at a man’s bedside, did not caress him, unless she ached for the act. But for some reason he wished her to say the words.

She would beg, if she must.

“You. I want you.”

“What do you want of me?”

Oh, and he was wicked—wicked—making her admit it. But a sob came from her throat as she caressed him faster. “This.”

“And how do you want it?” His must be the voice of the devil coming out of the darkness.

“Any way you will give yourself to me.”

He moved then, sliding himself beneath her so she fully straddled his hard body. His hands drew the night rail up past her legs, her buttocks, her shoulders. When he pulled it off over her head, her hair tumbled about the both of them.

So now very little lay between them. His trews gaped open, and she could feel him prodding between her thighs. Her bare stomach rested on his, her breasts abraded by the hair on his chest.

Would he enter her now and end this exquisite ache?

But no, for he slid down in the bed, his hands at her waist, and his mouth latched onto her breast.

So intense was the pleasure, Jeannie nearly cried out. Only the knowledge that Aggie would hear her and come running prevented it. What if Aggie brought a light and saw the two of them this way, devoid of covers and shame? Somehow the fear of discovery only heightened her pleasure.

She cradled his head—hair like silk—as his hungry mouth plundered her, and pressed herself closer. The ache between her thighs intensified, and tingling spread throughout her body, like that before a thunderstorm.

“Give yourself to me, Jeannie.” His breath whispered across the damp skin of her breast. “All of you.”

“Take what you will.” Jeannie had never imagined offering all of herself to any man, but he was not just any man. He was a god, hard and vital in the dark.

Slowly, deliberately, he lavished the attentions of his hot mouth on her other breast, until her body thrummed unbearably and she begged, “Please.”

“What more do you want?”

“You!”

“Then taste me.”

Did she dare? Given, the idea had been in her mind almost from the first moment she saw him arise from the pool, every part of him dripping wet. But this act, surely, was more wicked then all the rest.

Still, she parted her lips and let her tongue taste his lips, slide downward from there and taste his chin, and the skin of his throat and then his chest, picturing the tattoos there as she did. He tasted salty and wonderful and so utterly male it nearly cost the last of her senses. She released the idea of right and wrong from her mind and continued to work her way down.

The muscles of his taut stomach trembled beneath her mouth. When she slid still lower and once more curled her fingers around him, he moaned like a man in agony.

Now it was he who said the word, “Please.”

He slid into the hot cavern of her mouth like iron covered with warm satin. She closed her eyes, reveling in the pleasure and power of it as he arched off the bed.

Hers, hers, hers.

Yes, and this act might well be a wicked one. Delightfully so.

He began to move beneath her in a seductive rhythm. The tension in her body built, and her world narrowed to nothing but this man, this joining. When he drew her mouth from him at last and hauled her up, she nearly cried out again. In one swift movement he flipped her beneath him on the bed and entered her in a burst of pleasure that caused the light to explode behind her eyes.

And then they both lay breathing raggedly, his body draped atop hers while the waves of pleasure receded. Not far. She sensed he had only to move in order to send her soaring all over again.

Her mind, reawakening, tried to comprehend what had just happened. Here, in her own bed.

How would she ever be able to sleep here without him?

****

By all the gods of the earth, sea, and sky, what a woman! The thought dominated Finnan’s mind even as the last sparks flew from his inner vision and the soft darkness came down.

Fool, fool, fool.

What voice was that, making itself known now that he could hear it? Moments ago he had not been able to listen. There had been only the pleasure and the desire.

She would have done anything for him. He knew, without question, he had held Jeannie MacWherter in the palm of his hand, right where he wanted her.

Trouble was, she had held him, as well.

And he had made a fatal mistake, spilled his seed inside her where he did not want to leave it.

Och, but the heat and tightness of her after she had her mouth on him proved irresistible. He defied any man to do better.

At the thought of any other man claiming Jeannie, fierce desperation swamped him. Nay, nay, and nay.

His arms tightened around her instinctively, and he kissed the skin of her shoulder where his mouth had come to rest. By all that was holy, he already wanted her again.

She stirred against him and whispered, “Your arm—”

Aye, his arm. He had probably torn all the stitches, and cursed if he cared, though now as the urgency fled it hurt like a bastard.

“I am well enough,” he told her, a mere breath in the darkness. Did she know that he remained still inside her? The very thought had him hard again.

She threaded her fingers through his hair, and he shivered in response. He had not meant it to be this way. He wanted her in thrall to him, not the other way round.

He wanted to break her heart.

He reminded himself of that even as she brushed her lips across his brow in a gesture of such tenderness it made him catch his breath.

“I had best return to the loft.” Yet she lay where she was, and him still inside her.

He fought a brief inner battle and said, “No, stay where you are.”

“But Aggie—”

“I can hear her snoring. She will not wake before morn. And surely”—he lifted his head and traced her lips with his tongue—“I can keep you awake until then.”

“You should rest.”

“Do you suppose that likely if you go from this bed?”

“No.”

“Then stay with me and afford me what relief you can.”

In answer she captured his hand and carried it to her breast. He teased the nipple into a tight bud, which made him lengthen and harden further inside her.

“Jeannie,” he said hoarsely, “will you accept me again?”

She stretched and arched beneath him. “Only try and leave me, my Laird Finnan.”