Her hot, sleek warmth quivering around him was too much! He couldn’t hold it and stopped trying. Dropping forward, Cian covered her, gathering her back against his hard, muscled chest, and growled close to her ear, “You’re mine, Jessica. Do you ken that? Mine.” He gave her two more powerful pumps of his cock and exploded in hot intense spurts inside her.
The inexplicable feeling of the rightness of him coming inside her, coupled with the pad of his thumb deliciously abrading her orgasm-sensitive clit and his possessive words, kicked Jessi right back into another orgasm. You’re mine, too, Highlander was her last fierce thought, before they slipped down to the floor and dozed for a time beneath the desk in a sated, entwined stupor.
Cian sat on the floor near the fire, leaning his shoulders back against an ottoman, watching Jessica, entranced.
She was sitting cross-legged on a plush lambskin rug before the briskly crackling fire he’d just topped with sheaves of fragrant heather. Her jade eyes were sparkling, her short dark curls were softly tousled, and she had a velvet crimson throw tucked about her hips. She was talking animatedly, gesturing with her hands. And he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, he couldn’t hear a bloody damned word.
She was naked from the waist up and her pretty, high, round breasts quivered and bobbled with each gesture, her rosy nipples gently swayed.
The warm glow of the firelight highlighted chestnut strands in her raven curls he’d not seen before, and kissed her creamy skin with a brush of gold.
It was all he could do to keep his hands off her, but he knew that if he pushed her too far this night, he’d not be able to have her on the morrow, and the next and the next. He had to pace himself with her, though it was killing him. His palms itched with the need to caress her lush, sweet curves, to take her beneath him again and again.
He stretched out his legs and leaned back on his hands, keeping them well behind him, forcing himself to be contented for a time just savoring the exquisite vision before him.
Jessica St. James: half-nude, all woman, and glowing from his bedplay.
He’d known the moment he’d first glimpsed her that it would come to this. That he would have her this way. As certain as his vengeance, she’d been his destiny.
After they’d slipped beneath the desk and drowsed for a time, he’d stirred, roused her, and scooped her into his arms. He’d carried her here, before the fire, laid her back on the plush creamy sheepskin, and made love to her. Slowly, gently, showing her that he was more than a great big territorial brute, that there was tenderness in him too. He wanted her to know all the facets of him: ninth-century war-laird and sorcerer, and simple man and Druid.
They’d drowsed again, then stirred again, and begun talking lazily of small things, lover’s things: favorite colors and seasons, foods, and places and people.
But suddenly her gaze turned serious and she leaned forward. “How did it happen, Cian? How did you end up in the mirror?”
He leaned forward, too, unable to resist the full, soft breasts swaying toward him with her movement. He ran the pad of his finger beneath the lush curve of one beautiful, silken-skinned mound. “Och, woman,” he said softly, “you show me Heaven and ask me to revisit Hell? Not now, sweet Jessica. Now is for us. No grim thoughts. Only us.”
Cupping her breasts with his big hands, he ducked his head and slicked his tongue across one of those rosy nipples before catching it in his mouth with a husky, sensual purr. It hardened instantly against his tongue. He teased it lightly with his teeth, scraping it across the edge, then pressed it with his tongue against his palate, suckling deeply.
“Us,” she repeated breathlessly, clutching his dark head to her.
It was the most incredible night of Jessi’s life. It surpassed all she’d ever imagined that special night would be. It was searing. It was intimate. It was filled with sounds of passion that she was sure must have rung out from the stone walls, echoing sharply down the winding corridors of the vast, ancient castle. It was hushed and conspiratorial. It was raw. It was tender. It was perfection.
He’d taken her wildly, roughly on the desk, calling out to and laying claim upon the kindred wildness within her.
He’d made sweet, painstakingly slow love to her before the fire, cupping her face with his hands, staring into her eyes, caressing her so tenderly and seemingly reverently that she’d had to turn her face away from him to hide an inexplicable burn of tears. As he’d moved, sure and deep inside her, she’d felt as if he’d been making love to her soul.
He’d rolled over onto his back and raised her high above him, muscles bunching and rippling in those powerful, tattooed arms, then lowered her, inch by delicious inch, onto his hard, straining erection.