Page 84 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Who was she to argue with a man who loved small breasts? Hers, especially.

She braced both hands on the wall to keep from falling down, such was the state of her jellied knees. At her feet was the list. Another truth out. Businesses she’d supported. Scots whose taxes she’d paid in her father’s name. Not quite underhanded, but suspicious all the same.

Alexander possessed her secrets and he possessed her. She almost didn’t care. She was floating in bliss, a testament to his thorough seduction. And her traitorous heart wasn’t in the mood to give up the sensual government man making studious love to her nipples, one swirl at a time.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Cecelia folded her hand over his. When he looked up, sunlight glinted on blond hair falling in wavy threads over her face.

“You do remember why you’re here, don’t you?” she asked.

“I am looking at her.”

Her thighs shifted seductively against his as if her body mutinied against the words of reason coming out of her mouth.

“What about your bridge of trust?” she asked.

“You meanourbridge of trust?”

Pretty hazel eyes met his, the center a pool of black he could get lost in. This close he could see varying threads of blond in her hair: the shiny golds, buttery yellows, and a smattering of earthy browns.

He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Who needs bridges when we can swim in rivers of lust?”

She giggled against his mouth, the vibration sweet. The Scotswoman breathed life into him in moreways than he could count. Her wanting to share more of her heart and mind was a good thing—but right now?

He nuzzled her cheek. “I only wish to put the bloom back in your cheeks.”

“Oh, you’ve put the bloom in my cheeks.” Her eyes sparkled with erotic mischief. “If we keep this up, the bloom will be mutual.”

Her hand stayed on his, as much an invitation to keep going as it was a reminder of his purpose. If they were to make progress, what they shared would have to be more than skin-deep. She had a point, though he didn’t like it. From the moment Miss MacDonald had threatened to shoot him in the arse, sexual congress was inevitable. Incongruent logic, but there it was. The Scotswoman had a fascinating talent for bending the natural order. Who was he to argue? Anticipation was its own delight, and he was a very, very, very patient man.

He surrendered the cloth and tested the length of a curl falling over her nose.

“No woman has affected me quite like you.”

His delectable, half-naked seductress smiled. “The passion between us will happen.”

“Are you sure?” he asked rather grumpily.

“Absolutely.” She scraped her fingernails across his jaw. “But we both crave a meeting of the minds. We need it, you and I.”

His mouth twisted a testy line.

She raised her shift and slid one arm through the sleeve. “We can’t be ruled by what’s going on in your breeches.”

“What about my breeches?”

“Your cock has turned your placket into an equilateral triangle.”

There was no arguing the evidence. Brown wool stretched to a point, its profile a perfect triangle.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth. “I may be a walking geometry lesson, but you’re the one wearing one earbob.”

To which she touched her ear and laughed. “A fine parry to my thrust, sir, but you will... recover?”

“Other than my ballocks in a knot, I'm fine.” His voice was strained.

“Good. We have the rest of the day, but at the moment, another subject needs our attention first.” Her gaze dropped to the floor and his followed to the much-traveled list.