Page 20 of His Wicked Highland Ways

Steady on , Finnan MacAllister told himself even as he tasted the sweetness of Jeannie MacWherter’s flesh. You do not want to abandon the target here, nor lose your head.

But he knew he had quite possibly already lost his head, at the precise moment she loosened the fabric of her bodice. Beautiful she was, and he could not ever remember being so hard.

Still, this was a boon to his plans. No question he had her on a string; this proved it. He had not expected her to offer herself so soon.

And now the night sang its song all around him, the rowans—enchanted trees—lent their blessing overhead. He had Jeannie MacWherter in his arms, and a right fine armful she made, too.

He parted his lips to take more of her into his mouth, let his tongue swirl around her nipple—the hardened pebble of it made a delectable friction—and suckled deeply. He felt her tremble and then, distinctly, take flame.

As easily as that, she was his. The wanton baggage—she had no doubt given herself to countless men in the past.

Then why not Geordie? The question appeared unbidden in his mind. Was it because Geordie was a highlander, and foreign to her? But so was he, Finnan, yet she clung to him as if she might never let go.

She moaned in wordless protest when he released her breast, and he let her hang there wanting it while his eyes feasted on her, even as his mouth had. His desire raised another notch.

By all the spirits of the fire and air, she was lovely to look upon, and even better to taste. Her breasts, full, round, and high, made a potent temptation. The skin of her throat shone in smooth perfection, and her eyes…

They reached for and beseeched him with a look such as he had never seen.

Slowly and deliberately, he reached up and put his fingers through the soft, silken mass of her hair, found the pins, and let the locks fall one by one. They whispered against her bare shoulders, and he leaned forward to taste the place where curls met flesh.

Aye, and he could lose himself in this woman, right enough. He closed his eyes, savoring the flavor of her skin, but those tight nipples below made far too tempting a lure. He slid his tongue down and latched on again.

“Finnan,” she breathed, and her hands came up to cradle his head, to urge him closer. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her touch like fire.

Aye, and he wanted to feel her beneath him, willing, hot, and pleading. He sank to his knees, taking her with him, and laid her down in the soft grass.

The rest would be easy as cutting butter with a hot knife, he told himself. But he wanted to relish this. And he wanted her thinking of Geordie when he entered her.

Without taking his mouth from her breast, he reached down and slid his hand beneath her skirt, traced a path up along her leg. Her heat increased as he moved upward—the gods bless her, she wore only a thin pair of bloomers, no real barrier to his invasion. He let his fingers brush her curls and felt her reaction all through her body.

He released her nipple, kissed a trail to her lips and said, “You have only to tell me ‘no,’ Jeannie. I will take nothing you are not willing to give.”

She whimpered like a distressed child. The little trollop, did she even have the ability to say no? And if she did, could he stop now?

But she failed to utter the word, and he let his fingers brush her intense warmth more closely. Wet for him she was, and ready.

He had the sudden, overwhelming desire to plunder her first with his tongue, but that would come later, when she was utterly and completely his.

“Ask me, Jeannie,” he bade her. “You must ask.”

Instead, she reached for his mouth, captured it, and wooed his tongue until it entered her mouth again. At the same moment, she parted her legs just enough to let him inside.

Ah, so that was the way of it. Nothing loathe, he thrust a finger into her slick heat, testing the waters. A helpless sound came up from her throat and into him.

Aye, he had her where he wanted her now. He had only to make her remember Geordie, and complete the deed.

But he could barely think straight with her so hot and soft beneath him, and with the ache of his own need.

Her back against the grass, and her mouth still clinging to his, she helped him as best she might while he removed her bloomers. Her skirt was now bunched up around her waist, and he hastily thrust his kilt to one side. He could feel her heart beating an accelerated pace all through her body and into his.

He released her lips and reared above her to admire the picture she made spread there on the ground, hair and skirts all about her, to imprint it on his mind so he would never forget. He palmed one of her breasts and said, “Are you certain you want this, Jeannie? Do you want me to stop? I would do nought to violate Geordie’s memory.”

Her expression went blank. Aye, Finnan thought bitterly, and she barely remembered her husband. His anger flared, but it did not make him want her any less.

“Ask me, Jeannie,” he insisted in a whisper. “You must ask for it.”

On fire as she was, he expected her to implore. Instead she lifted her chin and said in a voice that quivered, “You are a wicked man, Finnan MacAllister—a wicked highlander.”

Aye, he was, and unrepentant.

“But I want you.” She added deliberately, “I want this.”

A wave of savage satisfaction tore through him, so tangled with need he could barely distinguish it. She had used Geordie and, aye, he would use her as she deserved.

He positioned his weight between her thighs, and she arched into him. She twined her arms about his neck even as he came down on her, her entire body a ready welcome. He slid into her as perfectly as if she had been made for him, and the shocking pleasure of it possessed him so completely he almost missed what else he felt—the slight resistance of a woman being plucked.

For the first time.

Astonishment gripped him, nearly as complete as his pleasure. But he could not gainsay it: Jeannie MacWherter had been a virgin when he entered her.

But how could that be? Aye, well, he knew Geordie had not had her, but such a scheming, calculating wanton must have made her way through a score of men.

Still he caught himself, held the impulse that bade him pound into her, and moved softly instead, giving her time to accept the length and heft of him. When she sighed and relaxed in his arms, when her legs reached up and clung to him, only then did he flex and begin to move inside her in a gentle rhythm that required all his will.

His mind still reeled from the surprise of it, but need rode him far too hard now to allow contemplation. Everything about her drew him to her like iron to a lodestone. He felt her wild response when the friction their bodies made reignited her, and her heat roared at him out of the darkness.

Consumed him.

Nay, not quite. He retained enough sanity to let him withdraw at the last instant and spill his seed on the ground. He wanted revenge, not a permanent tie to her.

That for you, Geordie . But he lied: what he had just done, he had done for himself. How deny it when he still held her, more than half naked, in his arms? And aye, she quivered against him, clearly flicked by the last echoes of those flames as by a whip.

And what to say to her now? That he had just used her, that she—and the act—meant nothing more to him than relieving himself? He wanted her to feel Geordie’s pain.

But nay, that meant taking her body was not enough. He must break her heart.