Page 89 of The Scot Beds His Wife

She tasted like rain and sex. Like the storm bearing down upon them, wild and dangerous.

Dear gods, what was happening to him? He was Lord Thorne, the legendary lover. Sex with him was a blend of practiced, systematic technique and unparalleled performance.

Somehow, with this wee bit of a woman, he felt thrown to the mercy of something he’d promised never again to submit.

Passion.

Raw, unparalleled, unbridled desire. It stormed through him with all the bone-trembling strength of the thunder.

Before he realized what he’d done, he had her on her back on the floor, devouring her with a hunger he’d never before felt. He’d become a frighteningly insatiable beast with teeth and claws and a fathomless wellspring of desire. There was no time to get to the bed. They were going to consummate their marriage here.

Now.

In front of the fire and beneath the storm.

Their skin was still slick and slippery, and her back was only cushioned by the towel and the lamb’s wool rug beneath it.

For a panicked moment, he had the absurd urge to jump to his feet and run. To escape the connection strengthening between them, to flee this surge of terrifying, warm emotion that glowed beneath the fire of his lust.

In the past, he’d have said something cruel and callous. He’d have done something provoking, anything to establish some distance…

But… that would mean he’d have to lift his mouth from hers.

And that just fucking wasn’t going to happen.

In her embrace, he was barraged by sensations he’d not felt in twenty years. Helpless. Pathetic. Sentimental…

Powerful. Passionate. Predatory.

Wanted.

Not simply in the realm of the physical—he’d never been lacking on that score—but something in her eyes called out to him. To his soul. It was as though her gaze pleaded for what her pride would not allow.

She’d wrapped her arms around his neck and her long, long legs around his waist with surprising strength for one so injured. It was his only consolation. That her hunger—her desperation—seemed to match his own.

Their kiss spun out of control, their tongues sparring, their mouths clashing and releasing, only to go at each other from a different angle. He nipped at her lower lip as it slipped along the seam of his and she made a sound that vibrated into his throat, rippled along his spine, and spilled into his already full cock.

For a moment, he feared the worst… That with one moan, she’d unman him.

What kind of woman held such power?

Abruptly, he tore his mouth from hers and rose up on his arms to stare down at her with a wretched sort of bewilderment while he focused on bringing his lust under control, starting with his breath.

She really was nothing special. Right? Her hair wasn’t artfully mussed or curled, but slicked to her head and mostly hidden behind the fluffy towel pooled around her. Her face wasn’t delicate, pale, or painted. Her cheeks never rouged, her hands never softened with creams. Her long body nearly disappeared beneath his.

But those lips, a wide bow that could punish as well asgive pleasure had become the object of his most salacious introspections. He’d counted those freckles in his memories. He swam in the pools of her eyes, like some oasis of warmth in his cold, gray world.

Treacherous heat spilled through him as he gaped down at her, spreading entirely until he felt as though he might immolate.

“What have ye done to me?” he demanded roughly.

Her eyebrow lifted and she glanced around as though a bit baffled. “Nothing, yet… You’ve been doing all the… the doing.” She winced rather adorably at her inability to articulate, and then gave a defeated sigh as she peered up at him with an exhausted sort of sadness permeating the haze of her artless passion. “Am I not… you want I should do more? Is it my turn to make you—”

“Nay, lass.” He put his finger over her mouth. Momentarily wondering just who she’d been with before. This Grant fellow? Had that bastard caused the insecurity that hovered over her features?

No wife ofhiswould feel thus. Not ever. “It’salwaysmy turn.”

She melted under his next kiss, he made certain of it, filling her mouth with warm silk and soft strokes of his tongue. Once again, he drowned in the dizzying rush he experienced in the process. He hoped she didn’t note how his fingers trembled when they shaped to her jaw and followed little droplets of water as they escaped down her neck, fleeing their demise against the warmth of the fire.