Page 107 of The Scot Who Loved Me

Pleasure peaked, shuddering her, ripping a hoarse cry. Sweat heated her skin. Her pink nub pulsed against Will’s finger. He circled slowly, slowly as if to coil her into a neat circle of stillness. As if he could control her...right there.

But that storm brought another one with it. Hot pressure, deeper inside. More tender, commanding. Another need that refused to go away. Will sensed it.

He fumbled with her bodice. She fumbled with his placket. It would be an honest joining of two ragged hearts with hungry bodies.

Will grinned when her nipple popped out above green silk. He suckled it with the same teasing relish she suckled his earlobe.

“Oh... Yes. Like that,” she murmured, hooking a leg over his hip.

They lay on their sides and no one, not all the king’s men would stop their joining.

She thrust her breasts at Will. He got the message—he was rather good at unspoken messages—and he freed her second nipple too. The suckling was divine and teasing and ticklish. It was only fair that she free his cock—his tackle, as he called it—and put it inside her.

Theywerelong overdue.

They pressed close, his cock nudging slippery flesh between her legs. She rolled onto her back, sinuous and ready. Will rolled with her, his mouth a wreath of satisfaction. Her legs were up, her skirts bunched, his placket open. With the tip of his cock, Will drew a line through her cleft.

The obedient skin parted for him.

His entry shocked them both. So needful, so carnal. So freeing.

“Oh... Will,” she cried.

Will slid home, gasping for breath.

He looked into her eyes and rocked inside her again and again and again.

It was a naked connection, gazing into his eyes. Their flesh joined, their bodies as one.

This was love, life, a renewing. Until something hotter, a new tormenting fuse burned, needing to meet its end. They found their pleasure again with Will inside her this time. Years of denial obliterated in hot, melting sweetness. His seed met hers.

In their sticky, hot-skinned joining on Will’s kilt, something new and better was born.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Anne woke in the dark, a hand over her mouth. Terror fluttered in her chest. Will’s face loomed inches from hers. He set a finger to his mouth, an order of silence. She obeyed, catching the rustling and rummaging of men below. Their voices were not inclined to quiet and their manner not inclined to friendliness.

“There’s nothing ’ere,” the first voice whined. Higher pitched and petulant.

A barrel was kicked.

“We were told to search Neville Warehouse and that’s what we’ll do, mate.” This voice was smoother, boasting of an education.

Lamps swung on squeaky hinges. Footfalls scampered, albeit slower for the middle of the night.

“We should go back to the woman’s house. Give it another look-see.” The whiney voice. Another kick to a barrel. A lid opened and clamped shut.

Will peeked through a crack in her counting house wall and held up three fingers, then four.

Four men in the warehouse? The countessmust’ve checked her Wilkes Lock cabinet. Dread cloaked Anne. The diversionary Spruce Prigs, while a fine idea, must have stoked Lady Denton’s ire. The woman was out for blood if she sent men to ransack Anne’s house. She yanked up her bodice, glad Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora were not as wayward as Cecelia. They had the good sense to leave the City.

The men rummaged through crates, their lights dancing in pitch black below. Will had extinguished their lamp before they settled into sleep. She lifted her satchel, her heel bumping the wall. She froze.

“What was that?” A new voice, deeper than the others. The third man.

“It’s probably a mouse or a rat. This is a wharf after all.” The second man with the smooth voice.

“It’s London. Rats are everywhere.”