Page 64 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
“I willnae,” Damien said, amusement stealing back into him. “And thank ye. I thought ye’d put up more of a fight.”
“Well, that’s not how a proper courtship works,” she said. She smiled as he glanced over at her, his eyebrow raised. “What, even Lady Highbrow knows that much.”
“Those fools never saw ye, nae truly,” Damien murmured. “Or they didnae appreciate what they saw—ye were too powerful for them.”
“Powerful?” Helena repeated, as though tasting the word, and Damien felt a bolt of heat rush through him. “I never thought that a man, much less my betrothed, would say such a thing to me—and mean it as a compliment.”
“Well, ye didnae plan on marryin’ a Highlander, did ye?” He leaned in, and her eyes flicked to his lips, which curled into asmile, and then back to his eye. “Ye have too much fire to bear that foolish nickname. I see the dragonness in ye.”
“Do you?” Helena asked. “And you’re not… Well, ‘afraid’ seems silly. But aren’t you put off?”
“Nae at all,” Damien growled, leaning in close enough to kiss her. “Hellfire, love, I want nothin’ more than to set the dragonness free.”
Their breaths mingled, Helena’s eyes fluttered shut, and Damien was about to reach for her, pull her against him, and tease out that fire—but then he stopped himself. He let his lips brush against hers, a whisper of a touch, and then he pulled back.
Helena’s eyes slowly opened, and he fought back a laugh.
“Now, that’s a look worthy of a dragonness,” he teased, and she drew back. “Sorry, Lady Helena. I forgot meself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Convenient.”
“Aye, but I did.” He leaned in again, and Helena straightened, lifting her chin and looking away. Letting his lips hover near her ear, he whispered, “I cannae kiss ye.” She jerked back and turned her gaze to his, her eyes cold. “Well, nae unless ye ask.”
Helena pushed herself up and stood, her skirts fluttering in the breeze, then stared him down. “Ask? So, this not a courtship, but a game?”
Damien stood up too, slow and easy. “A game?”
“Yes, this is another poor jest, and I confess I do not—what are you doing?”
He’d caught her wrists and pulled her toward him. “Hel, ‘tis the furthest thing from a jest or a game. This isnae a lark to me—this is torture,” he rasped. “A game would imply pleasure or fun, nae this intense ache. Ye cannae ken how much I ache for ye, for a glance from ye, never mind how every little touch that leads nowhere tortures me.”
Helena’s breathing was rapid, and she searched his face, her lips slightly parted.
“Ask, I beg ye,” he continued. “Ask me to kiss ye and put me out of his hell that I find meself in every goddamn time ye are near.” He leaned in closer and added in a rough voice, “Nae that it’s any better when ye are far. I have nay respite, love. None.” He paused. “Ask. Me.”
“Please,” she said in a breathless voice. “Kiss me.”
A desperate snarl escaped him as he captured her lips, even as relief filled him, too. A potent mix, where satisfaction stoked hunger. He pressed a hand to her face. Then, he wrapped his other arm around her back and lifted her against him. She wound her arms around his neck and parted her lips, causing him to groan.
Good lass,he groaned inwardly as he tasted her.
He knew it had not been so long since they’d last kissed, but it felt like an age. Too long. When he should be kissing her every day. When she should be within arm’s reach every day.
His hand pushed into her hair, scattering pins, and she made a sound of protest, but he kissed her hard. She went pliant against him, her breasts pressing against his chest, and he could not help it—he ran a hand over her pert bum.
Helena gasped into his mouth, but she did not pull back. Instead, she arched into him, and he smiled, knowing her curiosity was winning.
Aye, let me show ye everythin’ ye are so desperate to ken, lass.
He began to gather her skirt in that hand, slow and methodical, while the hand in her hair drifted down her neck, over her collarbone, and then squeezed a firm breast.
Again, she gasped, that delicious sound that Damien would never get enough of. He was about to lay her down when a whicker carried on the breeze.
He stilled.
Gorgon.
Lifting his head, he tried to shake off the blood pounding through him, to not stare at Helena’s half-lidded eyes or swollen lips—to focus.
