Page 47 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
“Ye told me to do as I please. Iamheedin’ it,” she retorted stubbornly, meeting his gaze.
His lips flattened, a frown creasing his brow. “Ididsay that…”
Clearly, he had forgotten that part.
“Murdoch, I dinnae ken what this is all about,” she continued, “but ye cannae just ignore me one night, then act like a jealous lover the next. If ye dinnae want me to dance with other men, then ask me to dance. If ye dinnae want me… to fulfill the rest of me list with someone else, then help me. But dinnae tell me I cannae do what I want with the time I have left before I lose me freedom. Ye might be the Laird of Clan Moore, but ye’re naemeLaird.”
Murdoch took a step toward her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. “That’s where ye’re wrong, lass. As long as ye’re here, Iamyer Laird. As long as ye’re here, ye’re mine.” He cupped her face in his hand, surprisingly gentle as he brushed his thumb across the apple of her cheek. “And aye, ye can dance with whomever ye please, as long as ye dinnae mind havin’ their blood on yer hands.”
“Ye… ye cannae say things like that!” she gasped.
She opened her mouth to protest again, but his lips stopped her—a fierce kiss that silenced her and claimed her, that reminded her of exactly why she was having trouble imagining anyone else helping her with her list. His other hand cradled her throat, his thumb still stroking the apple of her cheek as he pressed his lips to hers more insistently, demanding that she kissed him back.
She was helpless to refuse, melting into him, kissing him back with equal fervor. She grabbed his shirt as he had grabbed her on the dance floor, her kisses so fierce they were almost angry—furious that he could not make up his mind whether he wished to pull her close or shove her away. And furious with herself for finding a thrill in that unknown, never certain which version she would encounter.
As suddenly as he had kissed her, he broke away, breathing hard in the cold night air. His eyes gleamed with desire, but that was no guarantee that he would not send her back inside.
“Icansay things like that,” he growled. “It’s the truth, after all.”
He took her by the hand and led her deeper into the shadowed gardens, carefully guiding her as they came to a set of stone steps that shimmered with ice. The steps led down to another terrace in the gardens and another beyond that, which was barely more than a crescent of grass dug deep into the earth. In the center of that strange well stood a useless sundial.
A high wall hid what lay ahead, while another wall hid the gardens above and the castle above that. It was a peculiar, semi-circular pit that must have once served a different purpose. It could not have always been ornamental.
Murdoch stopped and brought his hands to Cecilia’s face, bending his head but not kissing her. He stepped forward, urging her to back up until her shoulders bumped against the nearest wall—the one with the next terrace above it.
Cecilia peered up at him, willing him to kiss her again. But this was all part of it—the anticipation.
He brushed his lips against hers in a slow, searing press that sent a delicious shiver to her core. She kissed him back in kind, eager for more, when he stopped again.
His hands settled on her waist, and in a movement as dizzying as their brief reel earlier, he spun her around. She gasped as his fingertips traced her curves, leaving tingling trails up the dip of her waist, before sliding toward the arch of her spine. She shivered as he trailed his fingers up to the nape of her neck, over her shoulders, and down her arms.
He was rougher as he grabbed her wrists and lifted her arms above her head, pressing her hands against the stone wall while he ground himself against her. He did not need to say a word; she understood his command perfectly—she was not to move her hands from where they were, she was not to touch him as she had done before.
“I wonder what forces ye actually worship in that convent of yers,” he purred, his lips finding the curve of her neck. “If I didnae ken any better, I’d say ye were a novice sorceress.”
“That’s heresy, M’Laird,” she breathed, secretly delighted.
“Aye, but what am I goin’ to do with ye?”
“Are ye sayin’ that I’ve bewitched ye, M’Laird?”
His hand slid down her arm and covered her mouth. “Careful with yer words, lass.” He paused. “Dinnae speak again unless ye cannae help it.”
He removed his hand from her mouth, one arm encircling her waist and pulling her harder against his chest. Meanwhile, his free hand closed gently around her throat. He halted there for a moment before his fingertips began to glide downward, skimming over her breasts and the slight swell of her stomach.
Still holding her close, he gathered up her skirts and pinned the fabric between their bodies.
Cecilia could barely breathe, certain of what was about to happen—a welcome repetition of what had happened in the tower. The only disappointment was that there would be nothing new for her to cross off her list.
Experiencing pleasure out in the open…
Thatwould certainly be something new, whether it was on her list or not. Indeed, perhaps a few things needed to be added to her list.
He teased her with his fingertips, caressing the inside of her thighs and toying with the fastenings of her drawers. As he did, she felt his hardness press against her buttocks, the hard flesh straining for her, needing her, yearning for her, with just his kilt and the thin fabric of her undergarments between them.
Loosening the ribbons, he eased his hand inside her drawers… and touched that bundle of nerves that was aching for his touch.
“Would ye have let me man-at-arms do this to ye?” Murdoch whispered as his fingers expertly began to circle that swollen bud, knowing what would delay her release.
