Page 60 of The Highlander's Auctioned Wife
Like at the cove, there was no one around. Surely, he would let her have this gift.
“Aside from the very paper ye’re drawin’ on?” he remarked, a hint of amusement edging through his words. The closest she’d come to coaxing another laugh out of him.
“Think of it as all part of the same gift,” she said with a grin. “I couldnae very well draw ye without paper and charcoal, could I, and ye dinnae tell me I should bring me things with me.”
He expelled a strained sigh, shaking his head as he wandered back to the bank of the stream. He stood there for a moment, his warrior’s physique silhouetted by the sunlight streaming through the thin fabric of his léine, driving Anna’s anticipation to a maddening precipice.
She held her breath as he took hold of that flimsy material, and slowly teased it from the belt of his kilt. Indeed, she couldn’t have breathed even if she’d wanted to, as her hungry eyes glimpsed the first band of bare skin.
He pulled the shirt up as if he knew what a delicious torment it was for her, revealing the muscle of his back bit by astonishing bit.
There were two indents at the base of his spine that her lips itched to kiss, her fingertips longing to run across the taut lines and contours of his waist, his shoulder blades, his back, his arms—dramatically defined by so many years of having to fight, of having to protect his clan.
She noticed the scars, too, cutting across his smooth skin. She wanted to kiss each and every one, to soothe and heal them, years after their creation. Even if they didn’t hurt anymore, sheneededto kiss them better.
“Where do ye want me?” he asked, dropping the léine to the grass.
Everywhere. Right now. I want ye every way ye can have me.
When she didn’t answer, her throat too tight to speak, he turned and glanced down at her, making her situation ten times worse. The front was just as astonishing as the back, if not more so.
His chest looked as if it had been carved by a divine hand, dusted with dark hair; his abdomen was a thing of perfection, his stomach ridged, while deep lines stretched in a diagonal, between the top of those ridges and the underside of his chest—not ribs, but the muscle between them.
Her gaze drifted lower, to the defined indents that cut in from his hips, then cut down… beneath the top edge of his kilt.
“Ye’ve snapped yer charcoal,” he said, with a smirk.
“What?” She looked down, realizing he was right. Half of the stick had broken off in her awestruck trance, now rolling down the page. “Oh… well, fortunately I have more.”
But she didn’t reach to find another, unable to take her eyes off his bulging arms, the cords of his neck, the bulk of his shoulders, the way each muscle tightened and relaxed with his movements.
“I’m… nae used to drawin’ from reality,” she murmured, swallowing. “It’s usually me imagination—me thoughts, rather—pourin’ onto the page.”
“So, ye’re lackin’ inspiration?” He walked back toward her, sinking to his knees. “We should remedy that.”
All she could do was cast aside her drawing materials and nod as he swept her into his arms, his mouth finding hers in a hot, desperate crush… as if he, too, had been restraining his desire until that moment.
She looped her arms around his neck as he pressed her down into the grass, praying he didn’t tell her she couldn’t touch him this time. It would have killed her not to be able to run her hands over that smooth skin and rippling muscle.
Indeed, in anticipation of such a command, she took the chance while she had it, letting her hands wander where they pleased, across his warm skin. And as they kissed, hard and fast and fierce, she cursed her garments for not letting her feel what she wanted to—the sensation of his skin against hers, with nothing between them.
“Oh, Gordon… m e Laird, me betrothed…” she moaned against his mouth, tracing her fingernails across his broad back.
He growled in the back of his throat, his hand sliding down the curve of her waist, gathering the fabric of her skirts upward. Spurred on, she clawed at his back again, sliding her leg over his, bringing him closer.
She gasped as he grazed her neck with his teeth, her head spinning as he shifted his hips, and she felt the hardness of him between her thighs.
That infuriating barrier of fabric still separated them, but as he pulled her skirts higher, she knew it wouldn’t be long until there was no barrier at all. If she tore aside his kilt, gave him permission, then she could find out what other talents her betrothed possessed.
I mustnae. We’re nae married. Nay, nay matter what, I cannae let it get that far. I?—
Gordon froze, lifting his chest up, away from her. He put a finger to his lips, his shining gray eye staring at something she couldn’t see, and didn’t want to. A flicker of annoyance passed across his face, a muscle clenching in his jaw.
Just then, she heard it: the rushing sound of footsteps in the long grass, subtly different to the whisper of the wind through the meadows. Heavier. More deliberate. And paired with the labored breaths of someone struggling to bear the effort and the unexpected heat of the day.
Reaching slowly for a stone, Gordon propelled the projectile away from the willow tree.
Anna heard a startled yelp as it struck its target. A second later, the slow plodding of footsteps transformed into the hurried sweep of someone sprinting back through the meadows, as farfrom Gordon’s angry accuracy as possible. Certainly, before he could reach for another stone.
