Page 62 of Bride of Fire
Bethac? She didn’t think so.
Cicilia? Nay.
She opened her eyes to peer into the shadows and froze as she realized who it was.
Morgan.
They were lying face to face with the babe between them. She didn’t dare move, for fear she’d awaken him. But his hand, resting with brazen possessiveness on her hip, the fingers grazing the skirts over her buttocks, alarmed her.
She couldn’t accuse him of overstepping his bounds. After all, those werehislocks into which she’d so boldly insinuated her fingers.
So she continued to remain still, listening as Miles’ shallow breathing contrasted with the slower exhales of Morgan. His father, she reminded herself.
It wasn’t unpleasant, she decided, lying here with the two Highlanders. There was something calming about their trust. Even Morgan’s palm upon her hip—which she was sure was as unintentional as her hand curled against his stomach—felt reassuring and protective.
In contrast to the oak-hard muscles of his body, the hair crowning Morgan’s head was soft. Curling over his ear, it twined around her fingers like a caress. She closed her eyes again, enjoying its texture.
Miles stirred then, and she stiffened.
He only made a few smacking sounds and a quick sigh, returning immediately to sleep.
But Morgan was roused as well, though he didn’t fully wake. His hand drew her bottom closer. With a satisfied growl, he pressed his hips forward against her fist, which was trapped between the two of them.
To her horror, the back of that fist came into contact with something long and hard and unmistakable beneath his trews.
A shriek stuck in her throat. A hundred courses of action collided in her brain.
She should slap the Highlander for his impertinence.
She should remain still and wait for him to move away.
She should snatch her hand back.
Drive a knee into his ballocks.
Give his hair a good yank.
Feign sleep and roll away from him.
Wake Miles and let his cries awaken his father.
In the end, she did nothing. Holding her breath, she waited to see what would happen next.
She bit her lip as she felt his member pulse reflexively against her hand. But her horror turned quickly to fascination.
His fingers dangled low on her buttocks now. And even though her skirts separated their flesh, she could feel the light heat and pressure of his fingertips, resting there as if he owned her.
Yet as she continued to endure his touch in the darkness, she realized she didn’t feel so much owned as she felt…protected.
It was a heady feeling.
After all, she was in control of the situation. Morgan was as sound asleep as a hibernating bear. Completely vulnerable. At her mercy.
If she chose, she could easily overpower him. Push him off the bed. Run him through with his own dagger.
It was quite an interesting predicament.
Eventually, while he snored on in oblivious innocence, Jenefer grew curious about what it would take to stir him. She liked nothing so much as a good risk. And she couldn’t resist poking this sleeping bear.
