Page 52 of Laird of Steel
Once the pitcher was safe, he seized his besom and kicked hers out of reach. Then he began sweeping at the ground before her. He brushed the hem of her skirts, forcing her back with a gaze full of amusement and dark promise.
“I don’t believe in draws,” he said.
“Ye cheated,” she squeaked, retreating as the bristles grazed her toes.
“Cheated? Ha!” He laughed. “You’re a fine fraud, callingmea cheat.”
Inch by inch, he advanced with wide arcs of the besom.
She danced back to avoid the ashy bristles.
“We really have no time for this,” she protested.
“You should have thought of that when you started this fight.”
“Me?” Her wide blue eyes were anything but innocent.
“Fine,” he said with a smile. “I’ll hurry it up.”
He swept furiously at her feet, forcing her to make a hasty retreat. Finally her back hit the plaster wall. He raised the handle of the besom sideways under her chin. Against her throat. Trapping her.
“I win.”
Merraid narrowed her gaze.
Just because Gellir declared victory didn’t mean it was true.
She had several options.
She could punch beneath his ribs and leave him breathless.
She could chop sharply at the ends of the besom and duck away.
She could drive her knee into his groin.
But what she most wanted to do was stand there in his power as he grinned down at her in triumph.
He was too close for decency. But she didn’t want him to move.
Here she could feel the warm breath of exhilarating combat on her face. Share the glimmer of heady delight in his eyes. Hear the low chuckle of victory rumbling in his chest. Inhale the intoxicating scent of him—all clean sweat and worn leather and ash.
Beneath the wooden staff pressed against her throat, her pulse throbbed. Her blood—warmed by battle and laughter—surged in her veins. Her eyes grew wet with desire. Heavy with passion. Her breath slowed. Deepened. Stopped.
Then she made the mistake of lowering her gaze to his mouth.
A smile lurked at the corners of his lips. His straight, wide, inviting lips. Where they parted, she could glimpse the moist mystery within.
She could no more resist tasting him than she could pass by a luscious blackberry hanging ripe on a vine. She slipped her tongue between her lips, imagining the sweetness.
His eyes dipped to her mouth then. What he saw made his nostrils flare with the same yearning.
He hesitated only briefly. Then he eased forward. Closed his eyes. Slanted his mouth across hers in the gentlest, most tentative of kisses.
She dared not move. Like a blossom offered to a bee, she feared the slightest shiver, lest she frighten him away.
But soon his feather-light caresses tempted her to answer. She moved her mouth beneath his. Savoring the yielding softness of his lips. The sweet entreaty of his breath. The hungering movements of his jaw.
He groaned once, low in his throat. The sound catapulted her to new heights of longing. She deepened the kiss, drawing closer to let her tongue explore the inner recesses of his mouth.
