Page 99 of Laird of Flint
Surely she’d prepared herself for the sight of him. After all, she’d been the one to ask him to remove his leine.
Still, when she came near with the vial of oil, her step was halting, and her gaze skipped about like a gnat, deciding where to land. Then she closed her eyes. When her bosom rose and fell with a deep, steadying breath, he was instantly reminded of the peek he’d stolen down her leine. Her breasts had looked so round and soft and smooth. Like twin loaves of bread set out to rise.
Unfortunately, his loins were instantly reminded as well. He judiciously moved his arms between his knees then, blocking her view.
Carenza gulped. Had Hew grown even more massive since she’d last seen him without his leine? Perhaps it was only seeing him sitting up rather than sprawled unconscious on a pallet that made him seem more muscled. More forceful. More intimidating.
Her heart pounded. A sheen of light sweat formed above her lip. He looked to her like a dangerous animal now. An animal capable of crushing her.
Yet she felt more exhilaration than fear. She’d faced this beast before. Leine or no leine, there was no need to be intimidated. And she intended to get another kiss. So she shook off her self-doubt and held up the vial.
“Oil o’ newt,” she announced.
The look of disgust on his face erased all her fears.
A snort of a laugh escaped her.
“You’re a wicked lass,” he growled.
“Don’t worry. ’Tis lavender. Perfectly pleasant.”
She pulled a chair close to his and poured a thin stream of oil atop one powerful shoulder. Then, setting down the vial, she let her fingers catch the drop. With a light touch, she spread the oil down his arm.
“Does that pain ye?” she murmured.
He shook his head and closed his eyes.
She thought it would be quick work. Then she meant to proceed on to the kiss.
But she became fascinated by his body. The warmth of his flesh. The curves of his muscles. The subtle pulse of his veins. She explored it all with her hands, molding her fingers along each plane, smoothing and soothing his skin as if she sculpted him from clay.
Why the contact should affect her so, she didn’t know. But soon she felt the eagerness in her fingers spread to a longing deep within her. The same longing she’d had when they’d kissed. A tightening in her breasts. A tingling in her nether parts. A fierce urge to be closer.
Her hands contacted the bandage then, and she picked up the vial to start on the other shoulder. His eyes were still closed. She wondered if he’d lied about the pain.
“Are ye sure it doesn’t hurt?” Her voice came out on a rough whisper.
To her surprise, he replied with a self-mocking, rueful chuckle. “My arms? Nay,theydon’t hurt.”
She smoothed the oil down his other arm. Her mind wandered, imagining his bulky arms, as unyielding as oak, enfolding her. Holding her. Protecting her. How safe she would feel in his embrace.
She slid her hand up along the inside of his arm, lightening her touch where the flesh was more delicate. As she reached the top, her fingers brushed the hollow under his arm, where a soft tuft of hair grew. Intrigued by the texture, she didn’t pull away at once. She ran her thumb back and forth along the fringe.
Suddenly, he jerked and clamped his arm against his chest, trapping her hand.
She gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt ye.” She tried to slide her hand down.
He grunted and clamped harder.
She tried to wriggle her fingers out.
“Stop it,” he bit out between his teeth.
Then she realized he wasn’t in pain.
Sir Hew du Lac, powerful Viking warrior, was ticklish.
A slow grin found its way to her lips.
