Page 44 of The Cruel Highlander's Healer
He walked across the room, the sound of his boots on the wood floor echoing loudly as he did. Hanging the lantern on the wall hook near the bed, he turned to look at Eliza.
She was still standing in the center of the room, brown eyes fixed on him. There was something in her posture, something to the set of her shoulders that he was finding near impossible to read.
But when his eyes met hers, his breath caught in his throat.
They were molten, alight with a desire that shook him. Immediately, he felt himself hardening beneath his kilt.
Conall shifted on his feet, trying to tuck his rising desire away so that she would not see it.
“Why did ye kiss me the other night?” Eliza’s voice was hoarse with need, but she did not move.
Something that Conall was thankful for. If she walked to him in that moment, he was unsure if he had it in him to turn her down.
I need to get control of meself. I am nae some lad that has to bed every woman that shows me interest. I can have some control.
“It was a momentary weakness,” he said, gesturing to the bed. “Now ye need to lay down.”
Eliza’s eyes darted to the bed, her expression shifting. She didn’t argue with him; not like he expected her to. Instead, she started to cross the space.
She didn’t walk to the other side of the bed, though. Instead, she crossed to him. Conall’s breath hitched as she raised her hands, placing them on his large, barrel chest.
His heart began to pound, and he was confident that she could feel it beneath her delicate healer’s hands.
“What would it take,” her voice was barely more than a breathy whisper, flickering over Conall’s skin and making him feel like he was on fire, “for ye to have another momentary weakness?”
He groaned, reaching up to place his hands over hers. But he didn’t remove them. He didn’t push her away. Not yet.
“I cannae,” he said, his voice gruff.
“And why can ye nae?”
He looked down at her, one mistake in a long line of mistakes throughout the night.
Eliza’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, and immediately he wanted to pull that lip between his teeth. He wanted to feel his mouth on hers. He wanted to claim her.
“Because I cannae.”
He wrapped his hands around her wrist. The direct contact of skin made the heat that had been building in his belly flare anew.
“Why?”
Eliza blinked up at him. The word had been nothing more than an exhale of breath, barely audible. But it threatened to fracture every bit of resolve.
“Ye’re drunk,” Conall grunted, taking his eyes off hers and focusing on her hands.
They were still placed on his chest, fingers splayed with his hands wrapped around her wrist. Her fingers were long and slender, small scars across the tops of them.
Fighting against the urge to ask what the scars were from, to trace them with the line of his fingertips, he tightened his grip on her wrists and tugged her hands off of her chest.
“I willnae bed ye when ye’re drunk.” His tone was harsh. Final.
For the first time that night, doubt flickered across Eliza’s face, her confidence from just a few moments before fading into the background.
“Now step out of yer boots and get to bed,” Conall grunted.
Dropping her hands, he gripped her shoulders, moving her body gently out of the way. She pouted up at him, clearly unsatisfied with his answer.
As he walked, he felt his hardness beneath his kilt and kept his body shifted away from her just enough that she would not notice. He could not let her know how bad he desired her; how much he wished that he could fall on top of her right then and sink into her.
