Page 35 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 10
Her heart quickened, the darkness whirled, she was dizzy with the lingering fire of the whisky in her. Resistance had melted—had never been there, truly. She loved the feel of his hands upon her skin, loved the way he had disrobed her, carefully, giving her every chance, loved how he had understood, how he had carried her to his bed. She was glad to be free of the damp, heavy gown, glad to be warm, glad of her body pulsing with excitement. Folly or fate, she wanted this. Foolish or fou, she did feel safe with him. At least in this, here in his hands, with her body urging her mind and timid heart forward.
He sank with her into pillows aromatic with lavender and soap, soft and clean. She glanced up at him, seeing the dark warrior angel, perfect, tender. His hands were strong and knowing, the muscles of his forearms like warm iron beneath her hands. She sighed, closed her eyes, felt him lower himself beside her.
His lips found hers and she sighed, sinking into the mattress, the kiss, the moment. Her head spun. She knew she was a little drunk, just enough. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “The whisky—”
“We are married, you and I. But if you want this to stop, Katherine Sophia...you must say so.” His fingers traced eloquently along her arm.
“Please do not call meKatherine–” He kissed her before she could add that she preferred Sophie.
Married,she thought in a fog, married to a fascinating man. This was like a dream, beginning with a nightmare, now a thrilling and fanciful adventure. She would not have to marry Sir Henry Campbell—and that alone seemed an excellent reason to run off and marry a small laird, her brother’s tenant, at Rob’s request. The whisky certainly lent it good logic. In the next instant, she dissolved into the kiss, into its spell.
She was tired, truly exhausted, which softened her edge even more than whisky. She felt distanced, as if she floated above all this, watched, and let it be. But his touch brought her down to earth, bloomed heat all through her. His hand traced her cheek, shoulder, slid down to warm her upper breast. Her heart quickened. His fingers grazed past her crystal necklace.
True love,she remembered. She was bound by a legend and her ancestry to seek only true love. Fate had placed her here, she realized. If that was a mistake, if she was caught between fate, desire, a natural craving for love, so be it. Just now, she could hardly think past his kiss, his touch. A glittering net of feeling seemed to capture her.
Love makes its own magic.The words repeated suddenly in her head. Love, true love, did not exist here, not under these circumstances. Love was a risk. Passion was easier to understand as it took control, told her to surrender, to let this flow to its pleasurable end. All could be sorted later, passion said, her mind said, as his hands traced over her, soft upon her breasts, making her heart leap. She felt giddy with the excitement. Adventure drew her, infused her with courage.
His mouth traced her throat, the deliciously warm sweep of his tongue there, and then he lifted his head to kiss her, touching his tongue to her lips. She met the kiss, slid her hands up his wide, heavily muscled back, over wool and linen.
Wherever he touched her, she felt warm, good, tingling. She moved and met, felt him grow hungrier, rolling her closer. There was deep purpose in his kisses now, determination in his hands, and every touch compelled her to open to him. As he traced a sensual ribbon of kisses down her throat to her breast, drawing aside the linen shift, her skin tingled. His mouth took her breast and she gasped, leaned back, dizzy, so dizzy, head whirling, body pulsing.
She closed her eyes, felt the silver chain pull around her neck. The crystal held her to a promise—real love must be sought. A choice must be made. A sacrifice.
But now she had jumped into a maelstrom, not knowing what would come of the choices she made tonight.
As his fingers slipped downward, tracing over her abdomen, as her body responded, surging, she gasped. She placed her hand over his.
“Connor—” she whispered, his name so natural on her lips, so intimate.
“Aye,” he murmured, his lips finding hers. His fingers warmed her in a secret place that made her body leap within, made her hips move like a wave of the sea. But his fingers paused, though she throbbed under that touch. “Tell me,” he said.
She turned against him, tucked against him, and felt his body stiffen, a distancing of sorts. He waited.
“Connor,” she whispered.
“Aye.” His lips tracedher cheek. He breathed against her ear, sending thrills throughout her body.
“My head is spinning,” she whispered.
“Mine too.” He stroked his hand over her hair.
“The bed is spinning too...but you feel so steady,” she breathed. She pressed tightly against him. “Do not let go.”
“I will not.” He wrapped her in his embrace, nuzzled her cheek and throat.
“And you keep all your promises?”
“I do. Now hush.”
“Can we rest for a moment? I am so tired.”
“If you like. I am tired too, aye. Must admit—” He went silent.
“Just for a bit. And then—”
“Aye, and then,” he murmured, kissing her brow.
She sighed against his shoulder, felt his hand soothing over her while her head spun with dizziness. Touching his rough-whiskered jaw, lifting her face, she sought his kiss again. She wanted more, felt compelled to ask, to nuzzle.
His kiss was so tender, that kiss and the next, and his hands wove a sensual pattern over her breasts, warm and lovely, lifting her, breathing with her, weaving into her dream like a mystical lover, a fairy, a legend...
She floated on a river, its surface strewn with flowers. He was there, holding her, caressing her. The glorious scent of lavender filled her senses. She whispered his name and heard her name upon his lips.
Only it was not quite her name that he whispered, and she could not find the voice or the wit to tell him so.
