Page 57 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
His voice was like gravel and smoke. Every syllable made her shiver. She had no idea what that meant, but she knew for sure that she didn’t want him to stop.
He pressed her backwards until the backs of her knees met the edge of her bed, and as she sat, Rhys dropped to his knees before her.
Amara sucked in a breath at the sight of this man on his knees in front of her.
His hands slid slowly up her thighs, his palms warm and reverent. He pushed her nightgown up inch by inch, eyes locked to hers the whole time, waiting for her to stop him.
She didn’t…. wouldn’t.
When the soft fabric bunched around her hips, Rhys placed one of her feet along his shoulder, and then the other before he leaned forward and kissed the inside of her knee.
Her whole body lit up.
She reached behind her, steadying herself on the edge of the bed as he nudged her legs farther apart, dragging his mouth and tongue higher with every kiss. Her skin trembled under his touch.
When he finally reached the apex of her thighs, she thought she might burst from the anticipation alone.
And then the heat of his mouth encircled her. Soft. Hot. Devouring.
Amara cried out, head falling back, one hand clutching the blanket beneath her and the other flying to his hair.
“God,” she gasped. “Oh… God.”
Rhys didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. His tongue moved with exquisite purpose. First in slow teasing circles, then a sudden flick, then deep, rhythmic strokes that left her gasping his name again and again.
Her hips bucked once, but he held her steady. One broad hand crawled up her torso and cupped her breasts, the pad of this thumb gently caressing her nipple while the other hand braced her hip.
She felt like she was coming apart.
He was worshiping her. Trapping her in his crips as if he wanted nothing else in the world than to taste her until she broke apart in his hands.
And she did.
It hit her like lightning to the spine. It was sharp, it was impossible, and it burned through her until she was trembling. Her whole body tightening around him as if she’d break apart if he let go.
She cried out and clutched the coverlet so hard she thought she might have ripped it, and he only held her tighter and kept going until she collapsed against him, panting, half-limp in his arms.
Only then did he rise to his feet, lifting her easily into his arms and settling her on the bed. Her nightgown was still bunched at her waist, her legs bare, her cheeks flushed.
Rhys brushed the hair from her face, and she opened her eyes, still breathless.
He didn’t say anything. He only looked at her like she was something rare, something powerful, something impossible to figure out.
She reached for him again, fingertips grazing the stubble on his jaw, the curve of his neck.
But Rhys only pulled the blankets up around her shoulders. “Rest,” he murmured. “We’ll talk later.”
Amara’s heart thudded in her chest. She wanted to ask what he meant. What would come next. If he regretted it. If he didn’t. But the warmth of his arms around her, and the heaviness of her limbs stole the words from her mouth.
So, she let her head fall against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and let sleep consume her.
17
The sun had barely crested the hills when Rhys eased out of the bed.
Amara was still sleeping, one hand curled beneath her cheek, sheets tangled around her waist. Her hair was everywhere. It was wild and tangled from sleep, fanned across the pillow like it had a mind of its own.
He grinned at the thought of her grumbling about the knots later.
