The Recruit (33 page)

She eyed him warily.

Smart lass
.

Without preamble, he started to loosen the sash at her waist. She caught his hand.
“Wh-what are you d-doing?”

“We can’t very well get this over with, with you wearing all these clothes.”

Her eyes widened again, and she clenched the edges of her robe against her chest protectively.
“I like these clothes.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. You can leave on your chemise, but take off the robe.”
He gave her a taunting smile. “It will go faster if it doesn’t get in the way.”

Her eyes narrowed, guessing that he was up to something. Surprisingly, for once, she
did as he asked. Sitting up, she loosened the sash, shrugged the robe from her shoulders,
and tossed it on the trunk at the foot of the bed.

He drew in his breath, momentarily distracted by the body revealed by the thin, achingly
translucent piece of linen. Her breasts strained against the fabric, having obviously
grown larger than the garment was originally designed to fit. The pleasant handful
that he recalled from before had swelled into two firm, round mounds as big and ripe
as peaches. Her pearl-sized nipples were taut and straining against the fabric.

He felt his cock do the same.

He glanced sharply away, smothering a pained groan, before he got distracted. Hell,
he was already distracted. But his wee wife had drawn the battle lines, and he was
going to do whatever it took to win.

He stood and began to work the ties of his breeches, which given the state of his
arousal wasn’t easy.

She made what sounded suspiciously like a squeak. “What are you doing?”

He smiled, having finally managed to free himself. “I sleep naked.”

“You d-do?”

“Every night.”

Her eyes met his. He could see the frown start, almost as if she’d guessed his plan.
But before she could say anything, he slid his pants down.

She made a strangled sound in her throat and he tried not to laugh. Stepping out of
the legs, he kicked the breeches aside. Naked as one of those Greek statues he’d seen
pictures of once, he stood proudly before her. If she liked his body, well then, she
was going to see a whole hell of a lot of it.

He glanced to the bed, pleased to see his actions had elicited the appropriate response.
She was staring at him as if she were trying to commit every inch of his flesh to
memory.

But she was more stubborn than he’d anticipated. Her eyes flew to his. She licked
her lips. “Would you mind blowing out the candles. I’m afraid I’m feeling quite shy.”

His mouth tightened. The little vixen! She didn’t have a shy bone in her passionate
little body. He was about to refuse when she said, “Unless you find it difficult to
perform in the dark.”

He nearly choked. Him have difficulty performing? God, didn’t she see the size of
his erection? But he clenched his jaw, hearing her challenge. Without a word, he stalked
over to the candelabra on the sideboard and blew them out. The lamp at the bedside
table as well.

The room went dark for a moment, but when his eyes adjusted, he realized there was
still a soft glow of light coming from the coal in the fireplace.

More than enough for what he intended. His eyes fixed on the woman in his bed. He
gave her a predatory smile. “If you don’t have any more directions, what’s say we
begin?”

Mary knew she’d made a mistake. Somehow he’d guessed what she was about. Worse, he’d
taken it as a challenge and turned it into some kind of contest.

Her heart pounded erratically as she heard his footsteps approach the bed. Unfortunately,
it wasn’t nearly dark enough, and she could still see far too much of him.

He was incredible. Could a man so fiercely masculine be beautiful? If so, then he
was. His body was like a statue. A massive, perfectly chiseled statue. It had been
hard to know where to look, from his broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms, to
his sculpted chest with band after band of ripped muscle, to his heavy, powerfully
built thighs. And then there was that other part of him. The uniquely male part of
him she shouldn’t notice but had looked at with far too much and very unmaidenly curiosity.
The thick column of flesh with the plump hood that strained past his belly button.
Hard and red, she’d ached to touch it. To feel him in her hands.

The bed shifted with his weight when he slid in next to her. For a moment, he simply
lay beside her in the darkness. She was so highly aroused, so painfully aware of him,
however, that it only increased her anxiousness.

Did he have to be so blasted hot? His body seemed to radiate heat, and her skin felt
flushed and uncomfortable—as if it were too small for her body.

He’s naked
.

Try not to think about it
.

But she couldn’t help it. She kept thinking about how it would feel to have all that
hot skin pressed against her.

He was torturing her. And he knew it.

“Still tired, Mary?”

The blighter
. “A little,” she said stubbornly, as her body screamed for him to touch her. She
squirmed.

“Bed not comfortable?” he asked innocently.

“The bed is fine,” she snapped.

“I just heard you moving around—”

“I wasn’t moving around!”

He rolled to his side and began his infernally slow game of tracing every inch of
her with his finger, when she ached—yes, ached—to have the full pressure of his hands.
She was more aroused than she’d ever been in her life.

“Any more instructions, Mary? Or are you going to let me proceed?”

Something about him brought out her fight. She wasn’t going to let him run over her.
She lifted her chin. “Nothing that I can think of right now, but I will let you know
if something comes up.”

“Something has come up, all right,” he mumbled irritably.

Mary smiled, glad to know she wasn’t the only one suffering. “What’s that?” she asked
innocently.

His reply was a kiss. A very slow, very expert, very thorough kiss. A kiss that radiated
down to her toes. A kiss that made her limbs heavy and her bones dissolve. A kiss
that made her
want
with all her heart.

He was seducing her, and if Mary didn’t do something, she knew she’d be lost. She
was halfway there already. She had to find a way to take control.

He was on his side, leaning half on her. She could feel the thick imprint of his manhood
on her stomach. The image of him holding himself in his hand sprang to mind. The fact
that it aligned with her previous thoughts of wanting to touch him made the possibility
even more intriguing.

If he’d pleasured himself that way, would he like it if she did the same?

Testing her theory, she moved her hand from his arm to his chest, lightly trailing
her fingers down the rigid bands of his stomach muscles.

She knew she was on to something when he stilled, pausing in his kiss, stomach muscles
clenching. He hissed when the heel of her hand met the plump tip. “What are you doing?”

She wrapped her fingers around him, and he groaned, instinctively thrusting himself
deeper in her hand. She wondered at the sensations. At the feel of him. His skin was
so hot. A velvety-thin glove over steel.

“I should think that was obvious,” she said. “I want to touch you.” She looked up
at him in the darkness, holding his gaze. Slowly, she began to move her hand the way
he’d done. He groaned again, closing his eyes as if the pleasure was too much to take.
“I hope that is all right?”

“Oh God,” he said, covering her hand with his, showing her how to find his rhythm.
“God, that feels so good. I’ve dreamed of this.”

“You have?”

But he seemed incapable of speech. She watched the pleasure build inside him. Saw
as his face drew clenched and tight as he strained against the release that she knew
was only moments away. He was throbbing, beating under her hand.

His hand found the edge of her chemise and dipped underneath. His fingers brushed
between her legs, and the wave of pleasure was so intense she almost forgot to keep
moving her hand.

His fingers dipped inside. No teasing now. He stroked and thrust, readying her for
him.

She heard his breath quicken. Felt his body clenching. When he pulled his hand from
her, rolled over, and positioned himself between her legs, she knew she’d won.

Lust. She could feel it crackling in the air between them. He was out of his mind
with lust for her, just as she was for him.

Check … mate.

Kenneth knew he should have stopped her, but the feel of her soft, small hand wrapped
around him, stroking him, was more than he could resist.

All he could think about was being inside her. He wanted so badly to come that it
hurt.

But when he held himself over her and looked into her eyes, he knew he had to find
a way to pull himself back from the edge.

If she knew how easy it was to control him, he would never be able to break down the
wall she’d erected between them.

So he countered her attack with one of his own. Before she realized what he intended,
he slid down her body, positioning his face between her legs.

“What are you—”

He brushed his lips over her.

“Oh!”

She bucked, and he took the opportunity to slide his hands under the soft curve of
her bottom to hold her steady. He kissed her again, rubbing his jaw against her mound
as his tongue slid inside with long, languid strokes. She tasted so good, so soft
and silky smooth, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He made love to her with
his mouth and tongue, her back arching and her hips rising to meet the wicked onslaught
of his kiss.

She was breathing hard, frantic little moans echoing in his ears. He knew he could
make her come, but he purposefully drew it out until she was writhing in agony.

He lifted his head, looking up at her. The subtle curve of her belly made his chest
swell with a strange emotion. His voice was oddly rough when he spoke. “Look at me,
Mary.”

Her eyes were soft and unfocused, so heavy with lust it made his cock clench. Holding
her gaze, he flicked her with his tongue. She shuddered. She was his. He held his
mouth against her, giving her the pressure she yearned for, and sent her flying over
the edge.

Mary had never felt so close to anyone in her life. Looking into his eyes as he’d
kissed her like that …

She’d never imagined sharing that kind of intimacy with anyone.

When he’d finally given her the release that she’d craved, she was so tired, she forgot
to fight back.

Barely had the ebb of pleasure started to slip away when he was pushing inside her.
Filling her. Becoming a part of her.

He forced her gaze to his as he took the final thrust of possession. At least that’s
what she told herself. It wasn’t that she couldn’t look way.

He moved inside her slowly at first. But then the battle became too much for both
of them. He surged once. Twice. And then his body stiffened and jerked as the spasms
of his own release hit.

When it was over, they were both too tired to speak. He rolled to the side and tucked
her against him. Strangely, she didn’t fight it.

The battle had been won, but by whom?

Eighteen
 

Mary woke to the warmth of sunshine on her face and the scent of flowers in her nose.
She stretched like a lazy cat in the sun. Surely it must be a sin to feel this good?
Opening her eyes, she discovered the source of the smell. A small sprig of lavender
lay on the pillow beside her. She smiled, bringing it to her nose to inhale the delicate
fragrance.

Aware that the source of her gift was watching her from across the room, where he
stood by the basin with a razor in his hand, she lifted a brow. “Flowers today?”

The first morning, he’d surprised her with a warm bath. The second, with a pretty
ribbon (she didn’t have the heart to tell him it was one of her own). The third, with
a batch of her favorite sugared buns that she’d mentioned the day before. And today
it was flowers.

As if his seductive passion at night wasn’t hard enough to resist, now she had to
contend with his courtship during the day. But even knowing it was only a contest
to him, and that the attention wouldn’t last, she couldn’t help but be amused—and
touched. More than she wanted to admit. She’d never put much store in romantic gestures
before, but she could not deny the spur in her heart. The gestures might be speciously
motivated, but they were not without thought.

“Do you like them?” He frowned. “I know you mentioned
pink roses were your favorite, but given my recent allegiance I wasn’t sure that would
be wise.”

“I should think not.” The pink rose had become a subversive symbol of Bruce sympathizers
after Isabella MacDuff, the Countess of Buchan, had worn one in her cloak on her way
to be imprisoned in a cage. Unwittingly, Mary shivered and pushed the image away.
She knew how close she’d come to sharing such a fate. But that was all behind her
now. “They’re perfect,” she said, inhaling the small bouquet again. “Don’t tell me
you picked them yourself?”