Highland Awakening by Jennifer Haymore

forceful movement, she stared up into his face. Even in shadows, it was incredibly appealing, the dark slashes of his bone structure and brows and the glint of his light eyes. “Dinna play the innocent English miss with me, Esme. That might work with those idiots in there”—he gestured roughly toward the house—“but not with me. Dinna pretend to be one of them when I ken you’re not. You were at a whorehouse last night. There’s something about that notebook you carry…”
    She didn’t move. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drawn breath, but she didn’t need air. She felt suspended, frozen in time. Terrified and thrilled at once. On the edge of something that would change her life, but whether it would destroy her or bring her happiness, she couldn’t tell.
    His fingers dug into the skin of her shoulders. Not to the point of pain, but almost. The sensation buzzed through her—a heady rush of arousal…and to combat it she clenched her thighs.
    “Does Whitworth ken you visited a whorehouse?”
    That broke the spell. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, turning her face away from him.
    He gave a cynical laugh. “I thought not. He doesna know about your wee notebook, either, does he?”
    She bowed her head, shame rushing through her all over again.
    “Does he know you at all? Or do I already know you better, after meeting you only once before tonight?”
    Oh God. He was right. She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists over the railing. She’d known Henry almost her whole life, and this man—this arrogant, handsome, forceful man—already knew her better than her own fiancé.
    A sense of doom flooded her, dark and forbidding.
    He took her by the chin as he had last night, forcing her to face him. He leaned forward until his lips feathered against hers. “Dinna think you can keep any part of yourself from me, Esme. I’m going to learn all your secrets. I’m going to know every inch of you. Of your mind, of your thoughts, of your body. Then we’ll see what you think about marrying Henry Whitworth.”
    And then, for the second time in two nights, his lips crashed onto hers.

Chapter 7
    She tasted so damn good. She’d reeled him in tonight, and he’d gone willingly, eagerly, a fish eyeing the bait, then wanting to devour it.
    Her big brown eyes, that flushed, fresh skin, that thick, dark hair. He’d thought she was delectable at Mrs. Trickelbank’s. Here…she was like some erotic goddess who made him hard as a rock and his self-control a distant memory.
    The Duke of Trent’s
sister.
Good God. He never would have guessed it. Not in a million years.
    On the other hand, it explained a lot. Like her charming, sweet innocence. He wanted to take it and wrap himself in it. It was warm, comforting, so sweet he wanted to devour it like a confection.
    And right now he ached to kiss her until that innocence was part of him—until she was part of him. She tasted like nothing he’d ever experienced, and he’d kissed many women in his time. She was hesitant and shy, but there was heat, a deep, throbbing sensuality in her. He could taste that, too, and it made him crazy.
    He slipped his arms around her, around the dip in her waist hidden by the straight line of her dress. His fingers slid over the pink silk, and he flattened his palms on her lower back, feeling the slope of her arse at the bottom of his hands. He ground against her, dizzy for it, for wanting her.
    She gave a soft moan that he swallowed up like the greedy bastard he was.
    Scenarios ran through his mind. Of how to most quickly rid her of this annoying silk that was between him and his pleasure. Top down, revealing her skin bit by bit? Unwrapping her like a delectable gift? Or bottom up, ripping it off her so he could see all of her faster?
    Bottom up, he decided. He had never been a patient man.
    She gave a little gasp. Her hands cupped his cheeks, and she drew back, holding him at arm’s length. “Stop, Mr. McLeod. We need to