The Highlander by Elaine Coffman Page A

inside her mouth, and he was kissing her as if a ban on kissing was going into effect tomorrow.
    There was no knowledge of the exact moment he slipped the plaid from her shoulders, only the memory of a cool draft upon her skin, and the feel of his arms lifting her and carrying her down with him, to lie on the hearth rug before the fire.
    How he managed to unwrap miles of plaid so deftly, she would never know. He had to be part sorcerer—a descendant of one of those mystical beings that roamed the moors centuries ago, casting spells hither and yon, bewitching the unsuspecting.
    He dug his fingers into her hair, telling her how beautiful she was and how much he had wanted to do this since the moment he first saw her, half-naked and in his brother's arms.
    All of a sudden, none of it seemed to matter to her.
    She did not care that his hand was on her breast, or that his tongue was in her mouth, or that he had peeled away the layers of his plaid until she lay completely bare before him, warmed only by the heat from the fire, and the heat that was even more intense that came from Jamie himself.
    He had the hands of a magician, for he knew just where to touch her and how to make her want him with a deep yearning—with a fierceness she had never known before.
    From somewhere deep within her she felt the first stirrings of a sweeping response for which she was totally unprepared—a naked awareness of intimacy that called to her like beckoning fingers, urging her to follow his lead. She was slowly being consumed by a lazy awakening of desire that urged her to turn her back on caution and go with him, only to have him leave her trembling at the entrance to a new world of yearning and delight that yawned wickedly before her.
    Her only fear was that it would completely engulf her and leave her bound as tightly as a slave to him.
    Out of the impassioned blur, his face began to take form above her, like a vision, and she remembered her days in the convent when she was taught the devil could take many forms.
    Oh, my, was that she who was making that whimpering sound?
    She decided it must have been, for he stroked the sensitive lobe of her ear with his teeth and whispered, "Don't be afraid. I would never hurt you, lass. Never."
    Her first impulse was to fling her arms and legs to the four winds and let him have his way with her, but her uncertainty about exactly what all his way involved, she allowed her more chaste thoughts to overrule her melting-hot impulses.
    He kissed her deeply, and caressed her until she was close to tossing her chaste thoughts out the nearest window.
    What was that digging into her hipbone?
    When sudden understanding came to her, she wondered why women used the word prick as a term of endearment, for she could find nothing endearing about the knowledge of just what part of him was rudely pressed against her hip.
    His tone was comforting, his hands gentle, his words soothing, and soon she forgot about the discomfort to her hip, or rather she found that some things can walk a fine line between pain and pleasure, for now the knowledge she had previously shunned was giving her a feeling of power, and it washed over her warmly. She learned, too, that there is no aphrodisiac like power.
    Oh, he knew what he was about, and although she knew he was beginning to draw her under his powerful control with the innocent reassurance of his kiss and the gentle stroke of his hands, she was powerless to stop him, because deep, deep down she wanted this, and had wanted it almost from the first.
    She was as ripe as a fig ready for the plucking, and she knew it the moment his hands touched her.
    Faintly aware of the sound of rain tapping at the window, she responded passionately when his mouth came hungering, but this time he did not kiss her with the same intensely hot kiss as before, but a kiss that merely brushed her lips lightly, teasing and drawing her out to make her yearn for it, driving her to seek the heat, the searing heat