Hotter Than Hell (32 page)

He was bare-chested, wearing nothing more than a kilt and soft-soled, worn leather boots. His hair was black, tousled, and long enough to brush his broad, well-formed shoulders. His green eyes glowed, looking serpentine in the dark, with their thin, vertical pupils.

And his flesh…every inch of that strong, impressive chest that she could see…was covered with a beautiful, almost iridescent sort of tattoo. But not of any picture or form she could make out. Instead, it looked like layer after layer of lovely, colorful…scales.

That might have seemed odd to her, probably had in the beginning, but after so many dreams of this man, she was not only used to the unique markings, but found them attractive and erotic to the extreme.

Even as that thought flitted through her brain, he was upon her, kneeling down and flipping back the top fold of the sleeping bag. Heat radiated from every pore of his body as he stared down at her, taking in her pale pink t-shirt with its hibiscus flowers and hula girl, advertising Hawaii as “a great place to get leied.” The hem had ridden up around her hips, leaving her stark white, French-cut bikini panties in full view.

He murmured a single word, low and emphatic, but in a language she didn’t understand, had never heard before she’d begun having these dreams. And then he was loosening the wide belt at his waist, kicking off his calf-high boots, and letting the blue, black, and green fabric of his family tartan fall to the floor. A second later, he was stretched out full length on top of her.

His mouth covered hers, furnace hot, sending flickering flames down her throat and to her very center.

He bit, licked, sucked, devoured her like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The firm contours of his muscled chest and arms pressed in on her, his legs straddling her own, the rigid length of his arousal rubbing against the soft material at the apex of her thighs.

She had been wet long before he touched her. One glance at his rippling, masculine body towering over her, and she’d turned liquid with fiery lust. Her nipples were puckered and jutting beneath the cotton of her top as she writhed beneath him.

His lips and teeth burned her flesh, tugged at her lips, skimming her cheek, trailing down the line of her throat. He lifted up only long enough to grab the bottom of her shirt in his large, long-fingered hands and strip it off over her head. Then he lowered his head again and feasted at her breast.

Her back arched on a moan, her fingers threading through his black hair as his tongue circled her areola, the budded tip, and then drew her fully into his mouth.

“Yes, please.” She scratched at his back with her nails, lifting, reaching for more.

The heat of his long, seeking member brushing between her legs made her want him inside her now.

Hard, hot, fast. She rotated her hips, trying to hurry him, trying to take him in, even before she was fully naked.

And—thank you, Jesus—he took the hint. His rough, callused fingers traced her waist, and then her legs, taking her underwear with them. Without ceremony, he shoved her legs apart, settled himself between them, and thrust home.

Laura gasped at the feel of him embedded so deeply and stretching her to accommodate his incredible size. She took a moment to concentrate on her breathing, and before she knew it, her body relaxed, going soft and loose around him.

He gave her only a moment to recover before lifting her legs over the crooks of his elbows, growling low in his throat, and beginning to pump.

Her back arched at the intensity of sensations racing through her blood. He was a demon, pounding into her like a jackhammer, harder, faster. And she responded, rising to meet his rapid movements, raking his back with her nails, emitting high-pitched keens of delight from the back of her throat that she’d never heard herself make before.

Almost without warning, the orgasm ripped over her, sharp and powerful. She screamed her pleasure, clutching at him more tightly as he continued to thrust frantically.

And then he stopped, going still above her as he came with a roar, spilling inside her.

As quickly as the dream had begun, it faded away, and she drifted more deeply into sleep. She was exhausted, and now—thanks to one of the most violent orgasms of her life—thoroughly sated.

Long after the woman had crawled under the blankets and gone to sleep, Dougal watched her. Watched her chest rise and fall with her deep, even breathing. Watched her mouth drift open and her eyelids flutter as she slipped further into slumber.

He wished that he could show himself, go to her and coax her slowly awake with passionate kisses and a slow caress. He imagined stripping her of blankets and that fitted shirt, devouring her as he hadn’t had the chance to devour a woman in a century or more.

When she moaned and rolled to her back, he straightened away from the wall, afraid she may have sensed his presence. He shouldn’t have to hide in his own castle, but nor could he risk discovery.

A moment later, it became obvious she was still asleep, but the moans continued. Perhaps she was dreaming. Of monsters and ghouls and other things that went bump in the night, he was sure. Any woman spending the night alone in an abandoned Scottish castle was likely to be skittish.

His brows crossed, though, when she threw off half of the thick red sleeping bag as he’d pictured himself doing, revealing her torso and the tops of her smooth, shapely legs. And then his brows arched, shooting high up on his forehead as one hand, with its softly painted nails, lifted to cup her own breast through the material of her form-fitting top. The other slid over her waist and under the small wisp of material that covered her private areas.

His erection, which had already been at half-mast simply from observing her for the past few hours, shot to full attention. In his mind, he pictured where he wanted her hands to go, the areas he wished his own hands could explore, and to his amazement, she seemed to follow his silent commands.

She continued to touch herself, making tiny mewling sounds of need, and arching up as though meeting a lover’s caress. The hand at her breast moved beneath the shirt to tease bare flesh. Her nipples hardened to swollen, pointing peaks, sending a lightning bolt of lust straight to his groin.

Clenching his teeth to keep from groaning aloud, he lifted his kilt and wrapped his hand firmly around his shaft. It had been a hundred years since he’d touched a woman, and though he wasn’t shy about relieving his own pent-up desires when the need grew too great, he hadn’t had the luxury of watching a woman in the throes of passion to help himself along for a hundred years, either.

He was hot and heavy, his erection pointing skyward with an arousal he hadn’t felt in recent—or extended—memory. Several feet away, the woman began to thrash, spreading her legs wider, driving her hand deeper into what he knew would be full, slick, pink folds. It took every ounce of his control not to stalk forward, remove her hand and replace it with his eager, raging erection.

What would it feel like to bury himself inside a woman again? To kiss and fondle and thrust his way to completion.

Of all the things he missed from his former life, he thought perhaps he missed fucking a willing lass most.

Her cries threatening to send him over the brink, he tightened his hold on himself, his fingers dancing and tugging on the rigid length. His own breathing grew ragged as he continued to watch the woman pleasuring herself, as his movements sped up and his legs turned weak with impending climax.

It was all he could do not to close his eyes in ecstasy, but he wanted to see her, wanted to watch the muscles in her thighs tighten, her back bow, her face contort as she reached her peak.

When she did, her shout echoed off the stone walls and through the keep, sending his blood past the boiling point. With it went the last of his control as he came in great, wracking spasms. If he’d ever had an orgasm such as that before in his misbegotten life, he certainly couldn’t recall it. It made him almost glad the woman had come to his castle, encroaching upon his invisible but private boundaries.

It even made a part of him wish she might stay a while.

LAURA AWOKE BRIGHT AND EARLY, FEELING RELAXED, loose-limbed, and happy, as she always did after one of her erotic dreams about the mysterious Dougal MacKay. As she dressed and gathered her things, she found herself smiling for no particular reason and actually looking forward to the task ahead of exploring this intimidating, rundown keep.

Also typical of the mornings after having one of her bizarre dreams about a man she’d never met, she wondered how much of them might be true and how much was simply her imagination running wild.

Did Dougal MacKay really exist? According to family stories and journals left behind by her great-grandmother Cosmina, he had at one time, but that didn’t mean that the legends of his continued existence were true. He could have died years ago; many, many years ago, if his age at the time of her great-grandmother Cosmina’s curse was any indication. If the curse had worked, however, he would still be alive and may not have aged a day since the enthralling words were spoken.

She also wondered at the scales that covered his body in her dreams, and the breath that was hot as lava. Were those, too, a result of the hex her great-grandmother had thrust upon him, or merely the way her subconscious chose to picture a man who would have been cursed in such a way.

She didn’t know, but she prayed she would find out. After all, she hadn’t made the trip all the way from the United States to Scotland for nothing.

Outside, the day was glorious, with the sun shining and a gentle breeze ruffling the tall green grass surrounding the castle. To document her search, she’d brought along a number of notebooks, as well as her camera.

She snapped several pictures inside the first initial room of the keep, then walked around outside to do the same. The landscape really was beautiful, and she could understand why someone, hundreds of years ago, had decided to build their castle here, overlooking both the ocean and the valley below.

But the longer she lingered outdoors, and the more she found to photograph, the more she realized she was stalling. Because as much as she wanted to find Dougal MacKay and discover the facts of the legend and her dreams, the truth was, she was afraid. Afraid of what she would find…and afraid of finding nothing. Afraid of learning that the images that had haunted her for years now weren’t real…or that they were.

To further her procrastination, she considered going into town for breakfast, but then decided that was only avoiding the inevitable. She should get down to business and see what she could discover before she was faced with another long, lonely night inside this dreary castle.

Ignoring the tickle of anticipation that skated down her spine, she carried her camera back inside and gathered her other, more well-worn leather tote that contained some of the notes and clippings and research she’d gathered for this trek, as well as several cans of soda and the energy bars she’d brought along for situations just like this, when she might not have the time—or the inclination—to go into town for a bite to eat.

With her camera dangling in the crook of her elbow, she tossed the satchel strap over her shoulder and tore open the wrapper of one of the bars, biting into the yogurt-covered granola while she slowly made her way deeper into the keep. Chewing worked as a bit of a distraction, but still her heart pounded inside her chest, and the muscles of her diaphragm contracted as she struggled to breathe normally.

Nothing will hurt you. Nothing will hurt you, she told herself over and over. She was here for a reason, and even if she was very afraid monsters—at least the storybook kind—really did exist, she was determined to see this quest through to the end.

Sunlight shone in narrow, muted beams through the door and tall windows of the main room, but past that, the structure was still fairly dark and dank. That didn’t keep her from noticing a great number of cobwebs she hadn’t the night before, though.

Her booted feet scuffed through the dirt covering the stone floor as she tiptoed deeper into the structure. It was beautiful, in a way. She could picture it one or two hundred years ago—a fire blazing in the hearth, tapestries covering the walls, a long trestle table crowded with people eating roasted boar and mutton stew.

She lifted her camera to snap a picture here or there as she moved along, but found nothing of exceptional interest. With the exception of an occasional broken-down table or chair, any furniture had been removed long ago.

To her right, a wide stone staircase led to the second level, where she imagined bedchambers and maybe a solar had been located. She was just turning to move in that direction when a noise from the other side of the keep, deep in the heart of the castle, startled her.

She stood frozen, pulse kicking as she slowly turned her head toward where she thought the sound had come from. Something had rattled, like glasses clinking together, only louder.

It was probably just one of those rats she’d envisioned sharing her space last night. But if it wasn’t…

well, she was looking for the castle’s rumored inhabitant, so following the noise might be the way to go, whether she wanted to or not.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly spun on one foot and tiptoed across the earthen floor. Far at the back of the keep, to the left of one of the hearths, was the shadow of a doorway she hadn’t noticed before.

Stepping carefully and quietly, she entered the cavernous area, her hand tracing the rough stone of the wall to guide her path.

About six steps in, she hit a curved set of narrow stairs leading downwards. She’d left her flashlight behind, but her eyes adjusted to the light enough to keep from tripping and falling to her death.

At first there was pitch dark, but the closer she got to the bottom of the stairs, the lighter it became, a muted orange glow flickering at the base of the steps.

Her eyes narrowed as she considered how that was even possible. This had to be a basement or dungeon area, underground where there couldn’t be any windows. And even if there were, she would expect the light from outside to be whiter, more like daylight than candle glow.