The Striker (17 page)

“Isn't it? I'm strong enough to weather the storm; I will not let them defeat me so easily. I don't care what they say. I know the truth.” She gave him a wry smile. “Believe it or not, at home people actually
like
me.”

He held her gaze for so long she didn't think he was going to say anything. But as usual, his expression held no hint of his thoughts. “I believe it. And that's why I want to marry you.”

It took her a moment to realize what he meant. When she finally did, it felt like the sun had just broken out from behind a cloud. “You care for me.”

He drew her up against him. “Aye, I care about you, lass.”

The deep, rough huskiness of his voice sent tiny shivers racing across her skin. She looped her hands around his neck as if they belonged there. “I care about you, too.”

As his hands already were moving possessively over her body, clearly he'd guessed as much.

“Good. Now, if you are finished with your questions, you have about five seconds to give me an answer before I carry you over to that bed. You can be my wife the second time I'm inside you or the third, but either way, I will be inside you, and you will be my wife.”

Her eyes widened. This was a fierce, primitive side of him she'd never seen before, and something about it made her pulse quicken and her blood heat. Or maybe that was the feeling of him hard against her.

She arched a brow. “Is that the way of it, then?”

“It is.” His hand was on her breast. She sucked in her breath as his thumb circled over the crest of her nipple. When he'd made it hard, he drew it between his fingers and gently pinched. She gasped as pleasure flooded her senses—and flooded somewhere else as well. She trembled with pleasure.

“And, Maggie?” His mouth was by her ear, his warm breath and silky tongue making her shudder.

She was in such a sensual daze it took her a moment to realize he was talking to her. “What?”

He lifted her up into his arms. “Your five seconds are over.”

E
OIN DIDN
'
T KNOW
what had come over him, except that he knew he wasn't going to leave here without Margaret MacDowell as his wife.

The lass did something to him—besides turning him into a lust-crazed lad, that is. She brought out a fierce, possessive side of himself that he'd never exhibited before. He wasn't sure he liked it, and it sure as hell wasn't very civilized, but there was no denying that he was carrying her to the bed with every intention of ravishing her—again.

He held her gaze as he crossed the few steps to the small bed. He had to put her down to pick up the plaid he'd shoved off her shoulders and lay it down over the straw “mattress.” Next time there would be feathers and silk bed linens, but for now this would have to do. At least it was an improvement over a wall.

With any other woman he wouldn't have considered asking what he did next. But Margaret was different. She was bold and confident, and not easily shocked. “I want to see you,
a leanbh
.
All
of you.”

It took her a moment to understand what he meant. Her eyes widened ever so slightly before meeting his with a challenge. “And if I should wish the same?”

He grinned. He was hoping she'd say that. He was realizing there were some good things about a wife who couldn't resist a challenge. “I could hardly refuse.”

“You first,” she said, her voice a little breathy.

He'd taken his clothes off in front of more than one woman, but never had he been so aware of the effect his nakedness had on another. She watched his every movement with the rapt attention of a hawk, not missing any detail as he quickly divested himself of his clothing.

With every inch of skin he revealed, her breath would catch then quicken, until eventually he pulled off the linen tunic to reveal his chest, and it stopped altogether. If the way her eyes seemed to devour his arms and stomach were any indication, she was one of those lasses who liked a lot of muscle.

As if the breathy sounds of her arousal weren't enough, he swore he could also feel her growing hotter. And that in turn made him hotter.

By the time he removed his braies, he was as hard as a spike. And growing harder by the minute as her eyes devoured that part of him, and egged on by a little gasp that parted her lips in a perfect little O that was too damned suggestive. It was too easy to imagine her soft pink mouth closing around him, sucking, milking, taking him deep down her throat.

“
If you know how to open your throat . . .
”

Ah Christ. He groaned, and her eyes flew to his. “You're big all over,” she said almost accusingly. “No wonder it hurt.”

He grinned; he couldn't help it. A big cock was sure as hell something he wasn't going to apologize for. She was sure to appreciate it later, although he doubted she would believe that now. “It will feel better this time, I promise.” He lifted a brow in silent challenge. “Your turn.”

She took one more look at him, sniffed as if to say we'll see, and started to remove her own clothing. It was his turn to watch like a hawk. Hell, he couldn't have looked away if the English were kicking down the door.

Her movements were quick and unthinking with no hint of seductiveness, yet that is exactly what she did. There was a natural sensuality to her that could not be denied. It permeated the very air around her.

Each movement felt like a silent beckoning, a lure for him to touch her. His hands itched to rip the blasted garments right off her, but he forced his fists to his side.

She shimmied. She dipped. She reached and tugged. Tempting. Enflaming his desire with the skill of Salome and her veils.

When Margaret finally lifted the chemise over her head to reveal a body that would have made Venus weep with envy, he thought he was going to explode. Unconsciously, he'd fisted his hand around himself and was one hard pump away from doing exactly that. When her eyes followed the direction of his hand and widened with unabashed curiosity, he swore and released himself.

She definitely was going to kill him.

She was unreal. Her body more incredible than he'd imagined—and he'd done some pretty detailed imagining. Long, sleek limbs, curvy hips, a narrow waist, lush, round breasts with berry-pink nipples that jiggled enticingly as she shook out her long hair over her shoulders, and inch after inch of flawless, creamy white skin.

She stood there proudly, without an ounce of shame, as he drank her in. Why shouldn't she? She had nothing to be ashamed about. She was perfect.

And she was his. His wild, wicked little enchantress.

Holding her gaze, he reached out to brush the back of his finger over a pearly nipple so exquisitely formed it didn't look real. “You are beautiful,
a leanbh
. Beautiful.”

She grinned. “So are you.” She reached up to loop her hand around his neck, bringing their naked bodies into contact for the first time.

He hissed at the sizzling shock of sensation, sliding his arm around her velvety-soft back to draw her closer. “Warriors aren't beautiful. You'll have to think of some other word.”

She sucked in her breath as he started sliding his mouth down the side of her neck close to her ear. “Or what?”

His teeth closed around the tiny lobe. “Or I'll have to punish you.”

He could feel the excited jump of her heart against his. “How?”

Naughty lass. “Like this.” He nibbled on her ear and slid his hand around to take her nipple between his fingers and start to pinch. He could tell how much she liked it by the soft little moans and deepening imprint of his cock on her belly.

Carefully, he lowered her down on the narrow bed. As there wasn't much room, he had to prop himself on his side and lean over her. But since that gave him plenty of access to that gorgeous body, he didn't mind.

Margaret was grateful to feel the straw of the mattress at her back, as it meant she no longer had to think about standing. She could concentrate fully on what he was doing to her.

Everything was so new and incredible. The way his mouth ravished her neck, his fingers plied her nipples, and even the feeling of his big, hard body stretched out against her. All the little details fascinated her. The warmth of his skin, how tanned it still was from the summer sun, the small V of golden hairs on his chest and the even more enticing trail that led from his stomach to his manhood.

She'd wanted to touch him. Especially after seeing the way he'd held himself in his hand, when he'd been watching her. It had made her curious. And aroused. Just looking at him made her aroused. He was wrong earlier: he
was
beautiful. Tall and broad-shouldered, his body was tightly packed with slab after slab of lean muscle so sharply delineated it could have been carved from stone. There was not a spare ounce of flesh on him. Good lord, his stomach was lined with so many bands the washwoman could have beat clothes against it!

When he leaned over to kiss her, she couldn't resist sliding her palm over some of those ropey bands before coming to rest on the big rock of muscle at the top of his arm.

She loved the feeling of him leaning over her. The solidness. The weight. The connection.

His kissed her mouth, her throat, and—finally!—her breasts. The warm, wet heat of his mouth closing over her and sucking made her cry out. She arched against him shamelessly, begging for more as he sucked harder, as his tongue circled her nipple and tugged it gently between his teeth.

A strange feeling was coming over her. Building. Intensifying. Her skin felt hot, her limbs weak, the place between her legs soft and achy.

She didn't know what she wanted until he touched her. Until his fingers found that warm place and started to caress it. Softly at first, with gentle little circles that made her body weep with pleasure.

But soon it wasn't enough. She started to shake. Her hips started to lift against his hand, pressing . . . begging for more.

He growled—maybe muttered some kind of curse—against her breast and sucked harder. Sucked until a needle of pleasure connected his mouth at her breast and his hand between her legs. Then finally, his finger slipped inside her and gave her what she hadn't known she wanted. Stroking. Plunging. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. The heel of his palm pressed against her, giving her the pressure she'd unconsciously craved. It felt so good . . .

She was writhing, moaning, lost in sensations she didn't understand. Her body seemed to be struggling, fighting against something.

Vaguely she was aware of the coolness of the air against her damp breast as he lifted his head to look her in the eyes. She would never forget the way he looked, his face a tight mask of restraint, his gaze as fierce and intense as she'd ever seen it.

“It's all right, sweetheart. Just let it go. I'll catch you.”

Whether it was simply the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes, or that her body simply couldn't fight it anymore, his words snapped the last threads of resistance. She gave herself over to the sensations and felt her body lift and soar.

The flight of angels
. For how else could she describe the catapulting into heaven, the shattering of stars, and then the gentle floating in the clouds as the wracked spasms of pleasure slowly ebbed.

And when she finally fell back to earth, he was there to catch her just as he'd promised.