Her legs were magnificent: long, slim, curvaceous. She’d ridden all her life, learned to run long distances up hills and through valleys. Her legs were sensitive. Step
hen realized it wasn’t his touch on her breast that had caused that little tremor of pleasure but his hand on her knee.
He moved to the foot of the bed, looking at her, enjoying the beauty of her. He bent forward and put his hands on her ankles, then slowly ran them upward over her knees and thighs. Bronwyn jumped like someone had just touched her with a hot coal.
Stephen laughed deep within his throat and moved his hands down again. He took one of her feet in his hand, then his lips moved to her legs. He kissed them, ran his tongue over the sculpture of her knee.
Bronwyn moved restlessly under him. Little chills of pleasure shot through her body, running down her arms, across her shoulders. She’d never felt like this before. Her body was trembling, and her breath was rapid and uneven.
Stephen roughly turned her over on her stomach and put his mouth to the back of her knee. Bronwyn nearly went off the bed, but Stephen’s hand on the small of her back kept her in place. She put her face in the pillow and moaned like someone in pain. Stephen kept torturing her. His hands and mouth explored every inch of her sensitive legs.
He wanted her so badly he couldn’t resist her any longer. He turned her over again, and this time his mouth sought hers. He wasn’t prepared for the force of her passion. She clung to him, her arms holding him in a viselike grip. Her mouth seemed to want to take the essence out of him. He knew what she wanted, but he also knew that she did not know.
When she started to push him down in the bed, her hands frantically running along his back and arms, he pushed her back. He mounted her, her legs opening naturally for him. She was ready for him. Her eyes opened wide, and she gasped when he first entered her. Then she closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and smiled. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
Stephen thought his heart would stop. The look of her, her words uttered in a guttural tone, were more enticing than any love poem. Here was a woman! A woman unafraid of a man, one who could match him in passion.
He began to move atop her, and she didn’t hesitate to follow his lead. Her hands caressed his body, rubbed his inner thighs until Stephen though he might be blinded by the force of the mounting desire within him. Yet Bronwyn met him thrust for thrust, giving and receiving. When he finally did explode within her, he shuddered violently, the force threatening to tear him apart.
He collapsed on Bronwyn, sweaty, limp, and held her so tightly he nearly crushed her.
Bronwyn didn’t mind not breathing. For a moment she thought she must be dead. No one could go through what she’d just experienced and live. Her whole body throbbed, and she felt as if she couldn’t have walked if her life depended on it. She drifted to sleep with her arms and legs still wrapped around Stephen.
When she awoke, she stared up into his amused blue eyes. Sunlight poured into the room, and in a flash she remembered everything that had happened between them. She could feel her face filling with hot blood. It was odd that now she couldn’t seem to remember the feelings that had made her act in such an embarrassing way.
He touched her cheek, his eyes full of laughter. “I knew you’d be worth a fight,” he said.
She moved away from him. She felt good. Actually she felt the best that she had in a long time. Of course! she thought. It was because she knew she was the same. She’d spent the night with a man and she hadn’t changed. She still hated him; he was still the enemy. He was still an insufferable, arrogant braggart. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? To you I’m a wench to warm your bed.”
Stephen smiled lazily. “You near set it on fire.” He ran his hand over her arm.
“Release me!” she said firmly, then jumped from the bed and grabbed her green velvet chamber robe.
One quick knock sounded on the door, and Morag entered, carrying a ewer of hot water. “I heard yer quarrels all the way down the stairs,” she snapped.
“There must have been other sounds you heard,” Stephen said as he propped his hands behind his head.
Morag turned and grinned at him, her old face folding into so many wrinkles that her eyes disappeared. “Ye look well pleased with yerself.” She gave an appreciative look at the sight of him, his sun-bronzed skin against the sheet, the heavy muscles of his chest and arms hard even when they were relaxed.
“More than pleased, I should say. No wonder you Highlanders never come south.” His eyes roamed to Bronwyn, who was glaring at him with hatred.
Chris Audley appeared at the door.
“Are we allowed no privacy?” Bronwyn snapped as she turned toward the window, Rab at her side. She didn’t touch the dog, as she felt betrayed by him, too both last night and this morning when he’d allowed Stephen to…to…Her face began to feel warm again.
Stephen smiled at Chris. “She likes being alone with me.”
“What happened to your arm?” Chris asked, nodding toward the bandage crusted with dried blood.
Stephen shrugged. “A mishap. Now if the two of you are satisfied that we didn’t kill each other, perhaps you’d leave my wife and me alone so she could tend to my wound.”
Morag and Chris smiled at him, gave one brief glance to Bronwyn’s rigid back, and left.
Bronwyn whirled to face Stephen. “I hope you bleed to death,” she spat at him.
“Come here,” he said patiently, sweetly, and held out his hands to her.
In spite of her thoughts she obeyed him. He caught her hand and pulled her down to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. He rolled toward her, and the sheet slipped down, exposing more of his hip and waist. Bronwyn looked away, back to his face. She had to control an urge to touch his skin.