Spell of the Highlander Page 62


Bloody hell, she was magnificent!

She sat astride him, her lush, heavy breasts bobbing and swaying, and she was so ripely curved that a man could come just looking at her. Her skin was silk and cream, and he knew she was going to feel that way all over, inside and out. More creamy in some places than others, and he couldn’t wait to taste all of them. Her breasts were full, high, and sexy as hell. Her nipples were hard pink peaks swaying above his face. Abs contracting, he reared up from the concrete floor, caught those pretty boobs with his hands, and drew a nipple deep into his hot, wet mouth. He tugged lightly, gave it a delicate scrape with his teeth, savoring the pearly hardness of it with a lingering swirl of his tongue.

Back arching, Jessi buried her hands in Cian’s braids, moaning as he used his unshaven jaw to gently abrade the sensitive skin of her damp, kiss-puckered peaks. Then he started licking with slow, lazily erotic strokes of his tongue until she was squirming and wiggling impatiently on top of him. Turning his head from side to side between her breasts, he teased her nipples mercilessly with light flicks, intermittently taking tiny nips beneath the hard pink points.

Her breasts ached from his slow, teasing strokes. She needed more friction. She wanted his mouth closed firmly on them, his fingers pinching and rolling, the rake of his teeth. She wanted hot and hard and demanding. She wanted claiming.

She was so turned-on that she was achy, needy with it. His tongue flicked across one nipple, then the next as he doled out more of those torturously light caresses. “Please, Cian, more,” she whimpered.

She lost her breath in a whoosh of air when he pushed her off him and flipped her onto her back.

A hot purr rumbled deep in his throat.

The concrete felt cool in contrast to the burning heat of her skin. Lowering himself over her, he propped his formidable weight with his palms splayed at each side of her body. Burying his face in her breasts, he—oh, thank you, finally—drew one nipple after the next deep into his mouth. He suckled. He nipped. He rolled the taut buds between his tongue and his upper palate, scraping gently with the edges of his teeth. Shifting his weight to one forearm, he slipped his hand down to work at her jeans.

“Cian,” she gasped.

“Aye, lass?” His mouth moved lower, trailing hot, wet kisses over her tummy, pausing at her navel to dip in and lave it.

“Oh, God, Cian!” She twisted her hips to give him slack in the waistband of her denim second-skin.

A few moments later, a soft, wicked laugh escaped him and she knew he’d just unbuttoned her jeans and seen the words LUCKY YOU emblazoned in gold down the inner fabric of the fly.

“So that’s why they’re called Lucky jeans,” he murmured.

“Uh-hmmm,” she managed.

“You’ll get no argument from me, lass. I ken I’m a lucky man.” He paused. “Woman,” he said then, “I’m going to make you forget every other man you’ve ever known.”

“But—”

“Hush.” Then his demanding mouth was hot on her body again, scattering tiny love-bites over the delicate skin of her hips as he peeled her jeans down inch by inch.

She didn’t hear them—the people approaching.

She was too lost in an erotic haze for anything to penetrate.

Fortunately, Cian heard the furious voice snapping, “Did you hear that? I’m telling you, she’s back there!”

Jerking back from her, he cocked his head, listening. Abruptly, he tugged her into a sitting position and began yanking her jeans back up over her hips.

Befuddled, dazed by desire, Jessi sat up on the cool concrete, gaping at him.

Someone comes, he mouthed, miming a gesture to be silent. He stood, hoisted her into midair by the waistband of her jeans, and jiggled her back into them, the muscles in his arms bunching and rippling.

His eyes glazed over a little when he shook her, and he got a wild look in them. He turned sharply away, leaving her to fasten them. After a long moment, he turned back with her sweater and helped her tug it over her head.

It was so snug it got stuck above her breasts.

His eyes took on a stark, defeated expression. He backed away, unbuttoning his jeans. Jamming a hand down the front, he sucked in a slow hissing breath and repositioned himself.

She finished squeezing herself back into the sweater and slipped on her jean-jacket. Scooping up her backpack, she slung it over her shoulders.

The rat-a-tat-tat of high heels tapped a brisk staccato across the concrete floor, drawing ever nearer, accompanied by softer-soled shoes—many of them.

God, she’d completely forgotten about Stone-face! In a matter of minutes. Kissed brainless once again. What in the world was wrong with her? How could a man’s touch so utterly obliterate the calm, cool intellect and impressive powers of reason on which she’d once prided herself?