Page 81 of When the Laird Conquers

But he made no move to touch her, as he had done that night. He didn’t come any closer, his distance as disappointing as it was poignant. Was this his way of telling her that she could not expect a repeat of that blissful encounter?

Is this castle to be my convent?

She took down the wedding dress and began to put it on. It was not a style she was accustomed to, rather tighter and more flattering to her curves than her dresses back in England, so it proved rather difficult to get into it by herself. Indeed, if he wanted to see her wear it properly, then he was going to have to come closer to her.

“Can you help me?” she asked, turning.

The back of the gown was open, the laces loose and ready to be tightened into place, to cinch her at the waist.

She hadn’t meant to position herself in front of the mirror, but she was rather glad that she had as she watched him walk toward her. The first touch of his fingertips on her bare skin was an electric thrill that shivered through her, firing up furnaces of passion that she had assumed would remain forever cold.

Diligently, and with a little too much strength, he laced up the back of her gown, every accidental brush of his fingertips squeezing the air out of her lungs. She was burning for him; could he not feel it?

As if reading her thoughts, Gordon dipped his head and brushed a kiss against her neck.

She gasped, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment, her back arching so she might press closer against him, but he was just that little bit too far from her.

“See that?” he murmured, and her eyes opened again.

She stared at her reflection, meeting his gaze.

“That’s me bride,” he told her. “Fake or real, it never mattered. Ye were always mine. From the moment ye crept through me window, ye belonged to me.”

“Yet you keep your distance,” she whispered breathily, her body ablaze with desire. “You kiss me, and you touch me, and then you withdraw from me. How do I know I am yours when you act that way?”

Rather than reply, he kissed her neck again, his arm slipping around her waist and pulling her hard against him.

A moan slipped past her lips as she felt his arousal press against her, her heart thundering as his kiss traced a line down her neck and across her shoulder.

Had he changed his mind? Would he claim her after all?

Catching her eye in the mirror, he let his hand slide over the firm bodice of her dress and down to the folds of her skirts. With deft fingers, he grasped the fabric and began to lift it bit by taunting bit, revealing her legs slowly. And as he kissed his way along her jaw, his hand slipped between her thighs, his fingertips teasing her bundle of nerves.

She cried out, arching into him, melting into the warmth and power of him.

“Daenae look away,” he whispered, strumming her.

Breathing raggedly, she made herself look, watching in awe and longing as his hand moved in a steady rhythm, each brush sending a fresh ripple of bliss through her entire body.

Just then, his other hand hitched up the back of her skirts, pushing them into the hard edge of her stays to keep them in place. Her breath quickened, her desperation rising, her hunger for him reaching a feverish peak as she reached behind her, daring to touch him.

“I want you,” she moaned. “I know I shouldn’t, I know you can’t, but I want you.”

He growled close to her ear, his hand grasping her backside as if to anchor himself so he wouldn’t lose control. The trouble was, she wanted him to. After all, they would be husband and wife tomorrow. What did it matter if they lay together a little earlier?

“Ye’re right, I cannae, but…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to, as she felt him for the first time, freed from the barrier of his woolen kilt. Smooth, silky flesh, hot and hard against her hand.

But just as she was about to explore that tempting part of him, he lowered himself slightly, and she felt his hot flesh slipping along her slick folds.

It was almost more than she could bear, as his hard length teased her entrance, gliding further until it brushed over her sensitive bud.

The sound of his torment stirred her up into a frenzy that she feared she would never recover from, certainly not if she had to spend every night of her life with this exquisite man, unable to feel everything that he had to offer. Everything she desired.

He turned her head and kissed her, hot and fierce and furious, while he drew his hips back and pushed forward again. An echo, she suspected, of what they could have done if he had not vowed against it.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his teeth raking across her lower lip.