Page 35 of Dark Victory

He reached for the vee neckline of the tunic. Tabby watched his hands and her heart stopped. The tunic vanished over his head and fell to the floor.

Her body exploded. She looked at his huge, sculpted chest, then at his six-pack—and the hollow below it.

She went still. He was massive and hard.

“Do ye still wish to leave?” he murmured.

Medieval or not, he was the sexiest man alive—ever.

Maybe he was right. Maybe she wouldn’t have to pretend to be the kind of woman she was supposed to be in bed. Maybe she wouldn’t have to fake it to please her partner. Maybe her hormones would take over and she’d have a good time.

She finally looked up. She meant to look into his eyes, but he was reflected in all of the bathroom’s mirrors. His beautiful face and powerful body were everywhere.

She wanted him. She had never felt this way before. Her body was a mass of swollen, hurting flesh. But she didn’t love him and she never would. She wasn’t a liberated woman. If she gave in now, it would be the most sordid act of her life—and in the morning, she would hate herself.

“I dinna think so,” he murmured. “In the morn, ye’ll be verra pleased.”

He was still reading her mind. “Don’t,” Tabby whispered, but she had the awful feeling that he might be right.

He suddenly reached out, took her hand and reeled her in.

CHAPTER SEVEN

TABBY CRIED OUT as she found herself in his embrace. He was naked, she was dressed, and she felt every inch of his huge, hard and very naked body pressing against her. His power, masculinity and heat made her feel dizzy and faint. Instinctively she pressed her hands on his chest, and the moment she did so, she went still, giving up.

His hands closed on her waist, pulling her up tightly against him. “Ye willna have any regrets,” he said roughly.

His loins strained against her. Tabby felt herself move against him in response. She cried out, meeting his searing eyes. How could she be doing this? But she was trembling wildly now, every nerve she had begging for release. Instead of protesting, she slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders, using her nails to dig hard into his flesh as she did so. His mouth curled in triumph.

“Damn it,” she said, breathing hard. She caught his shoulders and held him fiercely, his skin catching under her fingernails, and she moved her thigh up, over his.

He laughed. The sound was smug and triumphant. She didn’t care. Clawing him, she tried to climb up him, not even realizing what she was doing. When she did, she was horrified, but only in her mind. Because her body was determined to ride his.

She wrapped her calf around his hip, digging her nails in deep. As she did so, their eyes locked.

He caught her hair, using it as a leash, and twisted her head backward. Then he whirled her around, until her back hit the door. He shoved his huge thigh between hers, and Tabby moaned, throbbing wildly all over him. Still holding her hair, anchoring her so she couldn’t move, pressing his leg into her, he brought his mouth down on hers.

His lips were hard and aggressive, possessive. He forced her lips open, took them over, moved his tongue deep. Tabby felt all those new pulse points explode and she surrendered. She let him kiss her so hard he was probably drawing her blood. It didn’t matter. She was in a vortex, spinning toward that usually elusive brink, shaking wildly in his arms, her blood roaring in her veins, her brain. Every inch of her was on fire. Now, she clung and begged. “Oh, God, hurry.”

He wrenched down her track pants, ripped apart her panties. With one hand he lifted her leg and pushed his huge throbbing length hard and deep inside her. Then he paused.

Tabby gasped, the wave of rapture beginning. He strained inside her, filling her impossibly, almost painfully, so much so that she couldn’t move, not this way. It was too much to take—he was too much to take. He wasn’t moving, but she felt him pulsing inside her, every single drop of hot blood roaring in his phallus, in her. She was vaguely aware that he was watching her, but she didn’t give a damn. She was about to break apart and she wanted to go there, as she’d never wanted anything before.

He began to move, slowly, sensually, once, twice, three times.

Tabby broke. She shattered, clinging to him, as he drove hard now, brutally, intently, and she clawed him, demanding more. She wept in more pleasure than she’d dreamed possible. Her back found the hard floor. He suddenly went still, buried deep inside her.

She was still spinning away. Her orgasm seemed to be impossibly endless. And then he slid away from her.

“Tabitha.”

It took her a moment to realize that something was wrong. Tabby opened her eyes, a semblance of coherence returning, and glimpsed Macleod, starkly naked, impossibly hard and so beautiful, on his hands and knees, posed over her. What was she doing? “What are you doing?” she gasped helplessly. “Come back!” As she seized his arm, she became aware of the door buzzer.

His gaze turned cold. “Yer husband.”

His words were like ice water. All insanity vanished. Randall had come back? Tabby stared at him, aghast.

“He has keys,” Macleod murmured, but now he looked dangerously pleased.