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Ian hooked the edge of his tunic and pulled it up and over his head. Kate’s mouth dried at the sight of him. He was all lean muscle and male gorgeousness, with a broad chest and shoulders, firm pecs, and a triangle of muscle at the bottom of his hard stomach leading down under his breeches. Several silver scars caught her attention—a long one on his side, a ragged one above his heart and beneath his collarbone, and a few smaller ones across his shoulders, solid biceps, and chest.
Kate’s throat convulsed at the thought of what those scars signified. The hardships he’d gone through, the pain, the constant fear and torture he’d been living for eleven years.
They also signified his strength, his unbreakable, unbendable spirit.
And they made her love him even more.
Kate reached out and gently stroked the big scar above his heart with her thumb. “That’s when all this started, isn’t it? When the MacDougalls wounded you?”
Ian looked at her hand as though she’d touched him with red-hot iron tongs. Kate moved her hand, but he pinned it in place, pressing her fingers to the scar.
“Aye,” he said, his voice rasping. “Touch me here. Touch me anywhere. Make the pain go away. Make me whole again.”
Kate’s fingers burned. She? Make him whole?
“How can I make you whole when I’m damaged myself, Ian?” she asked.
His eyes softened, and something connected between them on a level deeper and stronger than she’d ever imagined. Maybe their souls came together, maybe it was something else, but he became an extension of her, and she became an extension of him.
“I dinna ken. But ye’re already doing it.”
An unexpected tear crawled down her cheek. She? Healing anybody, making anyone’s life better? She hadn’t done anything.
“It’s you,” she said. “You’re the one healing me. Not the other way around.”
He stroked her cheek with his knuckles.
“And now, I’m going to wash ye, lass,” he said.
He removed his pants and stood before her, completely naked, and completely breathtaking. Long legs with the muscles of a skier, narrow hips and…the biggest, most beautiful penis she’d ever seen.
How would he even fit inside her?
Kate breathed out softly. “You’re…you look like a god.”
Ian shook his head and laughed softly. The sound beautiful and dear and precious.
“’Tis a sweet way to try to distract me, Katie, but it wilna work. If one of us has a connection to the divine, ’tis ye, nae me. My soul is bound to hell. But I will show ye the stars before I go.”
Kate licked her lips. She opened her mouth to protest. He wasn’t bound to hell. He was some sort of a Celtic god, the flame itself, hot and powerful and all-consuming.
But before she could say anything, he said, “Ye’re thinking too much.”
Then he drew her to himself and kissed her.
His hard body pressed against hers, but his lips were the softest things that had ever touched her. He eased his tongue between her lips and began a teasing game of stroking, licking, gently sucking, and nipping. Kate’s bones turned to mush, and a deep moan built in the back of her throat.
“Aye, ’tis better,” Ian mumbled approvingly.
He undid the girdle at her waist, then pulled the edge of Kate’s sleeveless overtunic over her head. Then he did the same with the soft linen gown that had been under it. Kate tingled more and more as he got closer to her skin with each layer.
Was she ready for this? When was the last time she’d had sex? Must have been five years ago or so, with her last boyfriend, Jim. She wasn’t even waxed or shaved—not that it would matter in medieval times, she thought.
Finally, she stood before him in nothing but her smock, and he bent one last time and pulled the fabric up and over her head.
Kate held her breath, fighting her instinct to cover herself. There she was before him, every curve, every pore exposed for him to see.
And he, a Greek god, a gladiator in the flesh, so gorgeous it hurt to look at his perfect form. If ever there was a model of a man’s beauty, he stood before her.
