Page 38 of The Laird's Masked Passion
“Who told ye tae dae that?”
Her lashes lowered. “Me maither said it was best nae tae scream, that tears may anger a husband. Skye said she had heard some women bite something, so I thought…” She stopped, with mortification flooding her face. “It daesnae matter what I thought.”
Colin stared at her. Then laughter rose again, quieter this time, helpless and dark with disbelief.
She glared at him. “Ye are vile.”
“Aye,” he nodded, still smiling. “But nae fer the reason ye think.”
He bent and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. She gasped. The sound shot through him with dangerous speed. He felt her hands clutch at the coverlet, not pushing him away, nor drawing him closer, only holding fast, as though the world had tilted beneath her and she did not know which direction was safe.
He kissed her again, a slow touch beneath her ear.
“Colin,” she breathed, and he did not think she meant to say his name at all.
“That,” he murmured against her skin, “is closer tae what I prefer.”
“What?”
“Willingness.”
“I am nae willing.”
“Nay.” He lifted his head and looked down at her. “Nae yet.”
Her brows drew together. “Yet?”
“When I take ye,” he said, letting each word settle, “ye willnae be lying beneath me like a martyr awaiting the axe.”
Her mouth parted in outrage. “I was prepared with dignity.”
“Ye were prepared like a woman expecting bad weather and worse manners.”
“I was prepared fer terror.”
He touched her cheek again, gentler than any instinct in him found wise. “Then ye were prepared for the wrong man.”
Her throat moved. He lowered himself closer, letting his weight rest carefully, not enough to trap her, only enough to make her aware that he could, that he chose not to. Her eyes searched his face as if this restraint were another form of trickery.
“When I take ye,” he promised, “ye will want me tae.”
A disbelieving sound escaped her.
His mouth curved. “Aye. Just so. Ye will be willing. Ye will be warm and soft and furious with me fer kenning it. And if ye beg, it willnae be fer mercy.”
Her face went crimson. “I willneverbeg ye fer anything.”
“Nae even fer pleasure?” he asked.
She looked as though he had begun speaking in Latin. “Women dinnae?—”
“They dae.”
“Nay.”
“Aye.”
Her certainty faltered, and he saw the exact instant curiosity slipped through the crack fear had left behind. He let his hand drift from her shoulder to the front of her gown. He touched her over the fabric, slowly, giving her every chance to stop him. Her breath caught again when his palm shaped the curve of her breast through silk and linen. Her eyes flew wide.
