MacAdam's Lass by Glynnis Campbell

Author:Glynnis Campbell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Glynnis Campbell
Published: 2011-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29

Satan’s claws!

Josselin bit her lip against crying out. For an instant she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. ’Twas like impaling herself on a great jagged knife.

Beneath her, Drew stiffened. “Oh, lass!” he whispered.

She refused to let him see her weakness. He’d warned her, after all. Aye, ’twas painful, but it had been her idea, and she wasn’t about to back down. Besides, she could no more undo what had been done than she could recall a careless slash of the sword.

So she blinked back the tears of pain starting in her eyes, clenched her teeth against the size of him inside her, and tried to move.

“Nae, love,” Drew murmured, stopping her. “Let me.”

She didn’t want to let him take the offensive, and she didn’t want his pity. ’Twould show she was weak. But he gave her no choice. For a man who didn’t have the bulging muscles of a caber-tosser, he was damned strong. Holding her against him with one hand on her buttocks, he gently rolled with her until he was once again on top.

Humiliated, she refused to meet his gaze. She’d felt so victorious a moment ago, and now…

“The pain will pass in a moment,” he told her, tenderly brushing the hair back from her brow, “I promise.”

“’Tis nothin’,” she lied. “I’ve had worse from a blade.”

He cupped her cheek and kissed the corner of her lip. “Breathe through the pain, and try to let it go. I won’t move a muscle till ye give the word.”

He kissed her again, this time full on the mouth, and she answered instinctively. Considering his bold invasion below, his trespass upon her lips was surprisingly delicate.

He stroked her with a feather-light touch, murmuring against her ear, “I’m sorry if I hurt ye.”

But already she was adjusting to his fullness, and she could feel the delicious erotic glow gradually returning to her skin.

The frantic need she’d experienced a moment before was gone. In its place was a slow-building, tender craving that was soothing her hurt and taking her to a sweeter place, a place to which they were journeying together.

“That’s it, love,” he said. “There’s no hurry. ’Tis a dance, not a race.”

His soft touch—along her jaw, over her shoulders, upon her breasts—began to bring her to life again. Soon, floating in a haze of arousal, she started to respond, returning his kisses, clutching at his shirt, weaving her fingers through his wild hair. Caught up in bliss, she almost forgot about her discomfort.

“If ye’ll allow me,” he whispered, “I can make it better.”

She couldn’t imagine anything better, but she wasn’t about to argue with him. She nodded.

He slipped his hand down to the place where they were joined, massaging her gently. She sucked in a sharp breath, not of pain, but of pleasure.

Like a swordsman with a blade at her heart, he held her hostage. With the slightest movement of his fingers, he controlled her passion. He could send her lust spiraling out of bounds or withhold his touch to leave her begging for more.

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