Free Unwilling (Highland Historical #2) by Kerrigan Byrne Page B

strings.  Lindsay had never
thought of those fingers as elegant or particularly dexterous before.  Brutal,
maybe.  Strong and skilled in clutching a weapon or meeting out death or
punishment.  But, she supposed, her very first experience with his hands should
taught her exactly how varied his skills were and how expertly he applied them. 
    Her traitorous body warmed at the
memory.  Though his eyes had been demon black, those hands had manipulated her
flesh as expertly as any responsive instrument.  He’d used them to coax
unfamiliar sounds from her, a climactic song of pleading and pleasure.  He’d
tuned her most sensitive peak, thrumming it in a percussive, throbbing rhythm
until the crescendo had left her breathless and forever altered. 
    Yes, she should have known he was a
musician. 
    Letting a captured breath out on a
shaky sigh, she shifted uncomfortably and squeezed her thighs together.  She’d
bloomed at the evocative reflection, her soft woman’s place becoming as slick
and aching as it had been for him that terrible day.  Her nether regions
flooded as she replayed the images of what had transpired between them.  What could
have happened had she not stopped him.  Memory and fantasy melded until she
wasn’t sure where the lines blurred and what reality contained.
    His tune had sped a little without
her noticing much until he stopped altogether.  The wood of the lute’s neck
protested as he squeezed it in a white-knuckled grip.  Every muscle tensed
beneath his clothing and he became utterly motionless but for the flaring of
nostrils and heaving of breath. 
    “You canna do this to me, woman,”
he growled.  “I can smell…”  His mouth opened on a tortured pant and he wet his
lips with his tongue.
    Lindsay hopped off the table in
alarm and retreated a few steps.  “What?” she asked.  Could he smell her
arousal?  Nay, that was impossible.  He’d have to be… preternatural to do
that.  Closing her eyes, she berated herself for her stupidity.  Her pride would
never allow words to be betray her, but her body already had; and his
perceptive senses knew exactly what she wanted.  What would happen now? 
    “Ye haveta leave,” he barked.  “If
I look at ye now, I’ll be upon ye before ye can scream.”
    If possible, she became even more
wet. 
    “ Lindsay ,” he warned. 
    “But you said a berserker can’t
have me without my permission.”
    “But I can.”  This was
growled between clenched teeth.
    He could have?  All this time?  He
could have broken her door in with naught but a little will and what was, to
him, nothing more than a slight shove.   But he didn’t. 
    The thought held a dark and violent
appeal. 
    The neck of the lute shattered
beneath his grip.  “Run from me, Lindsay,” he begged.  “While ye still can.”
    Heart racing, Lindsay stared into
the fire behind him.  It licked at the man-sized hearth, spitting hungry embers
onto the stone floor from time to time with a loud crack.  Her soul had felt
like that fire for untold years now, contained within the cold recesses of
stone walls, only allowed to burn bright enough to be enjoyed by those who
needed its warmth and utility.  Perhaps it was time to give it enough fodder to
consume them both.   
    “No,” she whispered.

Chapter
Twelve
     
    Connor was only distantly aware of
the crash the lute made as it was discarded.  Firelight glowed off the white
nightshift she wore and her hair was a straight, inky waterfall that flowed over
her breasts that ended just above her hips. 
    Grabbing her around the waist with
one arm, he pinned her against his body as he plunged the other in her hair and
held her head prisoner.  Capturing her lips was the sweetest plunder he’d ever
wrought.  She wasn’t pliant, either, in this endeavor.  She met his invading
tongue with her own, sparring with him and stroking him wetly.  Gods, her
mouth.  Could there be a sweeter place to reside in all the world?
    He could