The Highlander And The Wolf Princess. Marguerite Kaye

licked her lips, quite innocent of the effect. ‘My leg will fare better without these bindings.’

      ‘Bandages,’ Conall said distractedly, fascinated by the glimpse of pink tongue on the darker pink plumpness of her lips.

      ‘Did you apply them?’ She imagined those calloused hands, the surprisingly well-cared-for fingers, on her skin. He was so different from a Faol man in every way. Bigger. Much more muscled. Broader. And his scent was different, too. Salty. Musky. Yet quite definitively male.

      ‘Yes I did. Luckily it’s a clean wound.’ Conall couldn’t take his eyes off her hand, where it unconsciously stroked her thigh. A gust of desire assailed him. She smelled of hot sun and some other elusive scent, like a wild Highland orchid.

      Despite his heavy frown and the wariness he wore like a cloak, his mouth had a humorous curl to it, tilting up at the corners. She couldn’t read him or see his aura, which was as perturbing as it was unusual. It was as if he had placed a tangible barrier between them which made him opaque. Used as she was to almost complete transparency, it was frustrating, but also a challenge, something she could rarely resist. We Faol heal very quickly,’ Sorcha explained.

      ‘All the same, you need to rest.’ He meant to help her back to bed, but as he moved to do so, she stepped warily backwards, tripping on the sheet, and they fell together onto the bed.

      It had been so long, so very long, since Conall had lain next to any woman, far less a captivating creature like this. She was so close he could feel the soft feathering of her breath on his cheek, count the thick dark lashes that framed those mesmerizing eyes, which were locked on his. ‘I should—you should rest,’ he said roughly. But he couldn’t seem to move. He didn’t want to move.

      ‘I’m not tired,’ Sorcha replied. Though the Faol were an innately sensual race, she had always instinctively guarded against intimacy of this sort. Seeing others’ innermost thoughts, their lives and futures laid bare, made her reluctant to be revealed herself. Knowing all, she had no wish to be known. Until now. Now, all she could think about was being closer still to this forbidding, powerful Highlander. Her body yearned for it. He made her feel safe and vulnerable at the same time. She edged a little towards him. Her toes brushed his legs. .

      Conall’s erection hardened. He should move. He meant to move, and he did move, but in quite the opposite direction from that he intended, pulling her to him, so that they lay breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Her nipples were hard. His shaft was harder. Her breath was a whisper on his skin. Some irrevocable internal command compelled him to kiss her. So he did.

      Sorcha had never allowed any man to kiss her, but as Conall’s lips touched hers, resistance was the furthest thing from her mind. His mouth was warm, every bit as sensuous as it looked. He tasted dark and dangerous. A rush of heat flushed her, from her neck down, her belly up, as his tongue touched hers. He pulled her hard to him and kissed her more deeply. It felt as intense as her shifting did. Her nipples peaked against the rough expanse of his chest. Her pulses began to flutter unevenly.

      She was lying on top of him, the hard length of his erection pressing into her belly, his hand cupping her bottom. His breathing was as ragged and harsh as his appearance. His stubble rasped her delicate skin, yet his mouth was a delight. As he rolled her onto her back, she could almost taste the scent of their arousal, a bittersweet blend of salt and spice. Running her fingers across the span of his shoulders, she marvelled at the power in his bunched muscles. So this was what a man felt like? So different from what she had expected.

      She tried to tug his shirt free from his belt, wanting to test the feel of his skin. His firm hand on her wrist halted her. His lips deserted hers. For a long moment he gazed at her in bewilderment. She had a fleeting glimpse of it then, his essence. Dark, hard, glittering like the rocks which formed Kentarra’s citadel. Then, as he rolled himself off the bed with an exclamation that sounded horribly like disgust, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.