A Pirate's Wife for Me (28 page)

At his guttural tone, the hair rose on the back of her neck.

Lightning flashed.

In that instant, she saw him clearly, saw his need, his intent, his determination.

Thunder boomed a warning.

With the instinct of a hunted doe, she knew she was in danger. She should continue to sidle away. She shouldn't incite him by fleeing. But —

He reached out and slammed one hand on the wall beside her. "Cate!"

She broke and ran.

He leaped after her. He caught her as she reached the corridor. He swept her up, one arm beneath her back, one beneath her knees. He held her tightly, a pirate's prize. She expected him to take her through the door into their bedchamber.

She prepared to fight. But she had underestimated his hunger and his lust.

He couldn't wait. He laid her out on the floor as if it were some pagan sacrificial altar. He pushed her knees apart, knelt on the top step, and leaned over her, trapping her between his outthrust arms.

Earlier, when she stood above him on the stairs, the lightning illuminated his upturned face in bursts of power he seemed to absorb. She'd seen the man then, and the facial structure she knew only too well. Now lightning flickered behind him, and all she could see was a creature of hulking shoulders, black eye sockets, and intentions that angered and thrilled…

No! She was not thrilled. Her heart beat so hard it thumped against her ribs, but that was … fear. Yes. Fear. Fear was better than believing she could not resist Taran and his passion.

She didn't touch him, either, or move suddenly, or make the mistake of trying to flee again. Instead, she stared directly into his eyes — or rather, where she knew his eyes to be — and in a clear, slow voice, she said, "Taran, I am not amused by this display of bloody-minded masculinity."

"Then there's hope for you yet." Now he sounded smooth, warm … too warm. "Cate." As he lowered himself onto his elbows, his lower body formed to hers. His thighs were between hers, his erection pressed against her, and it made no difference that she wore a nightgown and robe — a robe that hung open, damn it — and he wore his rough-and-tumble clothing. For her, at this moment, this was as intimate as flesh on flesh.

He rubbed himself against her like some great, purring, wicked cat, and she gasped like a virgin, embarrassed by the contact, horrified by her own body's uncontrolled reaction. Her nipples tightened. Between her legs, she grew damp and she wanted, needed to lift herself and move with him until she satisfied the desire that burgeoned within herself.

When had this happened? When had she lost the lonely contentment she had achieved with so much difficulty?

She closed her eyes, and in her imagination, she could see the two of them, naked and entwined, their limbs sliding across bare skin, dancing to the endless song that only they could hear. She could almost taste his skin, feel the scrape of his tongue as he tasted her …

Her eyes sprang open.

She had to get away from him. Somehow, he'd trapped her with him in this mindless passion made half of rage and half of frustration. She was Caitlin MacLean, and she would not be trapped.

Putting her hands against his shoulders, she pushed.

He pushed back, leaning into her, pressing more of his belly and his chest against hers, and the heat of this man, this pirate, warmed her blood and her bones. His hands covered her breasts, just like that, an abrupt cupping that should have seemed crude, but thrilled with its boldness.

She began to breathe in gasps — harsh, deep breaths that wracked her and lifted her breasts closer and harder into his hands.

He took this as an invitation, sweeping her nipples with his thumb, pressing her flesh rhythmically with his palms.

Lightning. Thunder.

Desire. Satisfaction.

A turbulence in the air, and in her blood.

Her feet rested on the steps beside his knees. Her toes flexed as she fought to
not
rub her leg against his thigh in restless invitation. She turned her head to the side, imagining herself away from this … this seduction, this bold and dramatic seduction.

"Cate." He almost purred in her ear.

Goosebumps sprang up on her skin.

Gently, he pressed his mouth to her throat, then sank his teeth into the cord of her shoulder.

He wasn't kissing her. He was … he was eating her alive.

And no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't lie to herself any more. She liked it. She wanted it.

Dear God, she wanted him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Panic struck. In a savage,
convulsive movement, Cate tore herself away and rolled onto her stomach.

Taran pounced, grabbing handfuls of cloth. The robe slipped off her shoulders, trapping her arms. The nightgown strained at the shoulder seams. She slithered out of the robe and made a frantic leap across the landing.

He flung the robe away and grabbed the hem of her nightgown. He twisted it sideways; she slipped and landed on her hip. The rug was not nearly enough padding. She'd have a bruise tomorrow, but she didn't notice. She only knew this was her last chance to save herself.

She flung herself onto her back.

He lost his grip on her nightgown.

She lifted her feet and caught him squarely in the chest as he charged her. She heard his grunt, saw him slam against the wall.

Before she could scramble to her feet, he shoved himself off the wall and on top of her again.

She gasped from the impact. "How did you do that?"

"Desperation." His hands grasped the material at her throat. He tore it down the front.

Desperation.
He
said desperation drove him.

She
said he was a primitive, and she would treat him like one. She clawed at his face. She kicked at him.

He ducked away, slid down her body, grabbed her thighs in his arms and put his face … between her legs…

She screamed when his mouth tasted her.

"What are you … what … " She couldn't finish the question. It was obvious what he was doing. He was kissing her … there. He was sucking and nibbling, tasting her body, reveling in the way her hips moved and laughing, softly, when she moaned. "God. Taran. Please. Don't. You can't…" She should have been fighting him. She
was
fighting him, trying to get away again, still, but all the while her body responded, tightened, prepared for pleasure.

It wasn't right, the way his tongue stroked her, over and over, until she wanted to give up and do whatever he desired. And his hands moved, slid, stroked her inner thighs, then found the entrance of her body. His finger circled and circled, teasing her when all she wanted was Taran, inside her.

Rising up, she pounded her fists on his shoulders. "Stop! I can't bear this!"

In retaliation, he slid his finger inside her.

Orgasm swept from everywhere he touched to everywhere in her body, carried in her veins, by her nerves. She groaned. She threw herself backward, arms outstretched, taut with overwhelming pleasure. The sensation went on and on, blanking thought, making her a creature driven by passion, lifted on one wave of pleasure after the other.

She was helpless.

She was empowered.

She was woman incarnate.

And he … he kept on, drinking in her orgasm as if it were the elixir of life.

When the first violence of climax calmed, Taran rose above her and called her name. "Caitlin." He made it sound as if she were his only lover. As if he'd longed for her across years and miles. "Cate, give in to me."

She opened her eyes.

She was crying. When had she started crying? Oh. She knew. When that last, mighty spasm had swept her, the sensation had been too much, too good, too strong, and she cried. Now her breath quivered as she tried to see … him. Tried to remember why she shouldn't give in, when he offered — nay, demanded! — such amazing response.

He was still firmly between her bent knees. He could have taken her without struggle, in an instant. Instead, his hand stroked the skin on her inner thigh, soft circles that beguiled and entreated. "Cate, give in to me."

She had to remember. Who he was. Who she was. What yielding would bring. Her voice was scratchy. "No."

Then he proved why he was such a great warrior.

He never gave up. Putting his hand to the opening of his shirt, he tore the material just as he had torn her gown. He tore it clear to the hem. She flinched from the sound, thin and sharp in the dim recesses of the stairway. Then, taking her fist from her side, he uncurled the fingers, one by one, and placed them on his chest.

How did he know that that was what she longed to do? To touch his bare skin, to slip her fingers down his muscled abdomen to rest on the bulge in his trousers?

Her hand pressed on his chest. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the throb of his heart. Her own heartbeat matched his, rapid, desperate to go on, to finish what they'd begun. Sweat dewed his skin, and her palm slipped to one side and came to rest over his nipple.

He threw his head back.

She saw his features in the moonlight. Strained, pleasured, wanting. She'd seen him look like this before … one day in a peaceful Scottish valley in the daylight.

The memory hurt.

She jerked her hand away. "Nay!"

As if her touch led him, he followed it down, laid full length on her. He caught her hands before she could punish him — ah, he'd weakened her with his wiles! — and he kissed her.

He might ask for permission, but it was nothing but form, a minor detail before he ravished her body as he now ravished her mouth. Her nipples rubbed against his bare chest. His heat, his closeness, his scent surrounded her. His tongue thrust past her lips, demanding response, and she yielded.

Yielded. Ha. She responded, wanted, cradling him between her legs, moving her hips against him, wishing his trousers were gone and he inside her.

Desperate. He was desperate.

Now, so was she. She would climax now, simply from his taste in her mouth, from their movements, from the constant, rocking desperation of their bodies together.

He stood so quickly, the chill struck her, made her nipples pucker, made her clasp her arms around her waist and bring her knees together.

He stood one step down and unbuttoned his trousers. He never turned his glittering gaze from her. He didn't move quickly, nor slowly. He moved deliberately. Softly, he said, "How could you think we would not come together again? The only way I cured my longing for you was to forget about you altogether. If I hadn't, I would have died from the longing, and we would have spent eternity alone. I don't want to be alone anymore. You don't want to be alone anymore. Cate, I want you."

In between the bleak darkness and the blinding lightning, Cate couldn't quite make out his expression … but she heard that voice, saying things she secretly believed. And she saw his body, sculpted by hardship, marked with scars … lean, muscled … his trousers slid down his thighs, and oh, how boldly his cock thrust toward her. She wanted to take it in her mouth, take it into her body, possess that piece of him that would make them one.

He pulled her up to face him. Knelt on the step, wrapped his arms around her body. Wrapped her legs around his hips. Let her feel the prod of his penis against the entrance of her body.

She was soft, swollen, so damp with desire she had tasted herself on his lips. And he made it worse, with his probing, his almost entry, his taunting touches.

She strained, wanting to thrust herself on him, impale herself and cure this need that hounded her now. Tonight.

Always.

Savage, deep and strong, he told her, "Cate. It's time."

"Aye." She caught his hips and pulled him into her. "Aye."

God.
God
. He slid into her in a smooth movement that filled her, that stretched her, that brought her instantly to the brink. She wanted him to stay there. All the way inside her. To give her a chance to savor this sensation. To avoid this fate that rushed at her so quickly she couldn't catch her breath.

That wasn't what he wanted. He crushed her in his arms, moving only his hips, drawing out from her, not all the way, but enough that her swollen tissues clung in desperation. Then he pushed back in, all the way to the entrance of her womb, groaning as if he'd found the pinnacle of pleasure in her body.

She shuddered to have him inside her. It was like dying. Like being born.

He held her so tightly, he controlled her movements, the very act of joining. She cried out and struggled, managed to free her arms and wrap them around his shoulders, and all the time he moved in and out, an instrument of exquisite torture.

She wanted him to stop. She wanted him to hurry. She wanted anything but this half-movement, this almost-pleasure. The rhythm was slow, the touch of his penis against her womb intermittent. She wriggled beneath him, trying to force the pace, and he kept … tormenting her.