If You Dare (24 page)

When she finally whispered “Yes,” he tugged the cloth down.

With the first mere brush of his lips against her nipple, her head fell back and she moaned. He'd known how much she would love this, had suspected he could make her come just from pinning her arms over her head and slowly tonguing her. And he'd hated the impossibility that a man like him would ever witness it. Now he suckled hard, savoring her flesh.

“Oh, my God,” she cried, and his cock pulsed with need. He put her hand back on him and forced her to rub it up and down.

He alternately sucked at the crest and flicked his tongue until she arched her back, offering. When she was in this state, he put his hand behind her head and pushed her against the grotto wall, pressing her hand between them.

“MacCarrick, what do you want of me?” she whispered wildly.

What did he want? Everything and nothing. With Annalía, he'd bloody well take whatever he could get. “I want to see you come tonight. One way or another.” When she frowned in confusion, and removed her hand, his lips found hers, but she turned her face from him. “I can't
think.
My head's spinning.”

He knew she couldn't think—or else she'd deny him. He hated that he was the type of man a fine lady like her shouldn't—wouldn't—consider for anything more. He pressed his hand against her skirt between her legs to palm her through the material.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Her eyes opened wide, meeting his own, and she let out a tremulous breath. He leaned down to press his lips to the top of her breast just as he stroked his fingers against her.
“Oh, my Lord,”
she moaned and relaxed into him.

“You like this.”

“Yes,” she cried.

“Do you want me tae keep touchin' you?”

When she nodded eagerly, he made some sound of amusement, then said, “No' so ladylike right now?”

Her whole body went rigid, and she pushed at his chest. She snatched up her blouse and swatted at his hand, though he resisted releasing her. When she peered down at his hand, shoved into her skirts, her face and chest colored, her eyes widening in horror. Too late, he remembered how she'd reacted the last time he'd made a comment like that.

Humiliated. She'd reacted as if she'd been hit.

He pulled his hand away. “Anna, I should no' have said that—”

“No, but it's true, isn't it?” She gave him a tight, false smile that didn't reach her eyes. And he knew the bloody choker
would come back the next day like a collar. He hated the damn thing now.

He wanted to know who'd hurt her—besides himself. Who'd hurt her
originally.

And he wouldn't mind knowing why he wanted to kill that person.

A
t odd times throughout the last two days, memories of the time in the grotto would surface, making Annalía blush uncontrollably. Actually, at most times. It was happening now, as she rocked along in the warm coach trapped with a man so intense she could
feel
him three feet away.

Worse, whenever she replayed the events of that night, she wanted to repeat them, no matter how sharp her shame was. What they'd done had only served to make her cravings for him a thousand times worse. She wanted to go back to that night and take what he had offered. She wanted to go back and give him what he seemed to need.

But even
he
must think that her actions were bad.
Not so ladylike,
he'd said when she answered that she wanted more—and she thought he'd . . . laughed. A barbaric Scot had teased free the fire in her blood, and then had ridiculed
her
reaction. Her behavior must have been wildly amiss. Why else would he continue to take the chair or the floor without a
word of protest when they stopped for the night? Why else would he not even bother to try to seduce her again? Before, he'd always found excuses to touch her, was always staring at her, and now he'd stopped.

Each night she lay awake waiting, hoping he would take the bed again. Because then she could rebuff him! Yet nothing happened, nothing but mounting exhaustion and disappointment for her.

Last night, she'd realized, miserably, that she'd never planned to rebuff him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Why should she be surprised? One
couldn't
escape one's fate. She'd tried so hard, been the opposite of what everyone expected of her. She'd tried, and all because of some rough Highlander's seduction, she'd failed. A seduction that vanished as if never there.

These thoughts made her head hurt, so she leaned against the coach side near the window and tried to sleep. She needed to make up for two nights without, and a breeze was blowing in the window. Sunlight teased her face through the tree leaves. Wonderful. . . .

When Annalía woke a short time later, she blinked her eyes to focus. Feeling heavy in her body, feverish, she glanced down, saw his huge hand slowly stroking her nipple through her blouse.

“Sleep well?” he said, his voice rumbling against her ear.

She scrambled away. More awake, she realized she'd been lying half on his lap, clutching his shirt. On the
opposite
seat.

While she marshaled her scattered wits, determining the most effective way to curse him for touching her while she
slept,
he said, “You talk in your sleep.”

“I do not!”

“Aye. Just now and every night I've spent with you.”

How humiliating! She smoothed her hair in place, checked her choker, then crossed her arms over her sensitive breasts.
“You shouldn't have . . . petted me while I was unaware!” she cried. “I know you are not a gentleman but this . . . this . . . It wasn't fair.”

“Doona speak to me about what's no' fair. It's no' fair that I canna
stop.”

He couldn't stop? Well, he had for the last fifty-nine hours. Or so. Oh, she was sorry off—Wait, he made it sound like it was
her
fault? How dare he turn it around? “I want you to apologize.”

He curled his lips into a shadow of a grin, dismissing the idea so easily. “I'll never be sorry for that. Besides, you pressed against me, rubbing my chest and lower. Saying soft words in Catalan—”

“What did I say?” she asked, her voice shrill. Probably begging him to make love to her. She was so common!

“It's a wee bit dirty. Are you sure you want me to repeat it?”

“No!” she said, glad for a way out. “But I still don't accept that I did these things.”

“Aye, you did them, as soon as I carried you onto my lap where you belonged, you started to.”

Her jaw slackened. “You have no shame!”

“Annalía, we canna go on like this. I know why you're mad at me—”

“I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself,” she lied, because actually she was furious with both of them.

“How's that? There's no way you can blame yourself.”

“Of course, I can blame myself. It's just as you said.
I
wasn't behaving like a lady.”

He glanced away and muttered, “If you knew how many times I've kicked myself . . .” Bringing his gaze to hers again, he said, “Anna, if anyone's to blame, it's me. That night I coaxed you into doing something you would no' normally do. Remember? I'm the ruthless bastard. I pushed you into it.”

She shook her head insistently. He had no idea how much
she wanted him to touch her. How even now she craved it—

“Have you done what we did with another man?”

“No!”

“Then it was me. My doing.” He sounded so confident.

“You've done this with a lot of women?”

He didn't answer, just continued to watch her face.

Other women. No doubt
many
other women. Like the women who stared at him on the street. Why did that make her furious? Scaldingly furious?

“Anna, I'm past thirty years of age. I have no' lived my life as a monk.”

Bastard! She was just one of many. But she would never think of another man as she did him. In the grotto, before her humiliation, she'd felt wonder and awe. The feelings he'd given her were indescribable.

“I'm twenty-one, and apparently I have!” A thought occurred to her. If she was to be cursed with memories of him, he deserved no less. She wanted him to long for her above all the others—above all the shopkeepers and barmaids and farmers' daughters, the entire hateful legion she'd dreamed up—when they parted ways. She wanted to be better than all the rest.

Instinctively, she thought she could. . . .

When his voice grew husky and he said, “I want my next kiss,” she met his gaze.

“Then take it,” she heard herself murmur.

He appeared surprised, just before he cupped her neck with one hand and grabbed her waist with the other, pulling her to him. With an “Oh!” she realized he was drawing her directly back onto his lap. When he had her positioned on him, he put his hands on her shoulders to rub his thumbs over the sides of her neck.

“This is getting in the way, lass,” he said as he began unfastening her choker.

“Oh, wait, you can't just—”

“I'll keep it safe for now.” He carefully rolled it up and placed it in his trouser pocket.

She was about to say more, but he began massaging her up and down her back. Yet even when her lids grew heavy, he didn't kiss her. Again, she got the impression he was relishing that he was about to.

“MacCarrick,”
she said plaintively, shocking herself. It was all the prodding he needed. He leaned her back over his arm and settled her lips beneath his. His other arm brushed over her sensitive nipples, and she moaned against him. He stilled his body, as if deciding something, then brought his hand up to grasp her breast. Another moan. Soon his hand on her breast felt vital, as if she'd beg for it if he took it away.

As he kissed her deeply, stroking her tongue with his own, he palmed her, running his hands over the material of her blouse. When she writhed against him, she felt his manhood beneath her bottom, huge, jutting from his groin. But he drew back. Her thinking was so muddled, her craving for his lips back on hers intense, and beneath her . . . all heat and hardness. She remembered how good he'd felt in the grotto growing harder and larger directly in her hand.

She felt air on her chest, followed by his hot breath.

How had he bared her? Her blouse open, he tugged down the gauzy material of her chemise, uncovering her breasts. He stared, eyes intent.

Two nights ago, there'd been the music, wine, and
darkness,
but this was daylight. She could feel herself blushing from her chest up to her face and began to scramble up. “No, Anna, let me see you.” He brushed the back of his hand over one breast, then the other, as if reverently. He grated some foreign word, but the
way
he said it . . .

“I-I don't know. MacCarrick—?” She watched his brows draw together as he bent his head to her. And cried out when he dragged his tongue over her nipple. An urgent groaning
sound came from him as he set to her breasts,
licking
the peaks as he had in the grotto. Who had ever heard of this before?

He closed his mouth on one and drew. Her back arched from the pleasure, her bottom grinding against him. He raised his face and grated,
“Still, lass.
You canna know what you're doin' tae me.”

She stiffened. “Am I hurting you?”

“Aye. Terribly.” His face was solemn, deadly serious when he said, “You usually do.”

When she didn't relax, he cupped her other breast and suckled.

“But I don't want to hurt you,” she said between panting breaths. She meant it—she didn't like the idea of him hurting, and hated that she caused it.

Against her wet nipple, he rasped, “It will no' much longer.”

Cool air on her legs. His palm rubbed its way up her thigh, well past her garters and higher. . . . She stiffened in his arms and pushed at his hand. He lowered it, but still caressed her thigh.

“I need tae touch you.”

“No!”

He put his lips to her earlobe and flicked his tongue against her.

“Oh!”

His hand inched higher. “Let me touch you there.”

“I can't. You'll be cruel to me.”

“Never,”
he bit out.

“You were before.”

“Cruel? I was no' tryin' tae be. But you are now.” His brogue was growing thicker.

“I am not!”

“If you knew how much I want my fingers against you . . .
You've got me at your mercy, Anna. I'd give anythin' right now.” He pressed his face down against her breasts, nipped at the peaks, making her shoot up in his arms before he soothed her back down.
“Name anything.”

He wanted this that badly? “Anything?”

“Right now I'd give my land, I'd sell my soul.”