Pleasured (13 page)

Meg had worn blue tonight, a more stylish dress than he had seen on her before. Dainty, puffed sleeves left much of her arms bare, and blond lace edged the neckline, drawing the eye to the soft, curving flesh beneath—as if his attention needed any push. Her hair was done up in a sophisticated manner and secured with an elegant comb—a delicate tracery of gold, leaves, and branches twining, with little green
leaves and flowers formed of peridot and citrine. His first thought had been how beautiful it looked nestled in her thick, red hair, the citrine echoing the gold of her eyes. His second had been that the ornament was too expensive to have been within the reach of a rural healer and midwife.

A man had given it to her. A lover. Jealousy pierced him at the thought. Damon pictured some other man sliding the comb into her hair, brushing his fingers over the lush red curls, bending to place a kiss upon her lips. It was what he would have done.

Bracing his arms against the wide stone railing, he stared out, wishing he had maneuvered Meg outside the party for a stolen kiss instead of striving to maintain the image that he was in control of his relationship with Miss Munro. It would be far more appealing, he thought, to actually
have
a relationship. Pride was a cold companion.

He stiffened and leaned farther out, peering through the darkness. A woman in a light-colored gown was strolling down the road, too far away, unfortunately, to tell whether her hair was brown or a flaming red.

Damon hurried along the terrace and down another set of stairs. Frustratingly, he found that though he was closer, his view of the road was blocked. He strode to the opposite end, where another flight of stairs descended to the large formal garden. It was, he realized, an absurdly long flight of stairs.

When he reached the stone balustrade at the far end of the garden, he could see that the figure was indeed Meg. He watched her turn onto the road that led to the stone circle, abnormally aware of the beat of his pulse in his throat. Unconsciously he rubbed his hand over his chest again.

He trailed along the balustrade, keeping her in sight, until he reached the end of the terrace and she vanished from his view. He trotted past the mews, ignoring the interested yellow gaze of an owl on its perch, and took the final set of stairs two at a time. He saw her in the distance. Soon she would be gone again, for the stone circle and the path beyond it were hidden from the castle by the copse of trees. He loped down the narrow dirt path to level ground and through the copse, emerging at last at the edge of the clearing.

The stone circle lay before him, and Meg was strolling toward it. Her skirts fluttered a little in the breeze, the moon highlighting her pale skin and leaching her hair. As he watched, Meg entered the ring of stones. Her face raised to the moon, she reached up and pulled the jeweled comb from her hair, shaking her head to release the glorious red curls. Lifting her arms, she spun in a slow circle, face tilted up and eyes closed.

Damon moved forward, drawn inexorably to the elemental beauty of the woman and the scene.

She must have heard him, for her hands dropped and she whirled to face him. “What are you doing here?” Though her voice was breathless, no fear was in it.

“Watching you,” he replied candidly. “Dancing amidst the stones in the moonlight. Have you come to call down your powers? To cast a spell?”

“Only to enjoy the night. I have no magic.”

“Do you not? I believe you have ensorcelled me.” Damon started toward her.

12

M
eg watched Damon come to
her, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted him. Against all reason, all propriety, all intention, she wanted him.

His long legs ate up the ground between them, and he stopped inches from her. The breeze lifted a curl and blew it against her cheek. Damon reached out to gently push it back, his fingertips grazing her skin. She could feel the faint tremor in them, and it did something hot and peculiar to her insides.

“Why are you here?” she managed to ask, but her voice sounded too high, too quick. “Are you following me?”

“I saw you from the terrace.” His fingers, having tucked the wayward curl behind her ear, trailed down the line of her jaw. He was, she thought, breathing harder than normal, and she wondered at what speed he had come down from his terrace. The thought that he had hurried to catch her only added to the prickle of heat and excitement.

“But why? What do you want?” Meg was not sure why
she was forcing the issue. Better by far to let the matter die, bid him good-night, and go home. But she wanted his answer.

A fragment of a chuckle escaped him. “I should think that was clear.” He slid his fingers along the cord of her neck onto the ridge of her collarbone, his eyes following their path. “I wanted to see you. I wanted . . . to kiss you.” His mouth softened sensually, and his eyes came back to hers, intent and mesmerizing. “To touch you.” He leaned in, heat radiating from his body, and his breath was a caress upon her forehead. “To bring that delectable little noise from your throat once more.”

His words should have made her blush with shame, but Meg knew the flush that swept her was more arousal than embarrassment. “Stop,” she said shakily. “You are mad.”

“Yes. You have made me so.” He nuzzled into her hair. “You smell like heaven.”

“Anyone coming along could see us,” she protested.

He pulled her deeper into the shadows, behind a towering stone.

“I don’t like you,” she grated out, clutching at the last remaining threads of her resistance.

“I know. I don’t care if you like me as long as you kiss me.”

His mouth found hers, drawing from Meg such a rush of desire it made her tremble and sag against him. His mouth moved to her neck, exploring it with soft, languorous kisses. One hand at her back, pressing her to him, he drifted slowly down her body with the other, fingertips tracing the line of her backbone, the curve of her buttocks, slipping along the cleft between. She remembered when his fingers had dipped lower, finding the deep, wet center of her.

“Damon . . .” The sweetness of his name on her tongue amazed her.

She could feel his smile against her skin, and he lifted his head. “I like to hear you say my name.” His thumb came up to drag softly across her lower lip. He followed the movement with a light kiss. “Say it again.”

“Nae,” she teased, twining her arms around his neck and smiling up at him. “’Twould be too familiar of me.” He waited, his eyes consuming her as a smile played upon his lips. “My lord.” The light in his eyes flared higher. He kissed her. “Mardoun,” she whispered. The sensuality in his smile deepened, and he kissed her once more, his lips slow and soft and thorough, moving with a lazy assurance that made desire swell within her. When he lifted his head this time, she breathed, “Damon.”

His mouth settled on hers, his arms wrapping around her like iron, as he ravaged her senses, sparking a hot, hungry need inside her. Meg strained up against him, sliding her fingers into his hair and clenching them in her fervor, pulling him closer. He sank to his knees, carrying her with him, and stretched out on the ground. He took her mouth as if he would consume her, sinking his hands into her hair and cupping her head as if to hold her prisoner to his kisses.

Meg felt no desire to escape, wanting only to feel more, taste more, of him. The clothes between them frustrated her. She wanted to have his flesh beneath her hands, to wrap her legs around him, but she could not pull her hands away from their greedy exploration of his body long enough to remove the garments.

He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him, and his hands went to the hooks fastening her dress. His fingers
were clumsy with haste and need, and she heard a rip of fabric, but she did not care, for then his fingers were on her skin, sliding under her chemise, and she shuddered beneath the touch.

Damon sat up, pulling away from her, and tore at his own buttons. Meg shoved her dress down and untied her chemise, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside. The evening air caressed her naked breasts, nipples tightening. She saw that Damon’s fingers had stilled on his shirt as he watched her. She saw the passion on his face, the slackening and softening of his lips, the hunger that heated his gaze. Meg felt none of the shame or embarrassment she would have supposed she would at baring her breasts to him, only pleasure and a kind of power, even pride, that she could affect him so.

With a huff of breath, he yanked off his shirt and spread it out on the ground, then lowered her to it. Lying down beside her, propped up on one elbow, he laid his other hand upon her and moved over her. His hands were surprisingly gentle, given the avidity in his eyes, as he traced the lines of her collarbone and ribs, curved over the swell of her breasts, and trailed onto her stomach.

“I have never seen aught so beautiful,” he murmured, and leaned down to kiss her breast, the upthrust nipple, the quivering flesh of her stomach.

With the tip of his tongue, he traced one nipple, startling a shiver of pleasure from her. When he pulled the nub of flesh into his mouth and settled down to suck at it, Meg gasped and reached out blindly, digging her fingers into his shoulders. His mouth was hot and wet and insistent, a wealth of extraordinary new delights, and some invisible cord running through her throbbed at the pull of it.

Eyes closed, she struggled to suppress the moans that sought to rise to her lips, but then his hand delved down beneath the waist of her dress and under the thin cotton of her underclothes, slipping between her legs, and at the touch, she could not hold back a soft cry of surprise and pleasure. Digging her heels into the ground beneath her, Meg bowed up against his hand.

Damon’s mouth turned searing, and she could feel the tension in his muscles beneath her hands, the taut coiling of leashed strength, as his fingers gently explored her, opened her, teased rippling threads of desire through her. He lifted his head and Meg opened her eyes to find him watching her. She saw the quickened rise and fall of his chest and the flame in his eyes, the raw need that stamped his face, and the sight of his hunger only deepened her own.

Reaching down, he hooked his hands in her garments, shoving them down in a quick, impatient movement. Meg kicked them off as Damon stood up to peel off the rest of his clothes. He loomed above her, magnificently naked, and Meg thought perhaps she should feel scared, appalled—something more maidenly than the eager surge of lust that rose in her at the sight of him in this pure, raw state. She reached out a hand to curl it around his ankle and slide it up his calf, letting the rough, curling hairs tickle her palm. The gesture sent a visible shiver through him, and he came back down to her.

Meg sat up to meet him, sliding her hands up his arms and across his shoulders. She sank her fingers into his thick, dark hair and pressed her lips to his. A low sound shuddered out of him as his mouth melded with hers. He slid one arm behind her, cushioning her head as they lay back on the ground. His other hand moved over body, caressing, knead
ing, exploring every inch of her. Damon released a noise of deep satisfaction as his hand slipped between her legs and found the damp heat that waited for him there. He slid between her legs, and with his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her, he moved into her.

She let out a sharp gasp and braced herself at the flash of pain. Damon’s head shot up and he stared at her in shock. “Meg!”

“No, don’t stop,” she whispered. Digging her fingertips into his hips, she pushed up to meet him, and slowly he buried himself in her. A deep, primal satisfaction swept through Meg as he filled her, and for that moment she was lost in him, joined in a way she had never imagined. Tears filled her eyes, not from pain, but from a joy so sharp, so piercing, she knew she would never be the same.

She heard his ragged breath, felt the strain in his arms around her, cradling her as he stroked in and out, and his care, his restraint, touched her even as his movements aroused her. She turned her head to press her lips against the side of his head, and he shuddered at the touch, his movements growing harder and faster. Meg sucked in a breath at the need rising in her, frantically reaching for something she didn’t know. She ached to seize it, to claim it, and she dug her fingertips into his back, aware on some deep level that he could bring her to what she wanted.

A harsh groan burst from him and he moved wildly against her, and in that moment she was lifted up and over, pleasure exploding deep within her and rippling out. She let out a sharp sob and went limp in his arms as he collapsed onto her.

Meg lay trembling in his arms, unable to speak or move or think, drained and replete and teetering on the edge of laughter or tears, she wasn’t sure which. Perhaps it was both.

“Sweet bleeding Christ,” Damon mumbled, and rolled off her. For an instant she felt the loss of him, but he immediately cradled her against his side and kissed the top of her head. He ran a gentle, caressing hand down her back and along her thigh. “Are you all right?”

A giggle escaped her. Apparently laughter had won the day.

He tilted his head toward her. “Are you laughing?” he asked in some astonishment.

“No! Yes. I mean . . .” How could she explain how absurd it had seemed to hear him ask if she was all right when she was filled with the most amazing, buoyant happiness . . . as well as feeling as if every bone in her body had melted? Finally she said, “I feel very all right.”

She snuggled into his side. He continued to slide his hand idly up and down her. “Cold?”

“No.” The night air was cool on her skin, but the blood still sang through her veins, and Damon was like a hot stove.

“Did I—were you—Meg, why did you not tell me?”

At the concern and puzzlement in Damon’s voice, she lifted her head to look at him. “Not tell you what?”

He frowned. “That you had never . . .” He stroked his hand down her side again. “That you were untouched.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.”

“I never said I was otherwise.” She fisted her hand atop his chest and propped her chin on her fist, gazing at him with wide eyes across the expanse of his chest.

“No, but I thought—”

“I know what you thought.” Her voice sharpened, and she started to turn away, but he took her chin in his hand and held her.

“No,” he told her firmly. “I knew you were not as my housekeeper told me. I did not hold you cheap or easy, I swear it. But I thought you had lain with a man before. You told me you chose a man as you pleased.”

“I do. I did . . . tonight.” She looked at him unwaveringly. “Does it matter? Would you not have . . . done this tonight?” She trailed her fingers down his chest.

“I would have.” His eyes lit as he wrapped his hand around hers and raised it to his lips. “You must know I would have. But not this way . . .” He gestured vaguely around them. “I would have moved more slowly. Been gentler. Not taken you here on the ground. You should have had a soft bed and wine and time.”

Meg’s lips curved in a smile, and she lay back, gazing up at the sky above them. “I like it here. Beneath the stars and the moon, with the stones standing guard all around us. ’Tis a lovely place. I will cherish the memory.”

He went up on his elbow. “I will give you more memories.” He bent to kiss her eyes, her nose, her mouth. “Sweeter, hotter, longer.” He trailed his thumb over her chin and down the center of her body, stopping teasingly just before he reached the juncture of her legs.

“My. Such lofty promises.” She smiled teasingly. “Are you sure you can meet them?”

“You think I cannot?” He grinned back. “I will. And more.” He kissed her until she was breathless and tingling, then rose lithely to his feet and offered her his hand. “But
right now I think we should get you back in your house, snug and warm, before someone else takes it into his head to visit the circle in the full moon.”

They pulled on their clothes, Damon dressing in his shirt and breeches more quickly than Meg could pull on all her undergarments and dress and hook the fastenings. Damon stepped over and finished the last few hooks, adding a soft kiss where her neck joined her collarbone.

Reaching down, he picked up Meg’s elegant comb and rubbed his thumb across it. “’Tis a lovely object.” He slid it into her curls. “Almost as lovely as its wearer.”

“Flatterer.” Meg wrinkled her nose at him, but she could not deny that she warmed inside to hear him say it—warmed even more at the look in his eyes. “But thank you—it belonged to my grandmother.”

“Ah. Then beloved as well as beautiful.” He pulled on his boots and started along the path to Meg’s cottage with her.

“You need not walk me to my house.”

Damon turned his raised-brow, haughty expression upon her, saying, “Is that what you think of me? That I would not see you safely to your door?”

“I have nothing to fear from these woods.”

“Then perhaps I should be the one seeking your protection.” He curled his arm around her shoulders.

Meg leaned into him, enjoying the moment. Time enough tomorrow to think about the future and possibilities . . . and consequences.

Their steps slowed as they approached her snug, dark cottage. Damon’s arm tightened around her a little more; Meg snuggled a trifle closer to his side. She did not want to part from him; she wanted to continue to drift in this
dreamy warmth, spent and fulfilled. To lie in the shelter of his arms, his strength and power enveloping her. Filling her. Meg blushed at her thoughts and reached for the handle of her door. Damon wrapped his hand around it and pushed it open for her. She turned in the doorway, gazing up at him, as he braced the door open with his arm.