Kiss of the Highlander by Karen Marie Moning Page B

if he was wearing the plaid true to the sixteenth century (according to what their tour guide had told them), he had no underwear on. She heard a few more muttered curses, then a
zzzzzp!
Yet another curse. He sounded
so
convincing.
    “Come out and let me see you,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face.
    His voice sounded strangled when he replied, “You’ll have to come in.”
    Sneaking a furtive glance at Miriam, who had conveniently been accosted by a pimple-faced teenage boy, Gwen entered the dressing room. He was regarding himself in the mirror and his back was to her, and, heavens, but she would have been much better off if she’d
never
seen his tight muscled ass in a pair of tight faded jeans. His long black hair rippled over his shoulders and down his back, inviting her to plunge her fingers in it and trail them down the splendid ridges of muscle—
    “Turn around,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry.
    He did so, with a scowl.
    She eyed his bare chest and, with effort, forced herself to remember she was supposed to be looking at the jeans. Her gaze skimmed downward over his rippled abdomen and lean hips and—
    “
What
have you stuffed in your pants, MacKeltar?” she demanded.
    “Nothing that wasn’t God-given,” he replied stiffly.
    Gwen stared. “There’s no way that’s part of you. You must have gotten a sock or…something…stuck. Oh, my.” She pried her gaze from his groin. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he was clearly in discomfort.
    “I doona believe you
intended
to torture me—nay, I saw other men on the street in such clothing—so I will not take putative measures. However, I think the problem is much the same as my feet,” he informed her.
    “Your feet?” she repeated dumbly, her gaze dropping. They
were
large.
    “Aye.” He gestured toward hers. “In your time you bind your feet in constrictive boots, whereas we wear soft, supple leather.”
    “Your point?” she managed.
    “They have more room to grow,” he said, as if she were simpleminded.
    Gwen blushed. Of all things to play a joke on her about. Stuffing socks in his pants, indeed! “MacKeltar, I do not believe for one minute that
that
”—she gestured at the bulge in his jeans—“is you. I may be gullible, but I do know what men look like, and that is
not
what men look like.”
    He flattened her up against the door of the dressing room, and his sensual mouth, much too close for safety, curved in a cocksure smile. “Then you will simply have to see for yourself. Touch me, lass. Feel my…sock.” His silver gaze sizzled with challenge, as he unzipped his zipper.
    “Uh-uh.” She shook her head for added emphasis.
    “Then find me a pair of trews that doona threaten to sever my manparts.”
    “Uh-huh,” she agreed, trying not to think about that unzipped zipper.
    “Doona let this frighten you, lass. We will fit together well when I make love to you,” he purred.
    Weel
was how it came out, and his lovely brogue, coupled with his “sock,” were nearly all the persuasion she needed to set to removing his jeans with her teeth. She closed her eyes. “Back up, bud, or I’ll
help
you fit in those trews,” she threatened. “With your sword, if necessary.”
    “Look at me, Gwendolyn,” he said softly.
    “Gwen,” she snapped.
    “Gwen,” he acquiesced. Right before he kissed her.

          7          
 
    Heat lightning,
Gwen thought.
His touch is electrifying. Attraction sizzled between them, and she knew he felt it too, because he drew back and looked at her strangely. Then, nudging her lips apart with his thumb, he opened her mouth and brushed his firm lips back and forth over hers, creating a light and irresistible friction.
    Yes,
she thought.
This is what I’ve needed. I feel…ooh!
He tilted her head at the perfect angle—just like Lancelot did Guinevere in that single kiss between them in the movie
First Knight
—and sealed his mouth over hers. She shivered when his tongue plunged