my Honor Guard.”
“But—.”
“I said to be off. Now .”
Neal used his most authoritarian voice, the one described in one magazine article about him as being predatory . Bestial. Almost feral. Neal hadn’t minded the description. It was an imaginative use of words by a journalist to sell papers. Hadn’t meant it was real. But he did possess something that got masses to listen. It wasn’t a rise in volume. It was more how he lowered his tone and projected it outward. He’d always possessed this ability. That was one reason he’d managed his first takeover. While his quarry had waited for a mic and sound system, Neal had been addressing the crowd. Swaying them with words every stockholder wanted to hear. Positive return. Zero risk. Profit. Profit.
Profit .
...always profit.
His voice throbbed through the library now, sending bass tones filled with command that expected obedience. The MacAffrey heir stood straighter, and then he did an off-kilter bow before leaving. The door shut behind him with a bang.
“You…should put me down now,” Ainslee whispered at his side.
“Oh. You believe so, do you?”
The words left this mouth, but he didn’t move anything. His body was giving him trouble. That was as foreign as it was unbelievable. He might as well be on another planet. His strength was already an oddity. What was happening, even more so. It didn’t take the slightest effort to continue holding her aloft with one arm. Exactly where she was, while nerve endings fired through him, sending messages filled with warmth.
No.
This was closer to scorching.
And then even worse things happened. The wool plaid of his kilt-thing, the velvet jacket, and the finely woven linen shirt that barely covered his ass and loins, weren’t remotely sufficient to prevent what was happening. He held a softly curved, wickedly desirable, and fully mature female against him. His body immediately recognized it and went on the alert, despite his effort at stopping it. This was ridiculous. Impossible. Intensely personal. He wasn’t bestial. Or feral. And he sure as hell wasn’t craven. Controlling testosterone had never been a problem. That Neal could remember, anyway.
Well.
It was now.
Neal tightened every muscle he possessed, but it was useless. His dick was operating at another frequency. It lengthened. Hardened. And prepared. The scratch of wool didn’t temper it. He couldn’t even feel the fiber until his erection rammed into the obstruction of his sporran. Neal shoved down on the bag with his right hand, and continued the pressure, although he hoped it looked more like he was negligently resting a palm there. Mason hadn’t mentioned this use for a sporran. That might be one of the reasons the valet had been so amused.
“My father...will be here any moment.”
“I certainly. Hope. So.” He broke the words into separate sentences, spoken from between gritted teeth. It was the best he could manage. He didn’t look down toward her. He didn’t dare.
“You must set...me down.”
Her whisper didn’t help things. It was akin to having a bellows working on an already massive fire. This was completely out of his realm of experience. Neal sucked in a breath. Held it. The move lifted her even closer. Neal shut his eyes. Little blasts resembling fireworks filled the space behind his eyelids.
Breathe, Neal.
Just.
Breathe.
Neal shoved air out. Sucked in another large breath. Held it. Shoved it back out. Repeated the process. The fireworks effect fizzled and started fading. “Really?” he finally managed to answer.
He felt her give a nod. Or give something that could be a nod.
“Maybe I don’t. Want. To.”
She gasped. “Your grace!”
“It’s. Neal.”
That came out harsher than he intended. He felt her trembling again.
“Please?”
Oh, shit.
She had a hint of tears to her voice. Neal pulled in another heavy breath. Released it. Opened his eyes. Glanced down. Yep. She had a gloss atop her eyes.
“But—.”
“I said to be off. Now .”
Neal used his most authoritarian voice, the one described in one magazine article about him as being predatory . Bestial. Almost feral. Neal hadn’t minded the description. It was an imaginative use of words by a journalist to sell papers. Hadn’t meant it was real. But he did possess something that got masses to listen. It wasn’t a rise in volume. It was more how he lowered his tone and projected it outward. He’d always possessed this ability. That was one reason he’d managed his first takeover. While his quarry had waited for a mic and sound system, Neal had been addressing the crowd. Swaying them with words every stockholder wanted to hear. Positive return. Zero risk. Profit. Profit.
Profit .
...always profit.
His voice throbbed through the library now, sending bass tones filled with command that expected obedience. The MacAffrey heir stood straighter, and then he did an off-kilter bow before leaving. The door shut behind him with a bang.
“You…should put me down now,” Ainslee whispered at his side.
“Oh. You believe so, do you?”
The words left this mouth, but he didn’t move anything. His body was giving him trouble. That was as foreign as it was unbelievable. He might as well be on another planet. His strength was already an oddity. What was happening, even more so. It didn’t take the slightest effort to continue holding her aloft with one arm. Exactly where she was, while nerve endings fired through him, sending messages filled with warmth.
No.
This was closer to scorching.
And then even worse things happened. The wool plaid of his kilt-thing, the velvet jacket, and the finely woven linen shirt that barely covered his ass and loins, weren’t remotely sufficient to prevent what was happening. He held a softly curved, wickedly desirable, and fully mature female against him. His body immediately recognized it and went on the alert, despite his effort at stopping it. This was ridiculous. Impossible. Intensely personal. He wasn’t bestial. Or feral. And he sure as hell wasn’t craven. Controlling testosterone had never been a problem. That Neal could remember, anyway.
Well.
It was now.
Neal tightened every muscle he possessed, but it was useless. His dick was operating at another frequency. It lengthened. Hardened. And prepared. The scratch of wool didn’t temper it. He couldn’t even feel the fiber until his erection rammed into the obstruction of his sporran. Neal shoved down on the bag with his right hand, and continued the pressure, although he hoped it looked more like he was negligently resting a palm there. Mason hadn’t mentioned this use for a sporran. That might be one of the reasons the valet had been so amused.
“My father...will be here any moment.”
“I certainly. Hope. So.” He broke the words into separate sentences, spoken from between gritted teeth. It was the best he could manage. He didn’t look down toward her. He didn’t dare.
“You must set...me down.”
Her whisper didn’t help things. It was akin to having a bellows working on an already massive fire. This was completely out of his realm of experience. Neal sucked in a breath. Held it. The move lifted her even closer. Neal shut his eyes. Little blasts resembling fireworks filled the space behind his eyelids.
Breathe, Neal.
Just.
Breathe.
Neal shoved air out. Sucked in another large breath. Held it. Shoved it back out. Repeated the process. The fireworks effect fizzled and started fading. “Really?” he finally managed to answer.
He felt her give a nod. Or give something that could be a nod.
“Maybe I don’t. Want. To.”
She gasped. “Your grace!”
“It’s. Neal.”
That came out harsher than he intended. He felt her trembling again.
“Please?”
Oh, shit.
She had a hint of tears to her voice. Neal pulled in another heavy breath. Released it. Opened his eyes. Glanced down. Yep. She had a gloss atop her eyes.
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