his arm. It slipped to the floor, unheeded.
Then he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. “What manner of dress have you donned?” he thundered. His dark eyes glittered as they swept her body from head to toe. He sucked in a rough breath.
Lisa shivered. He
would
have to catch her standing there in the only frivolous thing she owned, a pair of lavender bikini panties and a matching lace push-up bra that Ruby had given her for her birthday. And skin. And a damp nervousness she attributed to fear.
He stalked to her side and slipped a finger beneath the delicate lace edging one cup of her bra. “What
is
this?”
“It … it … Oh!” She couldn’t form a coherent sentence. His finger lay against her pale skin, and she was mesmerized by the contrast in colors and textures. He had large hands, callused and strong from swordplay, with elegant fingers, one of which now rested against the smooth swell of her breast. She closed her eyes. “Bra,” she managed. Grasping at formality, she pretended she was giving a history lesson in reverse, teaching him what the future held: “It’s a garment designed t-to protect a woman’s, you know, and k-keeps them from, well, you know. …”
“Nay, I doona think I know at all,” he said softly, his lips a few breaths from meeting hers. “Why doona you enlighten me, lass?”
Her breath caught in her throat with a small gasp—a consummately feminine sound, and she cursed herself silently for it.
Just pant, why don’t you?
she berated herself. They were scant, dangerous inches from full body contact, his finger tugging gently at the edging of her bra. She was acutely aware of her near nudity, of her nipples beneath the thin fabric in perilous proximity to his hands, and the fact that he wore nothing more than a drape of easily discarded cloth. She felt electricity race through herbody everywhere his gaze skimmed. If he ripped off his plaid and covered her body with his, would she have the strength to protest? Would she even want to? How could her body betray her to a man who was her enemy? “The gown was too small,” she managed.
“I see. And you astutely concluded this would cover more of you?”
“I was just about to put my j-jeans back on,” she informed his chest.
“I think not. Not until you tell me what this”—he tugged lightly at the strap—“keeps your ‘you knows’ from doing.”
Was he teasing her?
She forced herself to meet his gaze and instantly wished she hadn’t. His dark eyes were intensely sexual, his lips parted in a faint smile.
“Drooping when you get older.” The words escaped her in a rush of air.
He tossed his head back and laughed. When he lowered his head she saw the unnerving intensity in his eyes, and she realized he was aroused.
By her
. The knowledge astounded her. She’d decided that his kiss last night and his innuendos today had simply been part of his strategy, but now, looking at him, she understood that he had a fierce physical reaction to her, possibly as painful as her attraction to him. It was simultaneously a heady feeling and a frightening one. She had a sudden premonition that if she gave him the slightest indication of her interest, he would descend upon her with the gale force of a Saharan sirocco, every bit as hot and devastating. Hungry for it, aching with inexperience and curiosity, she wanted desperately to discover what a man like Circenn Brodie might do to a woman.
But she dared not explore that desire. She would be as alamb to the slaughter. She had never been romanced, and the laird of Brodie could seduce a saint, she thought. Although she’d wanted him to be aware of her as a woman, thinking it might make him more protective of her, she had a dreadful feeling that she would lose herself entirely if he kissed her again. He was just too overwhelming. She had to defuse the sexual chemistry between them, and the best way to do that was to get her clothing back on.
She dropped to her
Then he stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. “What manner of dress have you donned?” he thundered. His dark eyes glittered as they swept her body from head to toe. He sucked in a rough breath.
Lisa shivered. He
would
have to catch her standing there in the only frivolous thing she owned, a pair of lavender bikini panties and a matching lace push-up bra that Ruby had given her for her birthday. And skin. And a damp nervousness she attributed to fear.
He stalked to her side and slipped a finger beneath the delicate lace edging one cup of her bra. “What
is
this?”
“It … it … Oh!” She couldn’t form a coherent sentence. His finger lay against her pale skin, and she was mesmerized by the contrast in colors and textures. He had large hands, callused and strong from swordplay, with elegant fingers, one of which now rested against the smooth swell of her breast. She closed her eyes. “Bra,” she managed. Grasping at formality, she pretended she was giving a history lesson in reverse, teaching him what the future held: “It’s a garment designed t-to protect a woman’s, you know, and k-keeps them from, well, you know. …”
“Nay, I doona think I know at all,” he said softly, his lips a few breaths from meeting hers. “Why doona you enlighten me, lass?”
Her breath caught in her throat with a small gasp—a consummately feminine sound, and she cursed herself silently for it.
Just pant, why don’t you?
she berated herself. They were scant, dangerous inches from full body contact, his finger tugging gently at the edging of her bra. She was acutely aware of her near nudity, of her nipples beneath the thin fabric in perilous proximity to his hands, and the fact that he wore nothing more than a drape of easily discarded cloth. She felt electricity race through herbody everywhere his gaze skimmed. If he ripped off his plaid and covered her body with his, would she have the strength to protest? Would she even want to? How could her body betray her to a man who was her enemy? “The gown was too small,” she managed.
“I see. And you astutely concluded this would cover more of you?”
“I was just about to put my j-jeans back on,” she informed his chest.
“I think not. Not until you tell me what this”—he tugged lightly at the strap—“keeps your ‘you knows’ from doing.”
Was he teasing her?
She forced herself to meet his gaze and instantly wished she hadn’t. His dark eyes were intensely sexual, his lips parted in a faint smile.
“Drooping when you get older.” The words escaped her in a rush of air.
He tossed his head back and laughed. When he lowered his head she saw the unnerving intensity in his eyes, and she realized he was aroused.
By her
. The knowledge astounded her. She’d decided that his kiss last night and his innuendos today had simply been part of his strategy, but now, looking at him, she understood that he had a fierce physical reaction to her, possibly as painful as her attraction to him. It was simultaneously a heady feeling and a frightening one. She had a sudden premonition that if she gave him the slightest indication of her interest, he would descend upon her with the gale force of a Saharan sirocco, every bit as hot and devastating. Hungry for it, aching with inexperience and curiosity, she wanted desperately to discover what a man like Circenn Brodie might do to a woman.
But she dared not explore that desire. She would be as alamb to the slaughter. She had never been romanced, and the laird of Brodie could seduce a saint, she thought. Although she’d wanted him to be aware of her as a woman, thinking it might make him more protective of her, she had a dreadful feeling that she would lose herself entirely if he kissed her again. He was just too overwhelming. She had to defuse the sexual chemistry between them, and the best way to do that was to get her clothing back on.
She dropped to her
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