Spell of the Highlander
Page 36

Does this hostelry contain a kitchen and serving wenches, lass? he’d paused long enough in his explorations to ask.
She’d nodded.
Command us a feast, woman. I’m famished. Meat. Much meat. And wine.
When he’d unfastened his wrist cuffs, she should have gotten the hint.
Without further ado, he’d dropped his kilt. Had stood there, utterly unself-conscious, wearing nothing but a leather sheath strapped to one heavily muscled thigh, casing a heavily jewel-encrusted knife. Doffing that, too, he’d placed it high on the shower stall’s edge and stepped beneath the spray.
Pulse suddenly jumping in her throat, she’d turned sharply away and squeezed her eyes shut.
She could still taste him on her lips. The kiss he’d given her in the lobby had stunned her.
And scorched her right down to her toes. He’d not pushed for tongue, or tried to grab a breast the instant he’d thought he’d gotten her distracted with a kiss. No, he’d kissed her lazily, without touching her anywhere else at all, as if he had all the time in the world, brushing his firm, full, sexy lips back and forth over hers, gently sucking her lower lip.
She’d actually melted into the egotistical Neanderthal, had felt her lips parting.
Logic, reason, and awareness of current events had vanished from her mind as abruptly and completely as if someone had just vacuumed her brain out through her ear.
It was his gentleness that had gotten her, she’d decided on the way up in the elevator. It had surprised her, that was all. It was just that she’d not expected such a soft touch from such a hard-bodied, aggressive man. She’d not been prepared for it, any more than she had been for him to get butt-naked in front of her.
And, Crimeny, what a butt . . .
When she’d opened her eyes and turned back, she’d stared though the steamy glass at him—all six and a half magnificent naked feet of him.
Powerful muscles shaped his long legs and massive thighs, his ass was tight, perfectly formed, and packed with more sweet muscle. She loved a good butt on a man! Too many guys had none at all. Both legs and butt were dusted with fine, silky dark hair; he wasn’t one of those lady-killer bodybuilders or models that shaved—he was a man’s man, and proud of it. More dark hair dusted his forearms and beneath his arms.
He’d lathered himself up and begun scrubbing beneath the steamy spray. As his powerful hands moved over his body, prime, sleek muscle rippled beneath his slick, golden skin.
She’d been so engrossed, watching him wash himself, that when he’d squirted conditioner in his hand and closed a fist around himself, she’d continued dazedly watching. Not until he’d begun to rhythmically slip his hand up and down had she realized what she was watching him do.
Eyes snapping wide, she’d jerked her gaze to his face. His gaze had been locked on her face, his eyes narrowed, his gaze dark and hot. He’d flashed her a sexy, wicked smile that had been both invitation and challenge, catching the tip of his tongue between his teeth.
She’d backed hastily out and slammed the door.
The man was seriously hung.
An insane, utterly-uncaring-of-consequences part of her had wanted nothing more than to go right back in there, strip, get in the shower with him, push his hand away, and replace it with hers.
Get a grip, Jessi, she’d rebuked herself firmly. And not on mirror-man’s dick.
After shutting him in the bathroom and gulping a few steadying breaths, she’d gone to the phone and ordered room service, putting it also on her credit card.
“Why not?” she muttered to her reflection over the top of her laptop. “I may as well charge with impunity.” The way things were going, she probably wouldn’t live long enough to have to pay it off anyway. She made a face at herself in the mirror. It had been a long day and she was showing signs of the strain. Her makeup was as good as gone, her stubborn cowlicks were acting up, and her clothes were rumpled.
Plucking a tissue from a box on the desk, she dabbed at the remnants of mascara smudged on her lashes and ran a hand through her short glossy curls.
People often told her she looked like a curvier version of the girl who’d played Virginia, the heroine in The 10th Kingdom, and she supposed she did—after Virginia had gotten her hair whacked off by the wolfman. After the gypsies had cursed her for setting their poor birds free. Jessi would have set the poor birds free too. Not that her hair looked like it had been whacked off or anything. She got it trimmed every six weeks down at the Beauty Training Academy, and they did a pretty good job for six bucks.
She narrowed her eyes at her reflection. Breasts. They were undoubtedly her best feature. Some people got great nails and hair, some people got beautiful smiles or pretty eyes, some people got skinny little perfect beach-butts, those disgustingly ideal ones that actually stayed in bikini bottoms. She’d gotten good breasts. It wasn’t that they were so big. Frankly, she didn’t think they were. It was just that they were really round and really high and really perky, and she had a short neck (which was why she wore her hair short—the girls at the Beauty Academy said it made her neck look longer), and sometimes even she thought her breasts looked fake in certain tops, but they weren’t. They were real. Perhaps a bit too enthusiastically perky, but she figured she should enjoy that while she could, because she fully comprehended complex equations like gravity plus time.