The Highlander's Touch
Page 53

He would be the worst kind of liar if he tried to convince himself that he’d hoped to see anything different.
He sucked in a shallow breath as he watched the nude woman reflected in the shield roll astride his naked body. His abdomen tightened and his cock hardened painfully as she straddled him and lowered her hot, wet sheath onto him inch by inch. In the shield, he had a clear view of her, as if he were lying on his back, looking up at her as she rode him. Her full breasts bobbed tantalizingly above him, her nipples tight. His hands swept up to palm them roughly, to tease the puckered crests. She arched her back, tossing her head and baring the column of her neck. The muscles in her neck were taut with passion as she strained for her pleasure, and it aroused him immeasurably. His hot gaze swept down over her breasts, followed the hollows and planes of her stomach, to the soft curls between her thighs, and he stared, fascinated, as she impaled herself upon his shaft, watched as the thick column of his cock was revealed, then buried again in her mound. She had a tiny dark mole on the inside of her left thigh, and in his vision, his fingers splayed over it. He ached to kiss it, to run his tongue over it.
He could nearly feel her body clench around him: tight, hot, and slick with that woman’s wetness that made a man feel invincible—the measure of which bespoke his prowess: the wetter the woman, the more desired the man.
When the shield finally went dark, he came to himself with his hand on his cock. It was swollen and aching for release.
“So, that is what is to be,” he mused aloud. “Fate.”
He couldn’t deny that he’d wanted it since the day he first saw her; he’d had to forcibly restrain himself from taking her on several occasions. The vision had just confirmed that he would indeed have her, and that she would indeed be willing.
Why do you fight it? Adam had asked him angrily on more than one occasion. Why can you not glory in what you are and enjoy the power of being Circenn Brodie? You possess the ability to give and take more pleasure than most mortals ever know. Soar, Circenn. Drink of the life of my kind. I offer you it; freely.
Not freely, Circenn scoffed. There was a price. He squeezed his eyes shut as the music thundered in his ears.
It was his fate that she would ride like a mighty, demanding Valkyrie upon his body.
She already sang like a siren to his heart, this woman of defiance and fear, of curiosity and contradiction. Naya had been soft and passive toward her lot in life, until the end when she’d turned bitter. Never before had he met a woman like Lisa, a woman with needs and desires and a mind of her own. Deep emotions roiled in her breast, cunning intelligence glowed in her eyes, and a fierceness that vied with the legendary Valkyries’ breathed in her veins.
Rules be damned. How could he argue with the future? It was written. He could only take it, enjoy it, and make the most of it, praying he would survive it when he lost his heart to her, then inevitably lost her in a short span of years. If he was going to be mad in the future, he may as well savor the present.
Circenn Brodie rose from his chair, ripped the machine from the future off his head, and did what he’d never dared do before:
He eased his control a tiny bit and encouraged the magic to throb inside him.
Dark angel, Adam had inveigled him, soar into my world and fear nothing.
He tossed back his head and tasted the power running through his formidable body.
It was a very different creature who left the dark, hidden room to find his woman.
* * *
Adam Black smiled as he removed the tampon from the barrel of the rifle. Although Circenn had refused to use any of the weapons Adam had brought him, the warrior within him could not permit time to tarnish them. He snorted, dangling the tampon from its string. Only his fastidious Circenn Brodie would decide that the soft white swabs were to be used for cleaning.
Eyeing the rifle, Adam grinned. They were the perfect size to slip inside the barrel—it nearly seemed sensible. But he hadn’t brought tampons back to medieval Scotland for Circenn to play with; he’d brought them—and every gift he’d chosen—for another reason. Although if he had his way, there would be many nine-month intervals during which she would have no use for them.
“YER A BEAUTY, LASS,” GILLENDRIA SAID, CLAPPING her hands. “I thought I could refashion it well, but ’tis the woman who makes this gown.”
Lisa stood before the mirror, gazing at herself with no small measure of shock.
Gillendria had refitted a dress that she said had belonged to Circenn’s mother, Morganna. Now she slipped it over her shoulders, atop a shift of softest linen. Midnight-blue silk clung to her breasts, and the scooped neck slipped off her shoulders, accentuating her translucent skin and fine collarbones. It hugged her hips and fell to the floor in a rustle of blue embroidered with gold. At her waist, Gillendria had fastened a gold girdle that knotted low and from which hundreds of tiny gold moons and stars dangled. Matching slippers encased her feet, and a lovely gold torque that predated medieval times encircled her throat. An embroidered surcoat was tied below her breasts. Gillendria had curled her hair, carefully picking out the gold highlights and curling them a bit tighter so that they lay atop the wavy mass, then mussed it gently. A dab of some combination of root, herb, and flower colored her lips ruby.