Read One Night with the Highlander (The Gilvrys of Dunross) for Free Online Page A

ring of an angels’ choir.
    “Annabelle,” he said again, more softly, barely a breath of air passing her cheek. “Sweetheart. Darling. Don’t cut me off.”
    Numbly, she gazed up at him. And every last wall she’d built these past many years crumbled around her. “Gordon. Oh, Gordon.”
    His name was a cry from her heart.
    “Annabelle. Little one.” He bent and lifted her onto the bed, laying her gently down on the pristine white sheets as if she were a delicate piece of spun glass. He stripped down to his skin in a few efficient movements and lay beside her on the bed, one hand supporting his head while the other stroked her shoulders, the rise of her breasts beneath the curtain of her hair, and dipped into the valley between. She closed her eyes and drifted on the whisper-soft sensations of his touch.
    His lips on her throat, his tongue tracing the veins in her neck, swirling in the dips formed by her clavicle. Tasting. Learning. His scent invaded her nostrils. Gordon. Wine. The dark notes of a male aroused. Her insides tightened.
    Gently, his fingers drew down the fabric of her shift, easing her breast free of her stays, exposing the furled peak to his gaze. His tongue licked, his teeth grazed and tormented the sensitive bud, until she rose up on her elbows, encouraging him to take her into his mouth, to give her the pleasure she longed for.
    He came up on his knees, supporting her weight. “Let us have you out of this, shall we?” he murmured softly as his clever fingers worked at the strings of her stays. Finally released, they fell away, and she helped him pull her shift over her head. When she reached to untie her stockings, his hand covered hers. “Leave them. I find them...stirring.”
    Her insides clenched as his thick, heavy shaft pulsed agreement with his words. A bead of moisture formed at its tip. She smoothed the milky moisture over the surrounding hot, tight dark flesh with her thumb, and then bent to kiss the velvety softness, her palm circling the shaft, feeling the heat and the pound of his blood in time to her own beating heart.
    Licking and kissing the salty-tasting silken head, outlining its contours with the tip of her tongue, was more heady than wine. She then took him deep into her mouth.
    He groaned, his hand clenching at the sheets beside her head. “You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered hoarsely. He gently but insistently forced her away. “I’m no ready to meet my end,” he whispered against her lips. “Not yet. Not without you.”
    He kissed her deeply, gently pressing her back onto the pillows, nudging her legs apart with his knee and kneeling between her thighs.
    There was a look of deep concentration on his face, a frown between his brows, a grimace on his face. He looked like a man in pain. She smoothed the hair back from his face, rubbed at the crease with her thumb. He caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing one knuckle at a time, from smallest to largest, until he reached her thumb. He drew it into his mouth and sucked.
    Her insides pulsed. Her hips shot up off the bed at the tearing pleasure that rushed to her core. She shivered and shook in the aftermath.
    The man was skilled. A maestro. And she his willing instrument.
    He encircled each of her wrists with a finger and thumb and brought them down either side of her head. Pinning her to the bed. She undulated her hips, letting him know what she wanted and where.
    Clearly delighted, he grinned down at her. “Not yet, my love.”
    My love. If only she could be his love. She could. For one night only. That was all she could allow. One night. Anything more and she would lose her way. Since she saw him last she had come to a decision about how to move forward. At first she’d resisted, but there really was no other way.
    She gazed at his dearly beloved face and felt her smile grow and grow. “Soon, though,” she said, laughing up at him.
    “Aye, soon,” he agreed, and lowered his head to worship