He uttered a curse in a language she didn’t know as he moved against her, replacing her flare of panic with one of pleasure. Suddenly the hard muscle of his leg was also drenched and slick as he undulated again, creating a strange and delicious friction. His shaft pressed against her hip as he rocked against her. She knew he wanted it inside her, that if she opened to him, he’d sink every hot inch as deep as he could.
“Wait,” she said. Or perhaps didn’t say, as he never let up the pressure of his mouth, even as her lips moved. She wanted him to stop. She never wanted him to stop.
Then his hand was there, clever fingers slipping into the wet cleft and touching a place no one had ever before paid attention to. He somehow ignited frenzy into her blood with infuriatingly slow strokes. A curious heat unfolded in her core and quickly caught into a blaze of sensation.
Mena writhed helplessly against him, riding his strong thigh as more heat created more friction, which in turn built the flames even higher. What sort of pagan magic was this? How could hands so rough and raw create such smooth, silken sensations against her most tender skin?
Something was … happening. Her muscles contracted and expanded, her body seemed to open, to prepare, to warn her to brace herself against his strength because she wouldn’t be able to stand against what he was about to do. Her hands groped at his back, then his shoulders, clutching at him, then pushing him away. He ignored her feeble struggles, silently pressing her higher with his leg until she was forced to lean on his limitless strength as her toes seemed to no longer touch the ground. He held her there, suspended on the exquisite edge of a dark and unknown abyss. She could feel it reaching for her, a pulsing oblivion that knew no limit, that gave no quarter and had no end.
All she needed to do was let it take her away.
“Come for me, lass.” He breathed the order against her throat as he trailed his hot lips down the sensitive column of her neck.
And she would have, had his fingers not tangled in her hair. A thrill of fear pierced her with its icy arrow, and leached the heat from her liquid bones.
Gordon used to pull her hair.
He’d used it as a tool of submission, to lock her head where he wanted, to compel her to be still as he forced himself into her mouth. Sometimes her hair would rip from her scalp, and the sound of it would echo through her ears from the inside.
Whatever desolate, frightened sound she made when she wrenched her mouth away from his and turned her head to the side was enough to pull him out of his aroused stupor.
“Please,” she begged in an uneasy whimper. “I can’t.”
She found herself released as abruptly as he’d seized her, and Mena would have fallen if the wall hadn’t caught her.
Ravencroft flung himself to the opposite side of the room, where he braced his hands against the far wall. His head hung below his shoulders as his wide back expanded with panting breaths.
Dazed by a maelstrom of fear, lust, and shame, Mena gripped the sagging folds of her robe and wrapped them back over her inflamed body, belting it closed.
“Forgive me,” he finally said. “I’ve had too much to drink. I wasna thinking.” His voice was thicker than usual, the accent more pronounced. The few seconds of silence between them stretched on for an eternity as Mena desperately groped for the thoughts that had scattered about the darkness of her room like a child’s errant marbles.
“Ye canna go, Mena,” he ordered.
She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Leaving would be safer in some ways, and utterly dangerous in others. Her husband was still out there, searching for her.
But if she stayed …
“Andrew can keep his beast,” he rumbled, pushing from the wall and moving to the broken door.
Mena remained silent, still trying to catch her own breath. Trying to ignore the pulses of need still throbbing between her legs, and the pulses of fear threatening to stop her heart.
“And…” Ravencroft continued, still refusing to turn around. “I’ll not dictate how ye spend yer free time … or with whom.” He said this as though the words cost him a great deal.
Dumbfounded, Mena could still think of no reply until a polite “Thank you,” escaped her out of sheer habit.
“Doona leave.” It had to have been the gentlest command he’d ever issued, as close to a request as she’d ever get from the Demon Highlander. “Doona abandon them as I have, as everyone has.”
He’d used the most devious and effective weapon in his arsenal to get what he wanted. His children. They did need her help and, in truth, she needed them. Needed Ravencroft. Not just the man but the stones of the fortress around them. She remained a fugitive from the crown, and returning to England was simply out of the question.
“Ye’ll stay,” he prompted again. “And I’ll … leave ye alone.”
That should have made her feel safer, but it didn’t.
“I’ll stay,” she whispered, and didn’t allow herself to slide to the floor until he’d left the room, shutting the splintered door firmly behind him.
* * *
Mena dreamed of the Brollachan that night.
She tossed and writhed about in her sleep as though afflicted with a fever. Rough, callused hands soothed her until she settled from thrashing to merely fitful.
“Liam?” she whispered through the miasma of dream mist and moonlight.
“Nay, lass,” a dark voice rasped back at her. “Ye should go. Leave this place. If ye stay with the Demon Highlander, it’ll mean the end of ye.”