Read Online Seduced by Destiny by Kira Morgan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kira Morgan
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shirt slipped off of one shoulder, exposing supple flesh that looked
as smooth and delicious as honey.
She smirked. “Who would accost
me—
a lass clad in men’s clothing?” She shook her head as if he were a dolt, then turned to start down the alley.
He had to think fast, which wasn’t easy when the blood was rushing from one’s head to one’s nether regions.
“Wait,” he said, loping up to her.
Her smile was bright, if a little strained. “Thank ye, sir, for bein’ a gentleman. ’Tisn’t somethin’ I’d expect from a… well,
a Highlander. But now that I’m home safe, I must
insist
,” she said, borrowing his phrase, “that ye be on your way.”
The lass was right. A real Highlander wouldn’t bow politely and let his quarry escape. A real Highlander would damn well take
what he wanted.
Silently cursing the desperation that made him act so ignobly, and praying his reflexes weren’t completely dulled by beer,
Drew reached out, caught Jossy’s arm, and hauled her into an embrace.
The instant his lips touched hers, he heard her sharp intake of breath and feared he’d shortly feel the prick of her knife.
But it didn’t come.
What came instead felt like a brand searing his soul.
She tasted like summer—warm and ripe and sweet. Her mouth was soft and much more yielding than her dry wit and caustic tongue
had led him to expect.
Still she didn’t stab him.
He increased the pressure of his lips, sinking into thekiss like a child tasting his first peach—surprised, then pleased, then intoxicated by the sweetness. He began to feel delightfully
drunk, a sensation that had nothing to do with beer.
Still, by some miracle, Jossy let him live.
True, her left fist, which pushed ineffectually at his chest, was trapped between them. But as he’d hoped, she’d drawn her
knife with her right hand, likely dislodging the missive, and that hand was perfectly capable of killing him.
Emboldened by her lack of violent response, Drew pulled her closer against him, deepening the kiss. He tangled one hand in
her silky curls, knocking off her hat, and slanted his mouth across hers as if claiming her for his own. The blood flowed
hot in his veins, sang in his ears, rushed to his loins.
’Twas madness, what he was doing, and in a moment he was sure he’d be skewered. But he couldn’t stop himself. Whether ’twas
the strong Scots brew, the sultry September afternoon, or his long abstinence, Drew felt incapable of tearing himself away
from the pleasure of the moment. He was drowning in a sea of desire, and there was nothing he could do to resist the Siren
dragging him down.
Then she made that sound.
’Twasn’t anything, really. Just a small moan. The kind of sound a child might make in her sleep, as soft as the mew of a nursing
kitten.
But that innocent sound struck at the sweet spot of Drew’s lust, driving him straight toward the point of no return.
He answered with a groan that came from the depths of his manhood, and, fueled by his own primitive response,he feasted upon her with increasing urgency, nudging her lips apart to taste the fruit within.
If she were going to kill him, she’d surely do it now. And he’d probably never even feel the prick of the blade.
Josselin knew her hand was around her knife. She could feel the worn leather grip in her palm. And there was no mistake that
the Highlander was overstepping his bounds, committing the most grievous insult upon her person. She should by all means use
her blade on him.
’Twas what her da’s had prepared her for—defending herself against the improper advances of a wicked stranger.
But somehow, though the knife was in her hand and she knew how to use it, she couldn’t force herself to plunge the blade into
the Highlander’s gut.
In fact, at the moment, she couldn’t force herself to let go of the man’s shirt. Or twist out of his arms. Or tear herself
away from his mouth.
Some devil had a hold of
as smooth and delicious as honey.
She smirked. “Who would accost
me—
a lass clad in men’s clothing?” She shook her head as if he were a dolt, then turned to start down the alley.
He had to think fast, which wasn’t easy when the blood was rushing from one’s head to one’s nether regions.
“Wait,” he said, loping up to her.
Her smile was bright, if a little strained. “Thank ye, sir, for bein’ a gentleman. ’Tisn’t somethin’ I’d expect from a… well,
a Highlander. But now that I’m home safe, I must
insist
,” she said, borrowing his phrase, “that ye be on your way.”
The lass was right. A real Highlander wouldn’t bow politely and let his quarry escape. A real Highlander would damn well take
what he wanted.
Silently cursing the desperation that made him act so ignobly, and praying his reflexes weren’t completely dulled by beer,
Drew reached out, caught Jossy’s arm, and hauled her into an embrace.
The instant his lips touched hers, he heard her sharp intake of breath and feared he’d shortly feel the prick of her knife.
But it didn’t come.
What came instead felt like a brand searing his soul.
She tasted like summer—warm and ripe and sweet. Her mouth was soft and much more yielding than her dry wit and caustic tongue
had led him to expect.
Still she didn’t stab him.
He increased the pressure of his lips, sinking into thekiss like a child tasting his first peach—surprised, then pleased, then intoxicated by the sweetness. He began to feel delightfully
drunk, a sensation that had nothing to do with beer.
Still, by some miracle, Jossy let him live.
True, her left fist, which pushed ineffectually at his chest, was trapped between them. But as he’d hoped, she’d drawn her
knife with her right hand, likely dislodging the missive, and that hand was perfectly capable of killing him.
Emboldened by her lack of violent response, Drew pulled her closer against him, deepening the kiss. He tangled one hand in
her silky curls, knocking off her hat, and slanted his mouth across hers as if claiming her for his own. The blood flowed
hot in his veins, sang in his ears, rushed to his loins.
’Twas madness, what he was doing, and in a moment he was sure he’d be skewered. But he couldn’t stop himself. Whether ’twas
the strong Scots brew, the sultry September afternoon, or his long abstinence, Drew felt incapable of tearing himself away
from the pleasure of the moment. He was drowning in a sea of desire, and there was nothing he could do to resist the Siren
dragging him down.
Then she made that sound.
’Twasn’t anything, really. Just a small moan. The kind of sound a child might make in her sleep, as soft as the mew of a nursing
kitten.
But that innocent sound struck at the sweet spot of Drew’s lust, driving him straight toward the point of no return.
He answered with a groan that came from the depths of his manhood, and, fueled by his own primitive response,he feasted upon her with increasing urgency, nudging her lips apart to taste the fruit within.
If she were going to kill him, she’d surely do it now. And he’d probably never even feel the prick of the blade.
Josselin knew her hand was around her knife. She could feel the worn leather grip in her palm. And there was no mistake that
the Highlander was overstepping his bounds, committing the most grievous insult upon her person. She should by all means use
her blade on him.
’Twas what her da’s had prepared her for—defending herself against the improper advances of a wicked stranger.
But somehow, though the knife was in her hand and she knew how to use it, she couldn’t force herself to plunge the blade into
the Highlander’s gut.
In fact, at the moment, she couldn’t force herself to let go of the man’s shirt. Or twist out of his arms. Or tear herself
away from his mouth.
Some devil had a hold of
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