Read Online Spell of the Highlander by Karen Marie Moning - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Karen Marie Moning
Tags: Fiction
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response argued his case to her. Said he knew he was real, and if she was too dense to figure it out, it wasn’t his problem. Surely a delusion would endeavor to self-persist, wouldn’t it?
But
how
could he be real?
She had no precedent for dealing with the inexplicable.
Fact-finding. All I can do is explore what’s happening, and reserve judgment until I know more.
Toward that end, shedding light on things, she reached for the wall switch and flipped on the overhead.
And got her first truly good look at him.
Crimeny,
she thought, eyes widening as if to drink in even more of him. The two prior times she’d caught glimpses of him, they’d been briefly snatched and the room had been heavily shadowed. She’d absorbed only a general impression of him: a big, dark, intensely sexual man.
She’d not seen the details.
And what details they were!
Stunned, she looked down. Up. Down. Up again. Slowly.
“Take your time, lass,” he murmured, so softly she scarcely heard him. His next comment was deliberately beyond her audible range, a silky “I plan to with you.”
He was tall, stuffing the mirror from top to bottom of frame. Powerfully built, with wide shoulders and rippling muscles, he wore a fabric of crimson and black around his waist—an honest-to-God kilt, if she wasn’t mistaken—glittering metallic wrist cuffs, and black leather boots.
No shirt. Wicked-looking black-and-crimson tattooed runes covered the left side of his sculpted chest, from the bottom of his rib cage, up over a nipple, across his shoulder, and to the edge of his jaw. Each powerful biceps was also encircled by a band of tattooed crimson-and-black runes. A thick, silky trail of dark hair began just above the navel on his ripped abs, slid down into the plaid.
Oh, God, was it tenting? Was that a bulge lifting the tartan?
Her gaze got stuck there for an awkward moment. Her eyes widened even further. Sucking in a shallow breath, she jerked her gaze away. A flush heated her cheeks.
She’d just ogled his penis.
Stood there, blatantly eyeing it. Long enough that he
had
to have noticed. Something was just not right with her. Her hormones had somehow gotten seriously out of whack. She was an artifact-ogler, not a penis-ogler.
She forced her gaze up to his face. It was as sinfully gorgeous as the rest of him. He had the chiseled, proud features of an ancient Celt warrior: strong jaw and cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, flaring arrogantly at the nostrils, and a mouth so sexy and kissable that her own lips instinctively puckered, then parted, just looking at it, as if sampling a kiss. She wet them, feeling strangely breathless. Dark shadow stubbled his sculpted jaw, making his firm pink lips seem even more sexual against all that rough masculinity.
His hair wasn’t black as she’d thought in the dark, but a rich gleaming mahogany shot with shimmering strands of gold and copper. Half of it was caught in dozens of narrow braids, banded at the ends with glittering metallic beadwork. His eyes were burnt-whisky, his skin tawny-velvet.
He dripped primeval, elemental power, looked as much a relic as the mirror itself, a throwback to a time when men had been men and women had Done As They Were Told.
Her eyes narrowed. She couldn’t stand men like that. Chauvinistic, domineering men who thought they could order women around.
Too bad her body didn’t seem to be of the same mind. Too bad her body seemed downright intrigued by the various orders possible, like:
Take off your clothes, woman; let me get the taste of you on the back of my tongue . . .
It didn’t help that he looked like the kind of man who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, who would tolerate zero inhibitions on a woman’s part; the kind of man that, once he got a woman in bed, didn’t let her out again until he’d done everything there was to do to her, had fucked her so thoroughly that she could barely walk.
“Summon me out, woman,” came the tight, low command
But
how
could he be real?
She had no precedent for dealing with the inexplicable.
Fact-finding. All I can do is explore what’s happening, and reserve judgment until I know more.
Toward that end, shedding light on things, she reached for the wall switch and flipped on the overhead.
And got her first truly good look at him.
Crimeny,
she thought, eyes widening as if to drink in even more of him. The two prior times she’d caught glimpses of him, they’d been briefly snatched and the room had been heavily shadowed. She’d absorbed only a general impression of him: a big, dark, intensely sexual man.
She’d not seen the details.
And what details they were!
Stunned, she looked down. Up. Down. Up again. Slowly.
“Take your time, lass,” he murmured, so softly she scarcely heard him. His next comment was deliberately beyond her audible range, a silky “I plan to with you.”
He was tall, stuffing the mirror from top to bottom of frame. Powerfully built, with wide shoulders and rippling muscles, he wore a fabric of crimson and black around his waist—an honest-to-God kilt, if she wasn’t mistaken—glittering metallic wrist cuffs, and black leather boots.
No shirt. Wicked-looking black-and-crimson tattooed runes covered the left side of his sculpted chest, from the bottom of his rib cage, up over a nipple, across his shoulder, and to the edge of his jaw. Each powerful biceps was also encircled by a band of tattooed crimson-and-black runes. A thick, silky trail of dark hair began just above the navel on his ripped abs, slid down into the plaid.
Oh, God, was it tenting? Was that a bulge lifting the tartan?
Her gaze got stuck there for an awkward moment. Her eyes widened even further. Sucking in a shallow breath, she jerked her gaze away. A flush heated her cheeks.
She’d just ogled his penis.
Stood there, blatantly eyeing it. Long enough that he
had
to have noticed. Something was just not right with her. Her hormones had somehow gotten seriously out of whack. She was an artifact-ogler, not a penis-ogler.
She forced her gaze up to his face. It was as sinfully gorgeous as the rest of him. He had the chiseled, proud features of an ancient Celt warrior: strong jaw and cheekbones, a straight, aristocratic nose, flaring arrogantly at the nostrils, and a mouth so sexy and kissable that her own lips instinctively puckered, then parted, just looking at it, as if sampling a kiss. She wet them, feeling strangely breathless. Dark shadow stubbled his sculpted jaw, making his firm pink lips seem even more sexual against all that rough masculinity.
His hair wasn’t black as she’d thought in the dark, but a rich gleaming mahogany shot with shimmering strands of gold and copper. Half of it was caught in dozens of narrow braids, banded at the ends with glittering metallic beadwork. His eyes were burnt-whisky, his skin tawny-velvet.
He dripped primeval, elemental power, looked as much a relic as the mirror itself, a throwback to a time when men had been men and women had Done As They Were Told.
Her eyes narrowed. She couldn’t stand men like that. Chauvinistic, domineering men who thought they could order women around.
Too bad her body didn’t seem to be of the same mind. Too bad her body seemed downright intrigued by the various orders possible, like:
Take off your clothes, woman; let me get the taste of you on the back of my tongue . . .
It didn’t help that he looked like the kind of man who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, who would tolerate zero inhibitions on a woman’s part; the kind of man that, once he got a woman in bed, didn’t let her out again until he’d done everything there was to do to her, had fucked her so thoroughly that she could barely walk.
“Summon me out, woman,” came the tight, low command
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