He released her lip and nipped her neck.

She sucked in a hissing breath, her whole body shuddering. Her hands fisted in his clothes and drew him closer. Aye, he loved her responsiveness. He tugged at her sleeve, baring her shoulder, and scraped his teeth over it, flicked it with his tongue. Her skin was smooth, hot and alluring. These blasted clothes were in the way. He yanked up her skirts and slid his hand along the silk stockings to the top, over the softest skin of her inner thighs.

She gasped. "Do not."

"Why not?" While looking into her hungry eyes, he gently stroked a finger over her wet curls. "Because I'll know how much you want me?"

"I do not want you," she said in a breathy tone.

"Nay?" He parted her swollen sex lips and her moisture drenched his fingers. "You're not good at lying, madame."

"It is Philippe that I want."

Ha, what a lie. "Is that right?"

"Oui. Just as you want Eleanor."

"God's blood! I don't want her. I only want you," he confessed. Indeed, that one truth stripped his soul bare.

"Now, who is the liar?" she said, near breathless.

"After last night, how can you doubt it?"

"I am not a naive child, monsieur. I know about men and their…desires. They want the woman they cannot have. They want many women because they like variety. They bore easily."

"You don't know me very well, then." Unable to imagine being bored with her, he stroked her with firm gentleness, that wee, sweet nub of flesh between her legs. She moaned, her eyelids dropping.

Aye. Over and over he caressed her, then slid a finger inside that snug passage. She whimpered but did not try to escape him.

He sensed the tension building within her, readying her for climax, and pulled his hand away. "Who do you want?"

Trembling, her breathing harsh, she glared at him.

He rubbed her inner thigh with teasing, light strokes.

"Touch me," she whispered.

"I want to do more than touch you."

"Oui. Do it." Her fingers grasped at his plaid.

Somewhere, he found a well of restraint and patience. "Not until you say you want me."

"I want you," she said in French, soft as a breath.

Saints! She was so lovely and passionate he wished to devour her like a juicy plum. "Say my name."

"Lachlan."

He took possession of her mouth, kissing her deep as shivers coursed through him. He must have her now. Lifting his kilt and her skirts, he anchored the material between them and picked her up. Urging her to wrap her legs around his waist, he positioned himself and slid into her. So tight she squeezed the control right out of him.

"Ah, saints, Angelique," he growled and halted a moment to savor her. So hot, wet and exquisite.

She buried her hands in his hair, fisting, pulling, and gave sweet little whimper-cries. "Lachlan?"

"Aye. That's good, hmm?" He moved, driving up into her gently but with persistence.

"Oui," she breathed.

Every stroke was pure heaven, even more so because of her enthusiasm. As he had suspected, she wanted him profoundly, as he did her. He was greedy! He never wanted this to end. The pleasure was absolute; climax teased him. Slowing, he fondled that sensitive spot with his wet thumb. She cried out, held her breath, wiggled on him.

"That's it, lass. Give it to me." When her inner muscles started to flutter and caress him, he drove into her hard. She screamed and rode him as her orgasm took over. He let go some of his control, allowing his own release to burn through him, so strong and all-consuming his conscious thought left him for a moment. He groaned, his face pressed into her hair.

"Iosa is Muire Mhàthair." He had never felt anything so powerful. Legs weak, he carried her to the bed and laid her upon it. Still inside her, he rested a moment while gently kissing her lips. He didn't want to leave her. Not this time, not when she'd said she wanted him.

Her inner muscles tightened, caressing him again. He pulled out and stepped back to undress. When he'd shed his plaid and shirt, Angelique surveyed him with darkened eyes, her lashes a bit damp.

He could not think of that gut-wrenching feeling she inspired in him, not now. She was like a storm-tide at sea that would suck him under and suffocate him. He'd felt her pain and hated it when she thought he'd been with Eleanor. But Angelique refused to trust him. It cut him to the bone to realize how untrustworthy she saw him when it was the thing he longed for most. That and her devotion, affection.

He hoped she liked what she saw when she observed him for he was not quite done with her this day. In fact, he feared he would never be done with her.

She didn't resist when he loosened the ties and fastenings on her clothing. Soon he unlaced her corset, removed it, and she helped him pull the shift over her head. Sudden vulnerability softening her eyes, she crossed her arms over her breasts.

"You cannot be shy now. Too late." Smiling, he tugged her arms away.

After thoroughly devouring her mouth, he turned his attention to her breasts. "You have kept these luscious morsels from me too long."

"You do not…"

He placed wee cherishing kisses on one. "What?"

"They are too small," she whispered.

The uncertainty in her gaze flayed him. "Nay. Your breasts are lovely beyond words." With his tongue, he flicked her nipple, pink and scrunched hard, then sucked at it. "Perfect."

She whimpered and closed her eyes.

"Mmm." He switched to the other, savoring the feel of her fingers in his hair, holding him close.

He allowed his gaze to leisurely wander over her naked body, taking in each exquisite detail. Her breasts were not huge, true, but they were round and perky, in perfect proportion to her slim body. He did not lie; they were indeed the loveliest breasts he had ever seen. Her waist was slender and her derriere curvy and succulent. He wished to bite it, then lick and memorize every inch of her.

"Angelique. You're the most beautiful creation on God's earth."

"Do not speak." She placed a finger on his lips.

He kissed the tip. "Why not?"

She grasped his semi-erect shaft in her hand.

"Och." It was too soon. But as he watched her small, inexperienced hands stroking him, he hardened with gusto. "Mmm." He couldn't stay down long with her in control.

She rose over him, mounting him, guiding his shaft into her. He growled, loving her aggressiveness. A woman who knew exactly what she wanted and took it. She rode him for several blissful minutes.

He stroked her nipples, tweaked them gently, loving the simple act of observing his wife enjoying his body. A woman who had feared him and hated sex days ago. Giving her pleasure had become his primary goal in life. He was not sure when that had happened, but he burned to hear her cry out his name at the height of passion.

Before he could've expected it, her body shuddered around him in a climax. Screaming, she flopped onto his chest and he took over the thrusting as she squeezed him.

Still in complete control, he rolled her onto her back and rose over her.

Once she had calmed, he pulled her upwards. "On your hands." She lifted her upper body and held herself aloft on her hands, while he supported her hips. He drove himself into her and her head fell back on her shoulders.

"Lachlan," she moaned.

"Aye." A warmth of emotion rushed through his chest. He tugged her closer, placed her arms around his neck, brushed her lips with his. I want only you. Do you understand? No other woman. He wanted to say those words to her again, but they would only remind her of her jealousy. Would only make her ask, for how long?