Kicking off her boots and jeans, she shook out the hem of her t-shirt until it fell to mid-thigh. As sleepwear went, it was sorely lacking, but it would do for a single night, alone on a dirt floor.
Shoving her feet into the opening of her sleeping bag, she scrunched down and made herself as comfortable as possible. She closed her eyes and yawned again, a faint trace of uneasiness skittering down her spine.
Not for the first time, she felt as though she was being watched, and if her dreams and research could be believed, she had a pretty good idea what—or rather, who—her observer might be. The good news was, she didn’t think it—or he—would hurt her.
But since she couldn’t be positive, that was one more reason to put off her search until tomorrow. Confrontations of this sort were better left for the bright light of day.
Screwing her eyes tightly shut, she gave a slight shiver and snuggled deeper beneath the folds of her sleeping bag. If she started thinking about him, and rats, and all the other creepy-crawly things that might be sneaking around this place, she’d never get any rest.
And the sooner she fell asleep, the sooner it would be morning, so she could wake up and get started on her quest for—literally—the man of her dreams.
She’d been asleep only a few minutes when the dream began. And she knew it was a dream, knew it was one of those dreams, even as she drifted through that delicate space between slumber and reality.
She was in Castle MacKay, curled up in her sleeping bag, but she wasn’t alone. It was no rat or spider keeping her company, either, but a man.
Dougal.
He stepped out of the shadows, all six-plus-feet of him, and walked toward her.
He moved slowly, making no sound as he crossed the earthen floor, giving her a chance to study him. He was bare-chested, wearing nothing more than a kilt and soft-soled, worn leather boots. His hair was black, tousled, and long enough to brush his broad, well-formed shoulders. His green eyes glowed, looking serpentine in the dark, with their thin, vertical pupils.
And his flesh…every inch of that strong, impressive chest that she could see…was covered with a beautiful, almost iridescent sort of tattoo. But not of any picture or form she could make out. Instead, it looked like layer after layer of lovely, colorful…scales.
That might have seemed odd to her, probably had in the beginning, but after so many dreams of this man, she was not only used to the unique markings, but found them attractive and erotic to the extreme.
Even as that thought flitted through her brain, he was upon her, kneeling down and flipping back the top fold of the sleeping bag. Heat radiated from every pore of his body as he stared down at her, taking in her pale pink t-shirt with its hibiscus flowers and hula girl, advertising Hawaii as “a great place to get leied.” The hem had ridden up around her hips, leaving her stark white, French-cut bikini panties in full view.
He murmured a single word, low and emphatic, but in a language she didn’t understand, had never heard before she’d begun having these dreams. And then he was loosening the wide belt at his waist, kicking off his calf-high boots, and letting the blue, black, and green fabric of his family tartan fall to the floor. A second later, he was stretched out full length on top of her.
His mouth covered hers, furnace hot, sending flickering flames down her throat and to her very center. He bit, licked, sucked, devoured her like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The firm contours of his muscled chest and arms pressed in on her, his legs straddling her own, the rigid length of his arousal rubbing against the soft material at the apex of her thighs.
She had been wet long before he touched her. One glance at his rippling, masculine body towering over her, and she’d turned liquid with fiery lust. Her nipples were puckered and jutting beneath the cotton of her top as she writhed beneath him.
His lips and teeth burned her flesh, tugged at her lips, skimming her cheek, trailing down the line of her throat. He lifted up only long enough to grab the bottom of her shirt in his large, long-fingered hands and strip it off over her head. Then he lowered his head again and feasted at her breast.
Her back arched on a moan, her fingers threading through his black hair as his tongue circled her areola, the budded tip, and then drew her fully into his mouth.
“Yes, please.” She scratched at his back with her nails, lifting, reaching for more.
The heat of his long, seeking member brushing between her legs made her want him inside her now. Hard, hot, fast. She rotated her hips, trying to hurry him, trying to take him in, even before she was fully naked.
And—thank you, Jesus—he took the hint. His rough, callused fingers traced her waist, and then her legs, taking her underwear with them. Without ceremony, he shoved her legs apart, settled himself between them, and thrust home.
Laura gasped at the feel of him embedded so deeply and stretching her to accommodate his incredible size. She took a moment to concentrate on her breathing, and before she knew it, her body relaxed, going soft and loose around him.
He gave her only a moment to recover before lifting her legs over the crooks of his elbows, growling low in his throat, and beginning to pump.
Her back arched at the intensity of sensations racing through her blood. He was a demon, pounding into her like a jackhammer, harder, faster. And she responded, rising to meet his rapid movements, raking his back with her nails, emitting high-pitched keens of delight from the back of her throat that she’d never heard herself make before.
Almost without warning, the orgasm ripped over her, sharp and powerful. She screamed her pleasure, clutching at him more tightly as he continued to thrust frantically.
And then he stopped, going still above her as he came with a roar, spilling inside her.
As quickly as the dream had begun, it faded away, and she drifted more deeply into sleep. She was exhausted, and now—thanks to one of the most violent orgasms of her life—thoroughly sated.
Long after the woman had crawled under the blankets and gone to sleep, Dougal watched her. Watched her chest rise and fall with her deep, even breathing. Watched her mouth drift open and her eyelids flutter as she slipped further into slumber.
He wished that he could show himself, go to her and coax her slowly awake with passionate kisses and a slow caress. He imagined stripping her of blankets and that fitted shirt, devouring her as he hadn’t had the chance to devour a woman in a century or more.
When she moaned and rolled to her back, he straightened away from the wall, afraid she may have sensed his presence. He shouldn’t have to hide in his own castle, but nor could he risk discovery.
A moment later, it became obvious she was still asleep, but the moans continued. Perhaps she was dreaming. Of monsters and ghouls and other things that went bump in the night, he was sure. Any woman spending the night alone in an abandoned Scottish castle was likely to be skittish.
His brows crossed, though, when she threw off half of the thick red sleeping bag as he’d pictured himself doing, revealing her torso and the tops of her smooth, shapely legs. And then his brows arched, shooting high up on his forehead as one hand, with its softly painted nails, lifted to cup her own breast through the material of her form-fitting top. The other slid over her waist and under the small wisp of material that covered her private areas.
His erection, which had already been at half-mast simply from observing her for the past few hours, shot to full attention. In his mind, he pictured where he wanted her hands to go, the areas he wished his own hands could explore, and to his amazement, she seemed to follow his silent commands.
She continued to touch herself, making tiny mewling sounds of need, and arching up as though meeting a lover’s caress. The hand at her breast moved beneath the shirt to tease bare flesh. Her nipples hardened to swollen, pointing peaks, sending a lightning bolt of lust straight to his groin.