Something exploded between them, and there in the mist and fog of Durrkesh she was so consumed by the need to mate her man that she no longer cared that they stood on a public street. Grimm wanted her, wanted to make love to her—his body told her that clearly. She arched against him, encouraging, entreating. The kiss hadn’t merely rendered her breathless, it had depleted the last of her meager supply of sense.
He caught her questing hand and pinned it against the wall above her head. Only when he had secured both her hands did he change the tempo of the kiss, turning it into a teasing, playful flicker of his tongue, probing, then withdrawing, until she was gasping for more. He brushed the length of his body against hers with the same slow, teasing rhythm.
He tore his lips away from hers with excruciating slowness, catching her lower lip between his teeth and tugging gently. Then, with a last luscious lick of his tongue, he drew back.
“So what do you think? Could Ramsay compare to that?” he asked hoarsely, eyeing her breasts intently. Only when he ascertained that they didn’t rise and fall for a long moment, that he had indeed managed to “kiss her breathless,” did he raise his eyes to hers.
Jillian swayed as she struggled to keep her knees from simply buckling beneath her. She stared at him blankly. Words? He thought she could form words after that? He thought she could think?
Grimm’s gaze searched her face intently, and Jillian saw a look of smug satisfaction banked in his glittering eyes. The faintest hint of a smile curved his lip when she didn’t reply but stood gazing, lips swollen, eyes round. “Breathe, peahen. You can breathe now.”
Still, she stared at him blankly. Valiantly she sucked in a great, whistling breath of air.
“Hmmph” was all he said as he took her hand and tugged her along. She trotted beside him on rubbery legs, occasionally stealing a peek at the supremely masculine expression of satisfaction on his face.
Grimm didn’t speak another word for the duration of their walk back to the inn. That was fine with Jillian; she wasn’t certain she could have formed a complete sentence if her life had depended on it. She briefly wondered who, if either of them, had won that skirmish. She concluded weakly that she had. He hadn’t been unaffected by their encounter, and she’d gotten the kiss she craved.
When they arrived at the Black Boot, Hatchard informed the strangely taciturn couple that the men, although still quite weak, were impatient to be moved out of the inn. Analyzing all the risks, Hatchard had concurred that it was the wisest course. He had procured a wagon for the purpose, and they would return to Caithness at first light.
CHAPTER 14
“TELL ME A STORY, JILLIAN,” ZEKE DEMANDED, AMBLING into the solar. “I sore missed you and Mama while you were away.” The little boy clambered up onto the settle beside her and nestled in her arms.
Jillian brushed his hair back from his forehead and dropped a kiss on it. “What shall it be, my sweet Zeke? Dragons? Fairies? The selkie?”
“Tell me about the Berserkers,” he said decidedly.
“The what?”
“The Berserkers,” Zeke said patiently. “You know, the mighty warriors of Odin.”
Jillian snorted delicately. “What is it with boys and their battles? My brothers adored that fairy tale.”
“ ’Tis not a fae-tale, ’tis true,” Zeke informed her. “Mama told me they still prowl the Highlands.”
“Nonsense,” Jillian said. “I shall tell you a fitting tale for a young boy.”
“I don’t want a fitting tale. I want a story with knights and heroes and quests. And Berserkers.”
“Oh my, you are growing up, aren’t you?” Jillian said wryly, tousling his hair.
“Course I am,” Zeke said indignantly.
“No Berserkers. I shall tell you, instead, of the boy and the nettles.”
“Is this another one of your stories with a point?” Zeke complained.
Jillian sniffed. “There’s nothing wrong with stories that have a point.”
“Fine. Tell me about the stupid nettles.” He plunked his chin on his fist and glowered.
Jillian laughed at his sullen expression. “I’ll tell you what, Zeke. I shall tell you a story with a point, and then you may go find Grimm and ask him to tell you the story of your fearless warriors. I’m certain he knows it. He’s the most fearless man I’ve ever met,” Jillian added with a sigh. “Here we go. Pay attention:
“Once upon time there was a wee lad who was walking through the forest and came upon a patch of nettles. Fascinated by the unusual cluster, he tried to pluck it so he might take it home and show his mama. The plant stung him painfully, and he raced home, his fingers stinging. ‘I scarcely touched it, Mama!’ the lad cried.