BEDDING THE
HIGHLANDER
By Sabrina York
Only a Scot can
steal her heart.
There's nothing
ladylike about Katherine Killin. She's a spitfire who cannot be tamed. To rid
himself of her, and to honor a truce set by the Duke of Glencoe, her father
agrees to wed her to his clan's mortal enemy, Ben Rannoch. But when Katherine
meets the enticingly masculine Kurt Rannoch, brother of her betrothed, she
suddenly craves domination.
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It was a glorious ride. Kate wanted
to throw out her arms, turn her face to the downpour, and revel in the moment.
Racing across the lea with Kirk, warm and strong behind her, was magnificent.
She’d always loved storms and the
savage beauty of nature. It made her feel one with the world. Alive. But there
had never been a more exhilarating tempest than this.
She could taste the acrid scent of
lightning on her tongue, feel the crackle of its energy in her hair. Danger
stalked them, and it excited her.
But something else did too.
An enormous, muscled man, held her
tightly, breathing against her neck in harsh pants. The movement of their
bodies against each other created a friction as they rode in manic union. The
damp heat of the plaid conjoined them and an earthy scent rose between them.
Ah, it was splendid.
It was nearly a disappointment when
it ended, when he slowed and guided the horse to an outcropping protruding from
the rocky tor.
And then, he slid from the horse,
leaving her alone and suddenly cold. When she frowned at him as he reached up
for her, he stilled. “Are you all right, lassie?”
“Aye,” she said, setting her hands
on his broad shoulders and allowing him to ease her down. Lord, he was large.
So hard and strong. So…tantalizing with his fierce expression. She didn’t
bother to hide her shudder.
“You’re freezing,” he said in a
low, feral growl.
She was not. She was on fire.
The thrill of the manic ride, the
exhilaration of their near disaster, and the pure elation of life and living
pulsed in her veins. Which was why she stepped toward him, rather than stepping
away. Why she reached up and cupped his nape. Why she tugged him down and
whispered, “You saved me.”
And she kissed him.
Surely she intended it only to be a
kiss of gratitude, one of pure and simple thanks. It was meant to be quick and
passionless and chaste.
Perhaps she had been deluding
herself, because she fiercely wanted, to the depth of her being, to taste him.
Glory. It was a mind-numbing kiss.
It began as a brush of her lips against his. But then, transfixed by the flavor
of his breath, the velvet caress of his mouth, she lingered. Her fingers
tangled in his hair, tightened. She eased closer and sealed them together from
chest to groin.
Though he allowed this familiarity,
she could tell he was resisting the urge to kiss her back. His muscles bunched,
he arched away.
The thought annoyed her so she
tipped her head and deepened the kiss, pressing her tongue between his lips.
He made a sound, something like a
growl, and he broke the kiss completely.
In a rush, he whipped her into his
embrace and backed her against the wall. She loved his power, the heat of his
muscles, his raging passion. But even more, she loved that he did not give rein
to his savagery.
Even now, as he consumed her in a
series of hungry kisses, he held back. Refrained from crushing her against the
granite tor.
With a growl, he reared back and
stared at her. “Lass, you tempt me,” he said in a gravely tone.
She tried to hold back her smile,
and failed.
“We canna do this.”
Ah, her mood plummeted. And the
least of her despair was her plot to scuttle the wedding to his brother. Her
body hummed with a desire she’d never experienced before. It was a soul-deep
yearning. A need.
To her surprise, he chuckled, and
that irked her. “What is so funny?” she snapped. Did he not know how she ached?
“Lass, lass.” He stroked her hair
and cupped her cheek in an attempt to soothe her. She scowled at him. He would
have to do better than that. Yet what did he do? He chuckled again and pulled
her into his arms, though she remained stiff. “I have work to do before we
play,” he murmured. He said this in a teasing tone, one that indicated there
would indeed be more kissing.
More of…everything.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Her Royal Hotness,
Sabrina York, is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of hot,
humorous romances. Her titles range from sweet & snarky to scorching
romance in historical, contemporary and fantasy sub-genres. Represented by
Nicole Rescinti at the Seymour Agency
Visit her webpage at www.sabrinayork.com to check out her books,
excerpts and contests. Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/bj8tKb
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