Best 11 quotes of Connie Mason on MyQuotes

And what’s a healer’s touch like?” she asked, working quickly to push the needle through and tie off another knot, closing his wound with each stitch. “Light as a feather. Like this.” He moved his hand from her arm to her breast. His fingertips brushed the bared skin above her bodice in teasing strokes. She held herself still, beguiled by the sensation. She’d never have guessed her body would react so to a man. She should be afraid, she knew, but her only fear was that he’d stop. His touch moved down, between the stiff boning of her bodice and the soft, thin chemise, circling her nipple slowly through the cloth of her undergarment. Oh, how he made her ache. He tormented that needy skin with his nearness. She fought the urge to squirm into his touch. When he finally flicked a nail over it, a jolt of wickedness shot from her breast to her womb.

As I recall,” he said as his fingertip skimmed the tops of her breasts, “I enjoy the sounds a woman makes when I pleasure her.” “Ye’d not enjoy these sounds.” She slapped his hand away. “And if ye take me, there’d be no pleasure.” “As a maid, ye canna know that,” he said, lifting one of the long locks of her chestnut hair to his lips and inhaling her scent. “And I dinna think ye’ll scream, not in the way ye mean, in any case.” “Ye’d have to tie me up and force yourself on me, because I’d fight ye, tooth and claw,” she said with assurance. “Now there’s a thought,” he said. “I’ve heard some lassies enjoy being tied up.” He could picture her in his mind, bound tight, her breasts bared, her legs splayed with her soft core wet and ready. She’d be helpless before him. He’d make her beg for release. He stood and walked to his horse to retrieve a length of rope. “Shall we give it a try?” “No!” she said, scrabbling away. “Please, no.” “Dinna fret, Elspeth. I’ll no’ force ye,” he crooned softly, as if she were a frightened mare.

Elspeth reached up a tentative hand to comfort him, palming the cheek that wasn’t covered with woad. He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her closer. Her lips parted. His tongue swept in. Her belly clenched, and a warm glow settled between her legs. He left her lips and began kissing her chin, her cheeks, her neck. “Ach! Ye’re sweet, lass.” Pity dissipated like morning mist. Instead, little wisps of pleasure followed his mouth’s path. The stubble of his beard grazed the tops of her breasts, and her nipples tightened almost painfully. She sucked her breath over her teeth to keep from crying out in pleasure and surprise when his palm covered her breast, the pressure sweet even through the stiff boning of her pink silk bodice.

Her first instinct was to look away, to shield her wicked thoughts and feelings from his penetrating gaze. But if ever there was a time for truth between a man and a woman, this was that time. She met his eyes steadily and didn't care whether he saw the abandon and bliss she felt. His face held a cross between the wonder of a boy on Christmas morn and the knowing look of a man who was exquisitely aware of what wicked things he was doing to her. He enslaved her with pleasure, and she had no defense. Her cheeks heated, and her breath hitched, but she couldn't look away. He might stop, and she didn't think she could bear it if he did. Instead, she moved. Just a little, so his finger would brush her sensitive tip. A jolt of longing shot through her body from her breast to her womb. "Merciful God!" she breathed. "Aye, lass, and 'tis a good thing He is," Rob said with a wicked grin, "for I am no' merciful in the slightest.

His mouth descended upon hers and swallowed up her cry. She'd been kissed sweetly before, stylized expressions of courtship during some of the dances favored by Queen Mary's court. This kiss bore no resemblance to those. This was a ravishment, a demanding plunder of her mouth. He stole her breath, but she was so surprised by the sudden invasion, she didn't think to pull away. She froze like a coney confronted by a fox. He filled her with breath from his own body, warming her to her toes. 'I should be revolted. I should be screaming to get away.' But then his mouth went suddenly soft and beguiling on hers. Elspeth had never imagined the like. 'How strange, this shared breath, this mingling of souls.

If your heart’s no’ engaged in your marriage, then ye shouldna be averse to a wee bit of lust outside of it,” he said, advancing around to her. She made him feel pleasurably male again. He decided to listen to his groin and not stifle the urge. Lust wasn’t the same as love. Surely it wouldn’t be a betrayal of Fiona if he used his body to wreak vengeance on his enemy. Especially not if he convinced Lachlan’s bride to succumb willingly. “Ye interrupted the ceremony before the vows were complete. I’m no’ even officially a wife, I dinna suppose,” she said, still circling the spring to keep her distance from him. Her nipples stood out beneath her bodice, whether from cold or the memory of his touch, he didn’t much care. They were a fine sight in any case. He ached to suckle them.

Lust was no surprise. Present a man who'd not known a woman in a while with the sight of a naked one, and there was no power on earth that could restrain his cock from rising. But the tenderness in his chest nearly knocked him down. He longed to hold her, to whisper endearments, to kiss away her fears and offer her the protection of his body as well as its need. "Elspeth," he said reverently, as if her name were a prayer. That broke the spell. She covered herself, one arm across her breasts, the other hand protectively splayed between her legs. He continued to look at her, drinking in her exposed skin, all rosy and fresh. It would be like silk under his touch. His hands would know every inch of her. She snatched up the remains of the velvet skirt and held it before her, but her neat calves and ankles were still bare to his gaze. "How long have you been there?" she demanded. "Long enough.

She looked up at him, her eyes enormous. He noticed they were hazel, the sort that picked up whatever hue was near. Now they were the same shade of green as the moss ringing the cavern.

She smelled faintly of heather and evergreen boughs. Scent was an extravagance. He wondered where she dabbed the fragrant oil. The thin skin of her wrists? The pulse point at her white throat? Or maybe in the sweet hollow between her breasts? Thinking about all of those soft, forbidden places made him feel rampantly, throbbingly male. He wanted to search out those tender spots, bury his nose in them, and lave them with his tongue.

Stop.” She covered her breast with her own hand. “That’s no’ a healer’s touch.” His smile was sin incarnate. “Ye’ve the right of it there, lass. That’s a lover’s touch. And ye’ve had only the smallest bit of the pleasure, only a taste of what I would give ye an’ ye allow it.” “No,” She scrambled to her feet to put some distance between them. “An’ ye try to take me, I’ll scratch yer eyes out, Rob MacLaren.” “I’d not take ye. Not a step further than ye wish. I ken ye’re a virgin and wanting to stay that way,” he said earnestly. “But there’s great delight for a man in the giving of pleasure, ye see. And ways around a maidenhead that’ll leave ye still pure when we’re done.” She’d forgotten to breathe as he spoke. Now she sucked in a quick breath. “Shall I pleasure ye, Elspeth?

This will hurt ye more than it does me,” she said as she pulled the thread through his skin. “Nay, lass, you’re but tickling me,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumb rubbed back and forth over her forearm. “What are ye doing?” she demanded. “Hmm?” He blinked, all innocence. She looked pointedly down at his hand. His thumb stopped. “I was just distracting myself a bit from the pain,” he said. “Ye’re fair soft.” “Ye’re accustomed to scratchy wool. That’s just the silk ye feel.” “No, I can imagine ye beneath your clothes,” he said. “I’m thinking your skin puts silk to shame.