The Immortal Highlander

His eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a snarl.

Where the hell had that come from? He’d never been hit by a woman. None had ever raised a hand against him. Women adored him. Couldn’t get enough of him. Fact was, they worshiped him. What the bloody hell was her problem?

Damned Irish. One could never predict the tempers of those fiery, moody Gaels. Obdurate as stones, they passed through the centuries untouched by evolution, as hotheaded and barbaric today as they’d been in the Iron Age.

He arched a brow, trying to fathom her reaction. He glanced down at himself. No latent part of the queen’s curse had kicked in, mutating him into something hideous while he’d not been paying attention. He was still his usual irresistible self: the sexy, dark-eyed, muscle-bound Highland blacksmith who drove women wild.

After a moment’s reflection, he decided that she just wanted to play rough. Liked her men dominant, aggressive, and dangerous.

He shrugged. Fine. After three hellish months of being cursed, three miserable months of celibacy, he was feeling all that and more.

He could use an outlet.

Gabby was at the front door, her hand closing on the doorknob, when the back door exploded open, spraying slivers of door frame and bits of dead bolt everywhere.

Metal and wood screeched protest as two-hundred-plus pounds of furious fairy blasted through it.

Knowing she had the lead by mere precious seconds, she turned the knob and yanked the door open, only to feel the thud of its palms on either side of her head, smashing it shut again.

Impossible! No way it could move that fast!

But it had, and now she was trapped: hard door in front, harder fairy behind.

For a few frantic moments she ducked and twisted, trying to escape, but it moved with her, seeming to anticipate her every feint and joust, bracing its hands on either side of her, caging her in with its powerful body.

Unable to evade, she went still as a cornered animal. Dozens of things to say collided in her mind, all of them beginning with a pathetic little “please.” But she was damned if she was going to beg; it would probably enjoy that.

She bit her tongue and kept her mouth firmly shut. If she was going to die, she would die proud. Stiffening stoically, she prepared herself to meet whatever grisly end it had in store for her.

But an end, she realized swiftly, wasn’t what it had in mind at all.

Grazing its jaw against her hair, it growled low in its throat, and there was no mistaking the hungry, sensual edge to the sound.

Oh, God, she thought wildly, just like the Books said, it’s going to try to seduce me before it kills me.

It snared her hands and, though she struggled wildly, she was no match for its immense strength. Stretching her arms above her head, it flattened her palms against the door and molded all that rock-hard fairy body to hers.

Gabby’s eyes flew wide.

Her first forbidden, absolutely electrifying fairy-feel. And with it, the answer to a question she’d been trying desperately not to wonder about for years.

No—they were not like mortal men.

At least not any she’d ever felt. Whuh.

She swallowed. Hard. Despite the clothing between them, her skin positively sizzled where Adam was pressed against her. Heavens, she thought dimly, what would it feel like to rub her naked body up against a fairy? Might she go up in erotic flames?

“Is it rough love you’re wanting, then, Irish?”

For a moment Gabby’s brain was simply incapable of processing the content of what it had said, overwhelmed by sensation: the steely maleness of it prodding her behind; the spicy, masculine scent of it; the sultry heat it was giving off; the seductive, deep, strangely accented voice. She was melting, knees going buttery-soft . . .

She inhaled a deep fortifying breath and forced herself to focus on the voice; rich Irish cream tumbling over broken glass, cultured, smoky, velvety. Thick with an exotic accent that her floundering mind realized was probably that of an ancient Celt. An accent she’d be willing to bet no living person had heard spoken in thousands of years. Filled with rolling r’s and softly dropped g’s and peculiarly shaped vowels.

Then the content of its question belatedly penetrated and so offended her that all she managed was “Huh?”

“Name your fancy, woman,” it purred, lips braising the edge of her ear, sending shivers rippling up her spine. “Is it bondage? A bit of spanking?” A slow, hard, sensual thrust against her bottom punctuated the last question. “Or just a good, hard fucking?”

Gabby opened and closed her mouth several times, but no sound came out. Then, blessedly, outrage stiffened her spine and freed her tongue. “Ooh! None of the above! My fancy is for you to remove that . . . that . . . thing from my butt!”