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"Lass, if that map you have is correct, we have until the morrow's eve to travel a distance of nearly eighty miles. That is three of your miles per hour, without stopping to sleep. Although I could run much of the way, I know you cannot. If you can manage four miles each hour, you may rest later."“That's impossible," Gwen gasped. "The fastest I've ever run on a treadmill was ten and a half minutes and I nearly died. And it was only one mile. I had to rest for hours and eat chocolate to revive myself. MacKelter, we need to rent a car," she tried again.
“You have splendid breasts, lass," he purred, cupping the plump mounds. "Splendid," he repeated stupidly, and she almost laughed. Men loved breasts any shape or form, they just loved them.
Okay so this one's a bit long but it was such a funny scene. He's just landed in present day and needs some clothes. Jeans...don't go well.
"These trews... och! By Amergin!"
"Come out and let me see you." she said, struggling to keep a straight face."
His voice sounded stangled when he replied, "You'll have to come in."
"Turn around," she said, her mouth suddenly dry.
He did, with a scowl.
She eyed his bare chest and, with effort, forced herself to remember she was supposed to be looking at the jeans. Her gaze skimmed downward over his rippled abdomen and lean hips and--
“What have you stuffed in your pants, MacKeltar?" she demanded.
"Nothing that wasn't God-given," he replied stiffly.
Gwen stared. "There's no way that's part of you. You must have gotten a sock or... something... stuck. Oh, my." She pried her gaze from his groin. A muscle worked in his jaw, and he was clearly in discomfort.
"I doona believe you intended to torture me-- nay, I saw other men on the street in such clothing-- so I will not take putative measures. However, I think the problem is much the same as my feet," he informed her.
"Your feet?" she repeated dumbly, her gaze dropping. They were large.
"Aye." He gestured toward hers. "In your time you bind your feet in constrictive boots, whereas we were soft, supple leather."
"Your point?" she managed.
"They have more room to grow," he said, as if she were simpleminded.
Gwen blushed. Of all the things to play a joke on her about. Stuffing socks in his pants, indeed! "MacKeltar, I do not believe for one minute that that" --she gestured at the bulge in his jeans--" is you. I may be gullible, but I do know what men look like, and that is not what men look like."
He flattened her up against the door of the dressing room, and his sensual mouth, much too close for safety, curved in a cocksure smile.. "Then you will simply have to see for yourself. Touch me, lass. Feel my... sock." His silver gaze sizzled with challenge, as he unzipped his zipper.
"Uh-uh." She shook her head for added emphasis.
"Then find me a pair of trews that doona threaten to sever my manparts."
"Uh-huh," she agreed, trying not to think about that unzipped zipper.
"Doona let this frighten you, lass. We will fit together well when I make love to you," he purred.
Weel was how it came out, and his lovely brogue, coupled with his "sock". were nearly all the persuasion she needed to set to removing his jeans with her teeth.
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