There were no words. Only sensations. She felt it in the slight tremble of his fingers, in the way his control slipped just enough to betray how much this affected him. Her body answered him instinctively, her hips shifting again, seeking more, her breath coming faster as the sensations built, layered, intensified.
When he lifted her again, it was not to move away, but to carry her farther inside, to the bed waiting in the dim light of the chamber beyond.
“Your leg,” she protested.
“‘Tis fine. All of me is fine.”
This time, when he set her down, it was slower, his hands lingering, his gaze fixed on hers as though asking a question he did not voice.
“More than fine,” she whispered, her gaze perusing the length of his solid body.
Of course she’d realized he was tall, a giant among men. But seeing him in his gloriously naked form was… Isabel licked her lips. His legs were thick with muscle, a brush of hair along the length. She scanned from his feet to his knees, his thighs, taking in the scar, still fresh pink from his injury. The wound had completely healed, and within a year, the pink would most likely turn to white. Shaped almost like a starburst, she reached for it. The tips of her fingers soft.
Lachlan gasped, his eyes shutting.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, flicking her gaze up to study his face. He did not look in pain. He looked...
“Nay,” he croaked. “Quite the opposite.”
Growing bold with his answer, Isabel continued to stroke his skin, caressing over his ribs. Trained in healing, he was not the first man she’d seen without clothes, but he was the first man she’s seen…aroused. Jutting from between his hips was an impressive sight, one she’d not laid eyes on before. One she’d been curious about as she’d felt it pressed against her when they kissed.
Without hesitation, she touched him, her fingers circling the shaft, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the hardness underneath. Lachlan let out a growl, his eyes flying open to meet hers.
“Lass…” he warned. “‘Twill be over before it begins if ye–”
She squeezed and stroked upward, and Lachlan groaned. “If I what?” she asked.
“That. If ye do that.”
Isabel grinned. It seemed she had found Lachlan’s weak point. And he didn’t let her continue, pushing her hand aside. Before she could reach for him again, his own hand was on her, fingers brushing the curls at the apex of her thighs, sliding between the folds, until she too was gasping, nearly doubled over with pleasure. Apparently, she too had a weak spot.
“Do ye like that?” he asked.
She answered it by pulling him down onto the bed with her, surprised at her own daring, even as her actions emboldened her to do more. Their limbs entwined, and his lips met hers. The hardness of his chest, his thighs, his arousal, pressing to the softer points of her breasts, her belly, her own thighs.
Lachlan’s mouth lifted from her lips, skimming over the length of her neck, her collarbone, and she sighed against him, tracing her fingers down the muscles of his back, careful not to touch his shoulder injury, even though it had healed. He swore he wasn’t in pain but?—
All though left her as his mouth found her breast, his tongue darting out to stroke a hardened nipple. Isabel tried to breathe, but she could barely think beyond, dinna stop. Isabel threaded her fingers through his hair, the length of it loosened from the leather thong he normally kept it tied back with. She gave a tug, arched her back, a soft moan escaping her.
Lachlan’s breath grew uneven and his touch less steady as he stroked her body with fingers and tongue. Every movement built upon the last, every caress bringing her closer to something she could not yet name but felt all the same.
“Are ye certain? I we continue… ye will be mine.”
“Aye.”
And then he was sliding inside her. Her breath caught, her fingers tightening against around his shoulders as the sensation settled, sharp at first, but then transforming, deepening, becoming something else entirely. He murmured something against her throat, low and soothing, his hand steady at her hip as he gave her time to adjust, to follow him, to choose this fully.
And she did. All of him. Edicts and declarations and betrothals be damned. She wanted Lachlan.
A slow, building rhythm seized her with each thrust, until thought itself gave way to intoxication. The world narrowed again, but this time it did not hold still—it moved, pulsed, carried her with it in a way that left no space for doubt or hesitation.
Her body responded before her mind could catch up, her breath breaking, her hands stroking over his muscled back, the thick ropes of his arms. His name escaped her without thought, and the sound of it seemed to make his control slip in measured increments as the pace between them quickened.
And then she was cresting over the precipice, soaring into pleasure and delirious rapture. Isabel clung to him, her body shuddering beneath the force of her release, the intensity leaving her breathless, shaken.
He followed soon after, his thrusts faster, his breath rough against her skin as he pressed into her with a final, undeniable force, his own feral release breaking through in a way that left him just as shaken.
For a long moment afterward, neither of them moved. The world returned slowly. Piece by piece.
