Page 113 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind them. The warmth of the corridor enveloped Elspeth, a stark contrast to the biting chill of the hillside air that clung to Magnus’s woolen plaid.

He set her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist. They stood for a moment in the shadowed stillness, the only sound being their breathing, slow, deep, and ragged.

“Yer chamber or mine?” she asked, her voice a low purr.

“Ours,” he said, the single word resonating with a finality that settled deep in her bones.

He took her hand, his grip firm and sure, and led the way.

The stairs were narrow, twisting upward into the heart of the keep. She followed, her free hand trailing along the rough-hewn wall, feeling the cool, pitted texture beneath her fingertips.

The distant hum of the cèilidh faded with each step, the music and laughter becoming a ghost of a sound, leaving only the soft tread of their boots on stone.

When he pushed open the door to his chamber, the fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows that licked at the edges of the bed and the heavy wooden furniture.

He turned to face her, and the low, flickering light caught the hard line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow, his longing shining bright through the dancing shadows as his eyes moved over her with a slow, deliberate sweep, claiming her.

She reached for the silver brooch at her shoulder, her fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp, but his hand covered hers, stilling them.

“Let me,” he said, his voice a rough whisper.

His fingers were deft, working the pin loose with an ease she could not muster. The plaid slid from her shoulders and pooled in a heap of wool at her feet.

He moved to the laces of her bodice, his knuckles brushing against the linen of her shift as he worked. He took his time. Each pull of the cord was measured, patient, and the slow, deliberate tension coiled in her belly, making her breath catch in her throat. She watched his face in the firelight. His throat bobbed as he focused on the task with a newfound intensity.

The bodice loosened, and the heavy dress sagged, slipping down her arms to land with a soft rustle around her ankles. She stood in her thin shift, the fine linen doing little to shield her from the sudden chill his gaze sent down her spine.

He reached for her again, but she caught his wrist, her fingers encircling the warm, solid flesh.

“Me turn,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

He briefly looked at her with a mix of surprise and intense delight. Then he offered himself to her wondering hands.

He stood perfectly still as her fingers reached for the laces of his leather jerkin, then the buttons of his shirt beneath. She progressed slowly, mirroring his unhurried pace.

When she softly pushed the worn linen from his shoulders, her palms flattened against the warm, solid wall of his chest. She could feel the powerful thrum of his heart against her skin, a rhythm that seemed to echo the frantic pulse between her thighs.

She traced the sharp lines of his collarbones, the sensitive hollow at the base of his throat, and he remained a statue beneath her touch, his gaze burning into her skin.

She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. A slow, open-mouthed kiss that was an invitation.

His hands finally moved, closing around her waist and pulling her flush against him. The thin linen of her shift was no barrier at all. She could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his body, the rough texture of his kilt against her thighs.

His fingers searched for the hem of her shift and drew it up slowly, his knuckles grazing her hips, her ribs, her arms. He pulled it over her head and let it drop, letting her stand bare before him, the firelight painting the hollows and furrows of her skin in varying shades of gold and red.

His eyes ran over her, warm and covetous. A smaller part of her, a part that still clung to the girl with the green-ink poetry, wanted to shrink, to cover herself. But she did not. She stood tall, letting him see, and in his eyes, she did not see judgment, but something closer to reverence. She felt found.

His hands started moving over her body, slowly exploring her curves. They traced the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, the delicate line of her spine.

When his thumbs brushed the soft undersides of her breasts, a sharp gasp escaped her lips. He caught the sound with his mouth, kissing her deeply, his tongue stroking hers until she forgot how to breathe. The world narrowed to the taste of him and the feel of his hands on her skin.

He carefully walked her backward until the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sank onto the thick furs, pulling him down with her. He braced himself over her, his arms locked around her body, the firelight carving the powerful muscles of his shoulders into relief.

She reached up, her thumb tracing the stubborn line of his jaw.

“I want to feel ye,” she whispered. “All of ye.”

He lowered himself over her. She felt him then, hard and thick, pressing against her thigh through the rough wool of his kilt, and her body answered with a liquid heat that flooded her core. She arched against him, a silent plea for more, and his mouth began a slow descent.