Page 114 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

He kissed her throat, the sharp line of her collarbone, the soft valley between her breasts. He moved lower with a reverence that made her fingers curl in the thick furs beneath her, his breath burning her skin.

When his mouth found her sensitive bud, she softly cried out, her hips rising instinctively to meet him. He was moving slowly, maddeningly thorough.

He learned her with his lips and tongue, exploring every ridge and hollow, circling her bud with a pressure that built a devastating tension deep inside her. He nipped gently at the tender skin of her inner thighs, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her as her breath broke into ragged, desperate gasps.

“Magnus,” she breathed.

The sound seemed to reach into him and undo him. He moved back up her body, his mouth finding hers, and she tasted herself on him—salt and musk and a dark, primal sweetness.

She reached between them, her fingers closing around his thick, pulsing length. He groaned against her mouth, his hips pressing into her hand as she stroked him, feeling the velvet skin over the rigid steel, the bead of moisture at the tip.

“Elspeth,” he muttered.

She guided him to her entrance, and the slow glide while he entered her stole the air from her lungs. She welcomed the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness of him inside her. It felt right, as if she was born into this world to hold him like this.

He stilled, buried deep inside her, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming out ragged and hot against her cheek.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

He did.

His eyes were dark with longing, and shone in the firelight like lit coals. In their depths, she saw herself. She saw the want, the tenderness, and the absolute certainty that had brought them here.

She met him thrust for thrust, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him deeper with every stroke. The sounds of their coupling filled the room—their ragged breaths, her cries and his groans, the sound of his manhood pistoning in and out of her slick channel.

His hand found her bud, rubbing tight, hard circles that pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm exploded through her, violent and overwhelming, making her quiver. She called out his name, her voice raw and hoarse, her vision blurring as white-hot ecstasy consumed her.

Magnus followed her over, his hips stuttering, his thrusts becoming erratic as his own release claimed him. He buried himself deep inside her with a guttural growl, his manhood pulsing, filling her with his hot seed.

He collapsed on top of her, boneless and spent. Their bodies were slick with sweat, their hearts hammering against each other’s ribs.

They lay tangled, the fire crackling low, the night settling around them. The air was thick with the scent of sex, woodsmoke, and him.

Elspeth traced idle patterns on his damp chest, her fingers sliding through the coarse hair. He pressed a soft kiss to her hair, his arm a comforting weight across her back.

“Practical,” she murmured into his skin.

“Aye,” he said, smiling against her forehead. “Very practical.”

The End?