Page 87 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

“Elspeth,” he said again, and this time her name was a surrender all at once.

She leaned into him, pressing her body against his, feeling the hard planes of his chest and stomach through their clothes. His other hand came up to tangle in her hair, tilting her head back, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear.

The room spun around them, the candlelight blurring into streaks of gold, the crackle of the fire fading into a distant roar.

His mouth crashed down on hers, hungry and desperate, all pretense of control gone. There was nothing gentle about it, nothing tentative. It was a claiming, a kiss that tasted of whisky and smoke and weeks of wanting.

Elspeth met his passion with her own, her free hand fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper, wanting to crawl inside his skin and stay there forever.

He backed her against the desk, the edge digging into her thighs, but she barely felt it. All she could focus on was him—his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his teeth nipping at her lips, his hands roaming over her body with a possessiveness that made her ache.

One hand slid down her back, cupping her arse, pulling her flush against his erection, hard and thick and pressing against her through their clothes.

She moaned into his mouth, rocking against him, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of him. His response was a guttural sound, half-growl, half-groan, as he lifted her onto the desk. Papers and books scattered to the floor, but neither of them noticed or cared.

All that mattered was this—this frantic, hungry need that had been simmering between them for months, finally boiling over.

Magnus’s fingers fumbled with the laces of her bodice, his hands shaking with urgency. When the ties finally gave way, he ripped the fabric apart, buttons popping and skittering across the floorboards.

Elspeth gasped as the cool air hit her heated skin, her nipples pebbling into tight points. Magnus’s mouth was on her instantly, hot and wet, his tongue swirling around one peak while his fingers rolled and pinched the other.

Her head fell back, her spine arching, pleasure shooting through her like lightning. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, grinding against his hardness. His free hand shoved her skirts up, bunching them around her waist, his fingers finding her wet heat through her thin drawers.

“Christ, Elspeth,” he breathed against her skin, his voice thick with wonder and need. “Ye’re already so wet for me.”

She could only moan in response, her hips bucking as he rubbed her through the fabric, his thumb circling her bud with devastating precision.

He was driving her mad with need, every touch stoking the fire burning in her blood. When he finally tore her drawers aside and slid two fingers into her tight channel, she cried out, her inner muscles clamping around him.

He worked her with his fingers, stretching her, his thumb never ceasing its maddening circles on her bud. Her orgasm built quickly, a tidal wave of sensation gathering strength, pulling her under. She was close, so close, teetering on the edge.

Then he stopped.

Elspeth’s eyes flew open, a protest dying on her lips as she saw the look on his face—raw, primal, utterly undone.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his eyes burning with an intensity that stole her breath. Then he drove his fingers inside her again, which knocked the breath from her lungs.

He moved his fingers slow and deep at first, then faster, harder, setting a rhythm that had her moving with it. His other hand found her bud again, rubbing tight, hard circles that pushed her over the edge.

Her orgasm crashed through her, violent and overwhelming, her body shaking around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure ripping through her. She screamed his name, her voice raw and hoarse, her vision blurring as white-hot ecstasy consumed her.

Magnus did not stop until her juices spilled in his hand. He kissed her bud before collapsing on top of her.

For a long moment, they just stayed like that, tangled together on the desk, the firelight painting their skin in shades of gold and amber. Magnus’s weight was a comforting pressure, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against her breast.

Elspeth traced patterns on his back, feeling the muscles twitch beneath her touch, feeling the dampness of her release trickling down her thighs.

Slowly, reluctantly, he stood up. He helped her down from the desk, his hands gentle now, his touch reverent. Her legs trembled, threatening to give way, and he swept her up into his arms, carrying her to the worn leather armchair by the fire.

He settled her on his lap, wrapping his plaid around them both, tucking her head under his chin. They sat in silence for a long time, watching the flames dance, the only sounds their quiet breathing and the occasional pop and hiss of the fire.

“Elspeth,” he said softly, his lips brushing against her hair. “I…”

She tilted her head back, looking up at him. His face was shadowed in the firelight, but she could see the softness in his eyes, the vulnerability he so rarely showed. She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Just hold me.”

And he did, his arms tightening around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.