Page 52 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

Let tomorrow worry about tomorrow. Tonight, I'll just be a man with his wife, building something real between us.

They settled into bed together, Colin's arms encircling her as naturally as if they'd been sharing a bed for years rather than having slept together for the first time just the night before. The familiar space felt completely transformed, charged with new intimacy and the memory of stolen kisses in the darkness.

Morag nestled against Colin's chest, her head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder where it had rested the previous night. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm, could smell the clean scent of his skin mixed with the faint trace of leather and steel that always seemed to cling to him.

For a few precious moments, she felt perfectly content. This was what she'd been craving since waking that morning—the warmth of his arms around her, the security of his presence, the growing connection between them that made everything else fade away.

But as the minutes passed, contentment gave way to restlessness. The memory of last night's kisses burned in her mind—the taste of him, the way his hands had felt in her hair, the desperate hunger in his touch. Her body remembered every sensation, every moment of awakening desire, and now lying so close to him, feeling his warmth but holding back, felt like torture.

She shifted slightly, trying to get closer to him without seeming too forward.

"Comfortable?" Colin asked softly, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep.

"Aye," she lied, even as she shifted again, her hand moving restlessly against his chest.

Colin's arms tightened around her slightly, and she felt him press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. "Sleep now, me love. Ye need yer rest."

But sleep was the furthest thing from Morag's mind. Every nerve ending seemed to be on fire where their bodies touched. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin through his nightshirt, the way his fingers absently stroked through her hair. It was wonderful and maddening all at once.

She tried to lie still, to be the good, patient wife who was content with gentle affection. But the memory of last night's passion made her body ache with want. She shifted to her left, then her right, trying to find some relief from the restless energy coursing through her.

"What's wrong?" Colin's voice cut through the darkness, no longer heavy with sleep but alert and concerned.

"Naethin’," Morag said quickly, forcing herself to stillness even as her heart raced.

But within minutes, she was moving again—adjusting her position against him, her leg sliding restlessly against his, her fingers tracing small patterns on his chest. The memory of last night's kisses, the feeling of his mouth moving against hers with such desperate hunger, made it impossible to simply lie there and pretend to sleep.

"Morag." His voice carried a note of understanding now, as if he could sense the true nature of her restlessness.

"There's naethin' wrong," she insisted, even as she turned in his arms to face him, their faces now inches apart in the darkness. "I just... I can't seem tae settle."

In one fluid movement, Colin rolled over and used his arms to cage her beneath him, his weight supported on his forearms as he pinned her in place.

"If naething's wrong," he said, his voice rough with something that definitely wasn't sleep, "then stop twisting and turning. Ye're making it impossible fer me tae sleep."

Morag went completely still beneath him, acutely aware of his body hovering over hers, of the way his breath stirred her hair, of the heat radiating from his skin, even through their nightclothes.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, Morag asked, "Is me twistin' the only reason I'm keeping ye awake?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with meaning. Colin's arms trembled slightly where they bracketed her head, and she could feel the rapid beat of his heart where his chest nearly touched her back.

"Morag," he breathed, her name a warning and a plea all at once.

She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. The space between them seemed to crackle with tension, with want, with everything they'd been trying so hard to deny.

When Colin lowered his head, she didn't pull away.

Their lips met in a kiss that was nothing like the desperate, grief-stricken one from the night before. This was slower, deeper, full of the tension that had been building between them for days. Morag turned beneath him, her hands finding the fabric of his shirt and fisting in it as if she needed something to anchor herself.

Colin's weight settled more fully against her, and she could feel the rapid beat of his heart through the thin linen of his nightshirt. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone as he kissed her with a thoroughness that made her toes curl.

"We shouldnae," Morag whispered against his lips, even as her body betrayed her words by arching toward him.

"Nay," Colin agreed roughly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, his mouth moved to her jaw, pressing soft kisses along the sensitive skin there. "Nae while ye are still recoverin'."

"Aye," she gasped breathlessly, her fingers tangling in his hair as he found that spot just below her ear that made her gasp.

Colin lifted his head to look at her, his eyes dark in the candlelight. "Tell me tae stop, Morag."