Page 62 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"Aye." Her hands moved up, resting gently against his chest, where she felt the steady, powerful beat of his heart beneath her palms. The rhythm steadied her, anchoring her to that moment, to him. "More than all right."

He pressed his lips to hers then, soft and reverent, pouring all his gratitude into the kiss. When they parted, both were breathing hard.

"Are ye certain ye want this?" he asked again, his voice rough with restraint. "Because I need ye tae ken that this matters to me. Ye matter tae me. More than I expected when this all began."

"Ye matter tae me too," she confessed, the words barely a whisper. "More than I thought possible."

The smile that spread across his face was tentative but genuine. "Then let me show ye how it should be, Iona. Let me prove that touch can heal instead of harm."

"Show me," she breathed, and the trust in her voice nearly undid him.

His fingers were already moving—slow, careful strokes between her legs that had her twitching from sensitivity yet aching for more. Iona tried to pull away, but Ruaridh wouldn’t let her.

“Too much,” she whimpered.

He didn’t stop. “Wait a moment longer and see how it feels.”

And he was right. The discomfort bled into pleasure within seconds. Her hips lifted to meet the rhythm of his fingers—two of them now, deep and deliberate. His thumb grazed her clit lightly, teasing, and she sucked in a breath so sharp it burned her lungs.

“I want to see ye fall apart,” he said, voice low and thick. “Ye’re so bonny like this. Writhing. Loud. Wet.”

She moaned—half from the words, half from the way he curled his fingers just right.

Ruaridh kissed her ankle, then her calf, then slowly worked his way up her inner leg, his lips brushing over trembling skin while he never stopped moving his hand. By the time his mouth reached the top of her thigh, she was already teetering again, toes curling, muscles clenching.

And then his tongue was there.

Not tentative.

Not gentle.

He licked her like he needed it, moaning into her, his hand still buried inside her, working her to the edge. His tongue circled her folds in fast, firm flicks, then slowed—only to start again harder, faster, unrelenting.

She cried out, grabbing a fistful of his hair, dragging him closer. “Don’t stop—don’t stop⁠—”

He didn’t.

He kept her there, held her captive in sensation, pushing her over the edge with brutal precision. She shattered beneath his mouth, her whole body convulsing, thighs clamped around his head, her voice broken and wild with pleasure.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was overwhelming.

When he finally slowed, easing his fingers out of her and pressing soft kisses against her twitching thighs, Iona was nearly sobbing from how good it felt. Her body was slick with sweat. Her hair clung to her temples. She could barely lift her arms.

But he wasn’t done.

“Too much?” he asked, nuzzling her hip.

“I don’t even ken where I am,” she croaked.

He chuckled, and it was devastatingly fond. “Ye’re still here. Still mine. I just want tae see what else makes ye lose yer mind.”

Then he climbed up beside her and kissed her. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned into it.

She reached down between them, fumbling for his belt.

He caught her wrist.