Page 63 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

“Nae taenight,” he said. “Taenight’s nae about me.”

“I want⁠—”

He shook his head. “Ye’ll get yer turn. But right now, I want tae ken what yer breasts taste like when ye’re sensitive. I want tae hear what ye sound like when I tease yer nipples after ye’ve already come. I want tae mark ye. Feel yer thighs shake against me chest again.”

She stared at him, chest heaving.

God help her, she wanted it too.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He didn’t waste a second.

He pulled her into his lap, kissing her hard, hands sliding up her torso to cup her breasts. He thumbed her nipples through the fabric, watching her squirm, then leaned down to drag his tongue slowly over one hardened peak.

She whimpered.

He sucked gently, then bit—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make her gasp and arch into him. His other hand slipped between her thighs again, fingers spreading her open with practiced ease.

She felt swollen. Raw. Soaked.

And he seemed obsessed with every inch of it.

“Ruaridh—please⁠—”

He looked up, lips wet, eyes dark. “Beg a little more, lass. Just a wee bit more.”

Her voice broke. “I need yer mouth on me. Again. Please. I just—please⁠—”

He groaned and shoved her back onto the pillows.

“Ye sound like sin when ye beg.”

And then his mouth was on her again.

No hesitation. No holding back.

He licked and sucked her with his fingers and tongue until she was screaming, until her nails left red streaks down his back, until her thighs locked around his shoulders and her climax hit like a tidal wave.

She collapsed, chest rising in ragged, helpless rhythm.

He finally pulled away, crawling up beside her, resting his hand on her belly like he was grounding her.

Her voice was ruined, hoarse, but still she whispered, “Ye’re dangerous.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth.

She smiled weakly. “And ye’re not even inside me yet.”

He kissed her again, softer now. “Nae until ye beg me fer it. The way ye just begged fer me mouth.”

And she knew she would.

But not that night.

Not yet.

For Iona, each sensation was a revelation—that touch could bring joy instead of fear, that her body could respond with pleasure instead of panic. And for Ruaridh, watching her come alive beneath his hands was healing in ways he'd never expected. Here was proof that he could still be gentle, still be trusted with something precious.

"Thank ye," he whispered against her throat as she trembled in his arms. "Fer trusting me with this. With ye."

"Thank ye," she gasped, clinging to him, "fer being patient. Fer showing me that touch is nae only bad."

They held each other close, both transformed by what they'd shared. It wasn't just physical pleasure—it was the healing of two wounded souls finding peace in each other.

"What happens now?" she asked softly, her head pillowed on his chest.

"Now we keep healing," he replied, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Together. One day at a time."

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Are ye well?" he asked softly.

"Better than well." She tilted her face up to look at him. "I feel... whole. Fer the first time in longer than I can remember."

"As dae I, lass. As dae I."

That night, they slept peacefully together, two souls who had found their way back to each other across years of pain and distance. And for those precious hours, the threats that surrounded them seemed very far away indeed.