Page 62 of A Gypsy in Scotland
Making swift do of his breeches and boots, he reached between their bodies until he found her core. With a harsh, ragged breath, matching her own, he teased one finger between her thighs until she was slick for him.
She moaned and dropped her head against his shoulder as her legs wrapped tightly around him.
The undisguised need in her voice shattered his flagging control. And then he was inside her, the hard length of him sliding between her smooth folds, passing all her barriers, stretching her, filling her so deep, Lash never wanted to leave her warmth.
He thrust once, twice, losing count as her nails dug into his shoulders, fanning the flames of their desire until they were burning like wildfire. And that’s when Lash felt it—the connection between them—the invisible thread that bound them from the start, weaving deeper into his being, anchoring in the center of his soul.
He hissed when she wound her legs tighter around his waist. His thrusts grew more frenzied, hard and deep until there was nothing left but raw pleasure.
Magic.
His eyes locked onto her face in awe, a goddess in the throes of passion, and watched rapture cloud her features. When she cried out his name, it prompted the growl of his own release.
It was a while before either could move, their legs locked in place, their breathing shattered.
“That was . . .” Her words gave way to air.
Soul-shattering.
“Magical,” she finished softly.
He smiled against her skin. “You are magical.”
You are where I belong.
But he didn’t say that. Was not ready for what those words meant. Instead, he kissed her, overcome by emotion, knowing at that moment, he was truly lost.
