Page 30 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
She forced a smirk. “D’ye think I could be like them, then? Like the lass ye dream o’ marryin’?”
His jaw clenched. “Dinnae twist me words.”
“But is that nae what ye mean?” she pressed, because if she let him steer the conversation, she feared where it might go. “Ye believe me tae be better than I am? That I might trade the Triad fer some quiet life at a man’ side? Yer side?”
His eyes darkened, a flash of something fierce and unreadable behind them. “I didnae say that.”
She should let it go. She should turn away and end it there. But there was something in his gaze, something she did not have the strength to run from.
“Then what are ye sayin’?”
He exhaled sharply, his hands flexing at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. A muscle in his jaw ticked, his entire body wound tight, like he was standing at the edge of something he knew he shouldn’t cross — but wanting to all the same.
Then, suddenly, he was on the bed next to her, so close that the heat of his body wrapped around her like a second skin. The space between their faces shrank, until there was barely an inch left to claim.
“I’m sayin’ ye care,” he murmured, his voice rough, barely more than a breath. “Even when ye try nae tae. I’ve seen it.”
She could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over her lips, sending a shiver through her, deep and undeniable.
Her breath caught. “Ye’re wrong.”
He shook his head, his gaze flickering down to her mouth, to the pulse thrumming at her throat before dragging back up, something dark and knowing in his expression.
“Am I?”
The air between them shifted, thickened, the tension twisting around them like an invisible cord pulling tighter. The scent of him — earth and smoke, and something entirely Finley — flooded her senses, making her lightheaded, making her forget every reason she should pull away.
And then there was no space left at all.
She did not know who moved first. It hardly mattered.
One moment she was resisting, the next his lips were crashing against hers, and every thought of hers shattered like glass.
She gasped against his mouth, her fingers tangling in the fabric of his tunic before she could think better of it, pulling him closer, desperate for more. His hands slid from her arms to her waist, his grip firm as he hauled her against him, and she felt the sharp inhale he took — the way his entire body shuddered as if he had been holding himself back for too long.
It should not be like this.
It was reckless. It was dangerous.
And yet?—
His teeth grazed her lower lip, a soft scrape of sensation, and she felt herself melt into him, any lingering protests lost in the heat of it.
She was not soft. She was not gentle. But with Finley, she was something else entirely. She was raw and alive, a version of herself she had never been allowed to be.
Her arms wound around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair as she arched into him, pressing herself flush against his chest, only the thin fabrics of his shirt and her nightgown standing between them. He sucked in a breath, his grip tightening at her waist as if he were fighting for control, but she did not want him to hold back.
She grabbed at him, pulling him closer.
His fingers slid up her spine, slow and possessive, before tangling in her hair, giving a sharp tug that made her gasp into his mouth. He swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, his body pressing her down into the mattress as his weight settled over her.
The warmth between them turned molten.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, arching up against him as a desperate heat coiled low in her belly. It wasn’t enough — not nearly enough.
A growl rumbled in his chest as he seized her hips, rolling her over until she was above him, straddling his lap, her nightgown bunching up around her thighs. His hands traced up the length of them, rough palms dragging over her bare skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
And then he flipped them again, pressing her into the mattress with a fluid movement, his body a solid weight against hers.
