Page 55 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"That one?" she asked, fingers hovering above it.
"Border skirmish. Five summers past." His voice had dropped lower, rougher.
She dipped the cloth again and began to clean his chest, aware of his eyes following her every movement. When her fingers brushed against his skin, she felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Isolde." Her name was a warning on his lips.
"Ciaran." She met his gaze steadily, defiantly, not retreating an inch.
Something in his eyes changed, and the careful control he'd maintained fractured. His hand shot out, capturing her wrist as she made another pass with the cloth.
"Ye're playing with fire," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Butterflies fluttered in her belly. "Perhaps I wish tae burn," she answered, just as softly.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Ciaran's hand slid from her wrist to her waist, drawing her closer with agonizing slowness. His other hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her heart ache.
"If we dae this," he breathed against her lips, "there's nay going back."
"I dinnae want tae go back," she whispered, hands splaying across the solid warmth of his chest. "I want tae go forward."
Their lips met in a kiss that started gentle but quickly blazed into something fierce and hungry. Built up tension, of wanting and denying, erupted in a storm of need that rivaled the tempest outside. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him as her fingers tangled in his dark hair.
Ciaran lifted her, carrying her the few steps to the bed without breaking their kiss. He laid her down with surprising gentleness, his body covering hers as his mouth trailed fire down her throat.
Isolde arched beneath him, her hands exploring the muscles of his back, tracing each scar as though memorizing his history written in flesh.
“Come here,” he said, voice low, voice rough.
She moved into his arms without thinking, heart pounding so hard it ached in her ribs. His hands went up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. He looked at her as if she were the only thing left worth fighting for.
“Ye sure?” he asked, even now, still giving her the choice.
“Aye,” she whispered, and leaned into him.
The first kiss was slow. Deep. Her hands slid up his chest, palms dragging over the light dusting of hair, feeling the power beneath his skin. He made a low sound, a growl buried in his throat, and kissed her harder.
Then his hands were on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she felt him—fully—hot and thick, already stiffening between them. A needy sound slipped from her lips, half-moan, half-gasp.
He backed her toward the bed with slow, sure steps, never breaking the kiss. His tongue swept hers, coaxing and claiming, and she gave herself over to the taste of him, her knees going soft. When the backs of her legs hit the mattress, he eased her down, following her with his weight.
She lay back, hair fanning across the furs, breathing hard. He looked down at her like a man starving.
Her shift had already slipped off one shoulder. With a slow hand, he tugged the rest down. The fabric gave way easily, and her breasts spilled free, nipples already peaked, aching for his touch.
“Sweet saints above,” he murmured, voice thick. “Ye’re so bonny, Isolde. I can’t wait tae make ye mine.”
“Then dinnae.”
With a groan, his mouth found her breast—hot, wet, and possessive. Isolde gasped as he drew her nipple into his mouth, suckling slow, then harder. His hand moved to the other, fingers teasing, rolling the bud between calloused tips until she writhed beneath him. Her thighs pressed together, slick already pooling between them.
He switched sides, tongue tracing lazy circles before taking her in again, groaning low against her skin. The sound of it vibrated through her chest and straight down to her core.
Her hands clawed at his back, needing him closer.
“Ciaran—please?—”
He kissed down her ribs, over her belly, until he reached her waist.
