Page 56 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
She lifted her hips, opening them to reveal the wetness between her legs glistening in the firelight. His gaze didn’t leave her. He looked—devoured—then knelt between her knees.
He spread her open with gentle hands, and when the cool air hit her slick folds, she shivered.
“Look at ye,” he whispered, voice reverent. “Drippin’ fer me already.”
She bit her lip, eyes fluttering as he leaned in.
The first swipe of his tongue over her folds made her cry out, sharp and breathless. He groaned like a man tasting heaven, then did it again, slower. His tongue parted her folds, found her sensitive spot, and circled it with aching precision.
“Oh, gods—Ciaran?—”
Her hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, anchoring herself as he licked her. Again. Again. Slow and deep, then faster, suckling that swollen nub until her legs trembled on either side of his shoulders. She was soaking, whimpering, grinding against his face without meaning to.
He moaned into her cunt, like he loved the taste, loved the feel of her losing control.
He pulled back for a moment, lips shiny. “Ye taste like sin,mo chridhe.”
Then he was back at it, feasting like a man possessed. Her orgasm built quick, too quick—tightening, pulsing, desperate. And when she came, it shattered her. Her body bowed, mouthopen in a silent cry, her thighs clamping tight around his head. He held her through it, tongue easing her down with slow, lazy strokes.
But when she reached for him—eyes glassy, heart still racing—he came up and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his mouth.
“Please,” she whispered. “Let me feel ye.”
Her hands found his waist, tugging for him to come to her. And there he was—fully bare, thick and hard and glistening at the tip, the length of him flushed deep and pulsing.
He eased onto her, his manhood pressing against her soaked folds, and she rolled her hips instinctively, sliding him along her slit, coating him in her slickness.
“Isolde,” he said, voice shaking. “If I move again, I willnae stop.”
“Then dinnae.”
But he stilled. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to hers.
"I cannae," he whispered, voice rough with restraint. "Nae like this, nae with yer reputation at stake."
"I dinnae care about reputation," she protested, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"But I dae." He shifted to lie beside her, gathering her against his chest. "Ye deserve more than a hasty coupling at a wayside inn."
Though frustration coursed through her, Isolde felt the truth in his words. Whatever lay between them was too important to rush, too precious to risk tainting with regret.
He shifted to his side, drawing her close. His manhood pressed against her thigh, hot and aching. He made no effort to hide his need, but he held her like she was something he’d die to protect.
Ciaran pulled the rough blanket over them both, his arms a shelter more secure than castle walls. "Sleep, lass," he murmured against her hair. "I've got ye."
Cradled against the warmth of him, her body still humming with unfulfilled desire, Isolde drifted into exhausted slumber, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her cheek.
Ciaran woke to pale dawn light filtering through the shutters, his body curved protectively around Isolde's smaller form. During the night, the blanket had slipped down, revealing the graceful curve of her shoulder and a tantalizing glimpse of her breast. Her hair spilled across the pillow like liquid fire, one strand caught at the corner of her lips.
He ignored the pain that shot through his body, instead fighting the urge to trace that strand with his finger, to wake her withkisses and finally claim what they'd both nearly surrendered to the night before. His body responded instantly to the memory, to her closeness, but he forced himself to remain still.
The previous night had been about comfort, about the need to feel alive after facing death. In the cold light of morning, the reality of their situation remained unchanged. He was laird of a powerful clan with responsibilities to his people; she, daughter of a failing house with nothing to offer but herself.
And yet...
Ciaran stayed still for as long as he could bear, but the ache in his body—the memory of her breathless moans, the way she’d fallen apart beneath his mouth—refused to fade. He turned his head slightly, watching the slow rise and fall of her bare back, the fine sheen of sleep still clinging to her skin.
The need that stirred in him wasn’t just physical. It was deeper. Hungrier. He wanted to know what it felt like to be inside her while she clung to him. Wanted to see her eyes when he filled her. But more than that—he wanted her to want him, fully and freely.
