Page 58 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
“I want ye,” she breathed.
“Ye have me.”
He rubbed her with his thumb as his fingers moved inside her, curling just right, and her hips rocked against his hand. Her climax came fast—sharp and shaking—and he held her through it, kissing her face as she trembled.
When her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes and reached for him. “Ciaran,” she whispered, voice husky with need. “Please.”
He moved over her again, bracing himself on his forearms, their bodies pressed close from chest to thigh. She opened to him instinctively, her legs wrapping around his waist, their hips aligned so perfectly he could feel the slick warmth of her folds cradling his manhood.
He slid against her slowly, deliberately, the thick length of him gliding between her soft folds, rubbing where she needed him most. She gasped, clutching his shoulders, her hips chasing the motion.
“Isolde…” His voice was tight, strained. “Ye’re makin’ it very hard tae be a good man right now.”
“Then dinnae be,” she breathed against his mouth. “Just be me man.”
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand moving between them. He caught her with his fingers, circling her slowly, spreading the wetness across her aching center. She moaned, arching into him, and he swallowed the sound with his kiss.
Her hand slipped between their bodies and wrapped around him, stroking him gently. He cursed softly into her neck, hips stuttering against her.
“Let me,” she whispered. “I want tae see ye fall apart, too.”
Her touch was sure, slow at first, matching the rhythm of his body as it moved along hers. She stroked him from base to tip, her thumb brushing over the slick head as his manhood throbbed in her grasp.
He groaned, his forehead resting against hers. “Ye’ll ruin me, lass.”
He reached down again, fingers slipping through her folds, finding her tender nub and circling it just right. She cried out, hips bucking. Their pleasure built together—him grinding against her soaked heat, her stroking him in return, both trembling with the ache of how close they were.
This time when Isolde climaxed, it hit sharp and deep. She buried her face in his neck, whimpering as she came, her body clenching with nothing to hold. Her hand faltered, but Ciaran caught it, guided it once more as his own release chased hers.
“Isolde—” he gasped, and she felt the pulse of his pleasure against her belly.
After, he collapsed gently to her side, chest heaving, arm still wrapped tightly around her waist. She curled into him, her cheek resting over his heart.
They lay there in silence for a while, the fire casting soft shadows over their skin, their bodies slick with shared need and tenderness. No words were spoken, but something had changed between them—deepened.
He hadn’t claimed her body. Not fully. But her heart had been claimed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Follow me," Isolde said, guiding her mare to gallop pass Ciaran's mighty stallion.
Behind her, Ciaran urged his stallion forward, his dark eyes scanning the dense forest with a warrior's vigilance.
The ancient trees closed around them like silent sentinels, their branches forming a natural canopy over the secret route that few outside the clan knew existed. Isolde moved with practiced confidence, though it had been some time since she'd last traveled this path.
"Come," Isolde said, reining her mare to a halt at the ancient oak whose branches arched across the narrow path. She turned in her saddle, watching as Ciaran studied the weathered stone markers half-hidden among the ferns. "We must be cautious. Few ken of this path, and I'd prefer tae keep it that way."
"Ye guard yer clan's secrets," Ciaran observed, his voice holding a note of respect. "Yet ye share them with a MacCraith."
"Nae just any MacCraith," she replied, offering a small smile. "Only one who's proven himself worthy of trust."
The weight of her words hung between them as she urged her mount forward, ducking beneath low-hanging branches that brushed against her hair. The forest seemed to close around them, sheltering them beneath a canopy of ancient guardians.
"The markers are subtle," Ciaran noted, pointing to a barely visible carving on a lichen-covered stone. "Ye'd never notice unless ye knew what tae look fer."
"That's the point," Isolde agreed, navigating around a fallen trunk. "Me ancestors were nothing if nae cautious. This path has saved MacAlpin lives during more than one conflict."
"And now it brings ye home," he said, his voice softening.
