Page 68 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
"I'm nae leaving ye. Isolde, there is a right way tae dae this," he interrupted, closing the distance between them in two strides. "A way that protects ye, yer family, and our future together."
"I dinnae care about the right way!" The words erupted from her with unexpected force. "I care about ye. About us. I care about finding Rhona! I'm tired of waiting fer permission tae live me own life!"
His hands caught her shoulders, his face inches from hers. "Damnit, Isolde, can ye not see I'm trying tae give us more than just stolen moments in secret passages?"
The heat of his touch, the intensity in his eyes caused something to break inside her. Her arms wound around his neck, intertwining her fingers in his hair, and pulling him closer as unfulfilled longing ignited into flame. His lips were firm yet tender, demanding yet giving, everything she had imagined in her most secret dreams.
"Isolde," he breathed against her mouth.
Her fingers tangled in his dark hair as he deepened the kiss, his strong hands spanning her waist, drawing her against the solid warmth of his chest. The silk of her robe whispered between them, too much barrier despite its delicate weight.
As if reading her thoughts, Ciaran's fingers found the sash at her waist, his touch questioning. She answered by guiding his hand, the sash falling away as her robe parted beneath his touch. His sharp intake of breath as his hand met the thin linen of her nightdress sent a shiver of pleasure through her body.
"Are ye certain?" he asked, his voice strained with restraint.
In answer, she drew him toward her bed, the single candle casting golden light across the linens. "I've been certain since I first saw ye two years ago."
His hands framed her face with such tenderness that tears pricked at her eyes. This powerful man, this warrior who had fought and killed with terrifying efficiency, touched her as though she were made of mist—precious and impossible to hold.
When he laid her upon the bed, Isolde felt no fear, only a rightness that transcended all the barriers between them. Here, now, nothing mattered besides the truth of his body meeting hers, his heartbeat thundering against her palm as she slid her hand beneath his shirt.
"Ye're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with want as his gaze raked slowly over her. "Like something out of the old stories. Too fine for mortal men."
Isolde gave a soft, knowing smile, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I’m nay ghost, Ciaran MacCraith. I’m right here—flesh and blood—and I want ye. All of ye.”
He growled low in his throat, and in one smooth motion, he seized her waist and pulled her firmly against him. Her gasp was lost as his mouth crashed down on hers—hungry, claiming, full of heat that made her knees tremble. His hands gripped her backside, lifting her slightly as he backed her toward the bed, never breaking the kiss.
“Ye’re mine,” he breathed against her lips, voice thick with desire. “And I’ll have ye know it.”
The backs of her legs met the bedframe, and with a sharp tug, he freed her from her gown. She stood bare in the moonlight and flickering candle glow, her skin kissed with gold and silver. He took his time undressing, eyes locked on hers with a hunger that made her skin flush.
First the belt, then his tunic, each layer falling away like a promise being fulfilled. She drank in every inch of him—broad chest dusted with dark hair, the taut muscles of his abdomen shifting as he moved. His scars were reminders of the man he was—fierce, unyielding, all hers.
When he pushed down the last of his garments and stood fully bare before her, her breath caught in her throat.
His manhood stood proudly between his thighs, long and fully erect, veins pronounced, the flushed tip glistening with need. There was nothing shy or uncertain about him. He knew what he carried, and he made no move to hide it. His body was a declaration, and every inch of it screamed possession.
Her thighs pressed together at the sight, aching for him. Ciaran saw it—saw her hunger—and a smirk curved the corner of his mouth.
“Aye, lass,” he murmured, voice a low growl. “Ye see what ye dae tae me?”
He moved toward her slowly, like a predator ready to claim his mate. The candlelight flickered against his skin, casting shadows over muscle and sinew, heat radiating from every step.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “How ye’d look underneath me. How tight ye’d feel wrapped around me manhood. And now I’m going tae find out.”
Without a word, he eased her down onto the bed, sliding her beneath him. His mouth moved to her throat, trailing kisses down her collarbone, then lower, lingering at her breasts. His tongue circled one nipple, then the other, until she was arching up into him, breathless and aching.
“Ciaran…” she whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair.
“I ken, lass,” he said, voice gravelly. “I ken what ye need. And I’ll give it tae ye—but on me terms.”
He moved lower, palms spreading her thighs, parting her for him. She felt bare, exposed, but never unsafe. His eyes darkened as he took her in, already wet, already wanting.
“Sweet saints,” he muttered. “You’re soaked fer me.”
When his tongue found her, she cried out, hips jolting up. He licked her slowly, then harder, locking her in place with strong arms as he devoured her with ruthless focus. He alternated between soft teases and firm, relentless strokes, like a man who’d waited far too long to claim what was his.
Her moans filled the room, ragged and rising. “Please,” she gasped, trembling under him.
