Page 66 of The Heather Wife
He lifted her, her legs instinctively twining around his waist, her arms around his neck. The world narrowed to the sound of their hearts and the muffled creak of the bed beneath his weight. Laying her down, he kissed her knees, one after the other, then parted her thighs and knelt between them.
His fingers traced her folds, and the sudden spark made her jerk. He steadied her with a hand across her belly, eyes never leaving hers. When he lowered his head, his breath ghosting over her, she heard his voice—low, reverent. “Let me taste ye, mo chridhe.”
Then his tongue found her, a soft flick at first, then deeper, patient strokes that drew whispered pleas from her lips. The sensations built—a coil of tension wound deep in her belly until she clenched the sheets. Her thighs trembled around his shoulders as he drew her higher, coaxing her over the edge until the tension snapped, and pleasure unfurled through her in fierce, rolling waves. She cried his name, raw and unguarded.
He rose, kissed the inside of her thigh, then braced himself above her. His mouth found hers again, their kisstasting of heat and want. She felt him guide himself to her entrance, the blunt weight of him pressing forward until he eased inside, slow but sure. The stretch made her gasp, the ache blooming into heat. He paused, trembling.
“Are ye with me?” he asked, voice shaking.
Her reply was a breath. “Aye. Always.”
He began to move—slow, rhythmic, each thrust driving deeper. The sound of their bodies filled the room, the low groan from his chest sending shivers up her spine. He buried his face against her neck, murmuring between breaths.
“Sorcha—God, mo chridhe—ye feel so good. Move with me, love.”
She did, hips rising to meet him, their bodies moving together in a desperate, hungry rhythm—an ancient, unspoken music binding them tight. Sweat slicked their skin, warmth pressed deep against warmth, every sinew straining and seeking. The rise and fall of their breath mingled with the slick, rhythmical sound of flesh meeting flesh. The pleasure built again, sharper, fiercer, rolling like wildfire through her veins until it shattered them both—her cry raw and urgent, tearing free from the soul within. He tensed, every muscle alive and trembling, and her name spilled from his lips like a prayer, desperate and sacred.
When the trembling eased, he stayed inside her, their chests pressed together, breath unsteady. He kissed her softly, his words a whisper against her mouth.
“I love ye,” he murmured.
Her breath caught, the words sinking deep before she found her voice. “I love you too, Calum,” she whispered back, the sound soft as a sigh between them.
The fire burned low, the wind brushing gently against the shutters. Sorcha lay with her head on his chest, his hand tangled in her hair. He pressed a kiss to her brow, voiceroughened by exhaustion and something gentler beneath.
“Sleep, mo chridhe,” he said quietly. “Ye’re safe with me.”
Her eyes fluttered open just enough to catch his next words, murmured like a secret meant only for her.
“What was that?” she asked drowsily.
“That I’ll spend the rest of my days earnin’ what ye gave me tonight,” he said.
Her smile was faint but sure. “Then we’ll both be busy, husband.”
He laughed softly, the sound rumbling beneath her ear. “Aye, wife. That we will.”
After a time, the laughter faded into quiet. Calum shifted, drawing her closer until her back rested against his chest, his arm fitting snug around her waist. The steady rhythm of his breathing pressed warm against the curve of her neck, his thumb tracing small, absent circles over her hip. The world outside had gone still, the kind of silence that came only in the deep hours before dawn.
Sorcha’s fingers brushed his forearm where it crossed her middle, anchoring him there. “Stay with me,” she whispered, her voice soft, half-sleeping. “Don’t leave.”
He bent his head, his lips finding the edge of her hair. “Never again,” he murmured. “Ye have my word.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, a single tear slipping free—not of sorrow, but of peace.
“Never again,” she breathed in reply, the words barely more than a sigh against the dark.
His breath warmed her shoulder as he whispered it once more, lower, like a vow spoken only for her:
“Never again.”
And with his promise—and her echo—she slept, unguarded at last, the ache of all their yesterdays quieted by the steady beat of his heart.
Chapter 48
Calum
Snow lay thick on the stones, clinging to the walls and rooftops in white silence. Smoke drifted slow from the chimneys, and the keep’s courtyard stirred with life again—men tending horses, women hurrying between the kitchens and the hall, the sound of laughter threading faint through the cold.
