Page 81 of Owned by the Scarred Laird

Her lips were slightly parted, slick with salt spray, her breath coming out in tiny white plumes that vanished against the dark leather of his doublet.

“Edward,” she said again.

He could hold back no longer.

The last brick of the wall gave way, crushed. Three weeks of denying the hunger that had been clawing at the base of his throat.

Edward leaned down and kissed her.

There was no gentleness in it. It was a sudden, violent release of the longing he had fought to starve until his bones ached with it. He claimed her mouth with a desperate, bruising force.

Chloe let out a sharp, muffled gasp against his lips, her body going stiff for a single heartbeat of pure shock. But she did not pull away. Her mouth opened beneath his, responding to the raw, feral hunger of the touch with a fierce, breathless urgency of her own.

“Chloe,” he groaned against her mouth, the sound completely broken, entirely un-Laird-like, as he tasted the salt and the heat of her.

“Aye,” she breathed back, the word swallowed instantly by the pressure of his lips.

The space between them ceased to exist, swallowed by the heat of their skin and the slick, salt-tasting pressure of their mouths.

Edward’s right hand came up to cup the back of her head, his thick fingers tangling deep into the wet, unpinned silk of her hair, locking her skull against the stone so he could press deeper.

His other hand slatted hard against her waist, his palm dragging the heavy linen of her dress upward, bunching the fabric until he could feel the firm, radiating curve of her hip through the stays. He pulled her against him.

Her hands tensed against him. Her fingers clenched the thick wool of his plaid, her knuckles turning white as she pressed into his shoulders, anchoring herself to his form as if he were the only solid thing left in a fading world.

She pulled herself upward, her boots slipping on the gravel floor of the crevice, her body straining to meet the hard, heavy line of his frame.

The wind shrieked outside, throwing a fresh spray of foam across the opening of the rocks. The air inside the split had grown thick, smelling of damp wool, salt, and the sharp, intoxicating scent of her skin.

Their breaths faltered, short and broken, caught between their lips as the kiss deepened into something wilder.

The heat of him was a shock against her skin, an impossible, consuming weight that drove the breath from her lungs before she could even clear her head from the force of his mouth.

Her fingers dug through the thick wool of his plaid, searching for the hard line of his shoulder blades beneath his leather doublet. Her palms slid up the coarse, cold grain of the hide to lock behind his neck, her knuckles scraping against the damp stone of the crevice as she pulled herself higher, straining to meet the fierce, desperate pressure of his lips.

Every reservation she had brought with her from the castle vanished, swallowed by the roar of the surf and the terrifying, beautiful reality of his weight pinning her against the basalt.

Edward groaned low in his throat. A dark, ragged sound that vibrated directly into her chest, and his mouth shifted, kissing her with an escalating, bruising hunger that made her knees turn to water.

His tongue parted her lips, sharp with the taste of salt and the heavy, intoxicating warmth of him, claiming her with a territorial certainty that left her dizzy.

She let out a small, helpless cry against his mouth, her head tilting back against the solid rock as she opened to him completely. The world outside the cleft disappeared; there was only the rough scrape of his jaw against hers, the salt-slick slide of their lips, and the sheer, suffocating mass of his body crushing her against her ribs.

His right hand, tangled deep in the wet, unpinned silk of her hair, tightened its grip, holding her securely, mercilessly, as he kissed her more.

His other hand slid down her ribcage, his massive palm dragging the damp linen of her riding dress upward, bunching the heavy fabric in his fist until his fingers found the smooth, swelling curve of her hip. Even through the stiff barrier of her petticoats, the heat of his touch felt like a brand. He pulled her flush against his groin, and she felt the hard, rigid length of his manhood pressing through his breeches.

A sharp shiver rippled through her, not from the cold spray spitting over the rock, but from a sudden, liquid ache that bloomed deep between her thighs. She arched into him instinctively, her hips tilting forward to meet his weight, her boots slipping on the wet gravel as she sought more of that heavy, bruising friction.

“Edward,” she gasped into the brief space between their mouths, her breath hitching as his lips tore away from hers to trace a hot, wet line down her jaw.

“Quiet, lass,” he muttered against her skin, his voice nothing more than a rough, feral whisper.

His hand left her hip, his thick fingers moving to the front of her gown, blindly tracing the lacings of her bodice. He tugged at the cords, loosening the linen until the fabric gaped open to the freezing air.

Chloe gasped as the chill of the storm hit her exposed skin, her chest heaving, but the cold vanished a fraction of a second later when Edward’s hand slid inside her shift. His palm was calloused, rough from swords and reins, but as it cupped the bare, aching fullness of her breast, his touch was unexpectedly, agonizingly precise.

Her head fell back against the stone, her eyes closing as a low sob caught in her throat. His thumb swept across her nipple, brushing the sensitive peak until it hardened into a tight knot of pure sensation under his touch. The contrast of his rough hand against her soft skin sent a violent jolt of heat straight down to her core, her walls slick and melting with a heavy, pulsing ache she had never known before.