Page 49

Sheona’s fingers tangled in the thick, dark waves of his hair, tugging him closer, needing more. “I thought ye were made of stone.”

He laughed—a dark, breathless sound that was more of a growl. His hands found the hem of her simple linen shift.

“Stone, lass?” His palms, calloused from years of wielding a sword and leading men, slid up her bare thighs, searing a path upward. She shuddered, her knees going weak.

His fingers hooked into the thin linen, and he drew the shift up slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of her pale skin to the dancing firelight.

The cold air kissed her thighs, her hips, her stomach, but his hands were a brand, tracing the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, until the shift was bunched at her ribs and she stood trembling before him in nothing but the thin fabric. He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the raw, unfiltered hunger in his dark amber eyes stole what little breath she had left.

“Ye are beautiful,” he said, and it was not a compliment—it was a confession, raw and unguarded, a truth laid bare in the quiet intimacy of his room.

Sheona’s hands shook as she reached for the laces of his tunic, her fingers clumsy with desire. He helped her, shrugging off the heavy garment and letting it fall to the floor. And then she saw him—the broad, solid expanse of his chest, the dark hair dusting his muscles, the thin white scars that told stories she suddenly wanted to trace with her lips. She pressed her palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid, thunderous beat of his heart beneath her touch.

“Ye are nae stone either,” she whispered.

His answer was a low growl as he captured her mouth again, deeper this time. His tongue swept against hers in a dance that was equal parts demand and devotion, a claiming and a surrender.

His hands found her breasts through the thin fabric of her shift, his thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked into hard, aching points. She arched into his touch with a whimper, the friction of the linen against her sensitive flesh almost too much to bear.

“Brodie, please.”

“Please what, lass?” His voice was rough, strained with a need that mirrored her own. He pulled the shift over her head in one smooth motion, and then she was completely bare before him, the firelight painting her skin in gold. “Tell me what ye want.”

She should have been shy. She should have been modest. But the way he looked at her—like she was the only woman in the world, like he would burn down everything he owned just to keep her warm—stripped away every wall she had ever built.

“I want ye to touch me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Everywhere.”

He did.

His hands roamed her body in a way that made her knees weak. He cupped the weight of her breasts, teasing her nipples between thumb and forefinger until she cried out, the sound sharp and needy in the quiet room. Then his hands slid down the curve of her waist, over the swell of her hips, until his fingers found the slick, wet heat between her thighs.

Sheona gasped, her head falling back against the cool stone wall as his fingers parted her folds, exploring her with deliberate slowness. He found her clit, circling the sensitive nub with the pad of his thumb, and her hips bucked involuntarily.

“Ye are so wet for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “So ready.”

“Brodie.” His name was a plea.

He sank one thick finger inside her tight, clenching folds, and she shattered. A cry tore from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her, a violent, beautiful wave that left her trembling and breathless. But he did not stop. He worked another finger inside her, stretching her, his thumb still working her clit. The pleasure was almost painful, an exquisite torment that built again, higher and fiercer than before. Her hands clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he continued faster.

She could feel the hard, thick length of his manhood pressing against her through his trousers, a testament to his own desire. With a surge of boldness, she reached down, her fingers fumbling with the laces of his breeches.

He groaned against her neck as her hand closed around him, hot, hard, and impossibly thick. She began to stroke him, her grip firm, learning his rhythm, length, and shape. He was steel wrapped in velvet, and the feel of him pulsing in her hand was the most intoxicating thing she had ever known.

His hips began to move, thrusting into her fist as his fingers pumped inside her. They were a tangle of limbs and ragged breaths, their bodies moving in a primal, desperate rhythm. The room was filled with the wet, slick sounds of his fingers in her cunt, the soft slap of her hand on his manhood, their mingled gasps and moans.

He captured her mouth again, swallowing her cries as his thumb pressed harder on her clit, sending her hurtling over the edge once more. This time, as her folds clenched and spasmed around his fingers, he let out a guttural groan, his body tensing as his own release took him. Hot, thick cum spilled over her hand, his manhood jerking in her grip as he emptied himself.

They stood there for a long moment, leaning against each other, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling in the aftermath. Brodie rested his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh and uneven. He slowly withdrew his fingers from her, and she felt the loss. He brought his hand up, his fingers glistening with her juices, and before she could process what he was doing, he brought them to his lips and licked them clean. The sight was so primal, so possessive, it sent a final, delicious shudder through her.

It was an act of intimacy so profound it made her heart ache.

When he was done, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her naked body flush against his still-clothed one, holding her as if she were something precious and infinitely breakable. The fire crackled, the only sound in the now-silent room, and for the first time in months, Sheona felt not fear, not uncertainty, but a profound and unshakeable peace.

After a long moment, her breathing steadied. Her gaze drifted from his chest to the room around her — the stack of parchment rolls beside the hearth, the territorial spread of maps across the desk, the narrow cot with its messy wool blankets shoved against the far wall.

A soft laugh escaped her before she could catch it. She tilted her head up to look at him.

“So the fearsome Laird MacKinley sleeps among ledgers and maps?” she teased, her voice a low, melodious murmur in the quiet room. She didn’t pull her hand from his, her fingers curling around his broad knuckles, her thumb trailing over the rough, calloused back of his hand. “I had pictured a grand chamber with silk tapestries and three roaring fires.”