Page 52 of Of Heather and Thistle

Her pulse thundered in her ears, wild and relentless.

His grip was steady—grounding—his fingertips hot against her skin, holding her in place when everything else felt like it was unraveling.

She could feel the weight of his breath, the heat of his body, the raw emotion burning in his storm-blue eyes.

Frustration. Longing. Something deeper and more dangerous.

Heather’s fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping her tethered. “Flynn—”

The rest caught in her throat. The words felt too big, too exposed.

Because what could she say? That she was terrified of how easily he fit into the cracks of her? That she’d spent her whole life staying guarded—and he made her want to throw every wall down? That wanting him didn’t feel like a choice but a freefall she couldn’t stop?

She was afraid of how badly she wanted this.

Afraid of what it would mean if she stayed.

Even more afraid of what it would mean if she left.

Because leaving would be safer. Cleaner. Easier to explain.

But Flynn Duncan didn’t make her feel safe.

He made her feel alive.

And that— that was the scariest part of all.

Because being alive meant feeling everything.

The ache of grief. The risk of hope.

The terrifying possibility that this—whatever this was—

might actually be real.

“I—”

The word barely escaped before it caught in her throat, tangled in the storm of everything warring inside her. Panic. Longing. Fear.

She shook her head, hands pushing weakly at his chest—but he didn’t move.

He wouldn’t.

Flynn’s voice was quiet, almost calm. But something in it cracked around the edges—like holding back was costing him something real.

“You don’t get to run from this.”

His hand slid lower, slow and deliberate, resting at the curve of her hip. His thumb traced a lazy circle, grounding and possessive.

“You don’t get to run from me. ”

Her breath stuttered in her chest. She wanted to fight him. Wanted to hurl words sharp enough to wound.

To rebuild every wall she’d ever lived behind and slam the door on whatever this was.

But then his mouth found hers again—hungry, aching, devastating—and every single defense she’d ever built crumbled beneath it.

There was no resistance.

Not anymore.

His kiss devoured her hesitation, burned through her fear until there was nothing left but heat and surrender.

Flynn’s hands traveled lower, skimming the delicate curve of her back, pausing at the hem of her dress.

His fingers grazed her skin—soft, reverent. A whisper of heat that made her shiver.

Heather gasped, her breath catching as his lips brushed just above the neckline of her dress—light, teasing kisses that made her skin feel too tight. Her back arched instinctively, body straining toward him. Every place he touched lit a fire beneath her skin.

His hand curved around her waist, holding her steady as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

Blue. Blazing. Bare.

“Tell me, mo chridhe ,” he whispered again, his voice barely holding together. “What keeps ye from lettin’ go?”

His gaze—searching, searing—cut straight through her.

Every wall she’d built, every instinct to flee, began to crumble beneath the weight of his stare.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

The words lodged somewhere in her throat, swept away by the rising tide of want and something deeper.

Her body softened against his, no longer rigid with fear but pliant with need—her apprehension unraveling into something far more dangerous: desire laced with vulnerability .

Flynn’s fingers traced the line of her hip, then drifted lower, coaxing a tremble from deep within her. Fire bloomed where he touched, bright and consuming.

His mouth skimmed along her jaw, and when he spoke, it was a molten whisper that made her knees weaken.

“Let me teach your mind what your heart already knows.”

The words vibrated through her—low, raw, resolute.

One hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair as he drew her closer. The look in his eyes—hungry, reverent, possessive—devoured her whole.

In one fluid motion, Flynn lifted her. Her breath caught as he carried her with startling ease, setting her down atop the cool, smooth surface of the kitchen counter. The quiet thud echoed through the space, punctuated only by the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat.

The moment felt suspended—timeless.

Flynn reached for the hem of her sundress, his movements swift but tender, the fabric bunching easily around her waist.

Her bare legs brushed against his jeans, the heat of his body stark against the chill of the countertop.

His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment, the sight of her skin undoing something in him. A guttural sound escaped his throat as his hand slid up her thigh—confident, reverent.

He leaned in slowly, the edge of his breath brushing her lips.

His fingers traced down her sides, a slow and deliberate path that left her skin tingling in their wake.

He never broke eye contact.

Never rushed. Never looked away .

Every move was purposeful.

Every touch said you’re mine.

Heather’s heart pounded, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum summoning something ancient. Her skin burned everywhere his hands lingered, every inch of her alive under his touch.

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t fumble.

Just moved with that same steady, devastating patience that had been undoing her since the moment he first touched her.

His fingers traced along the bare skin of her thighs as he knelt before her, reverent and unhurried. He pressed a kiss just above her knee—soft, lingering.

The scrape of his stubble dragged a gasp from her throat, the contrast of rough and tender sending a shiver racing up her spine.

He reached for the delicate lace of her underwear, fingers hooking beneath the edge of the fabric. And then—he paused.

His gaze lifted, meeting hers with intensity that stole her breath.

A silent question.

A final out.

But Heather didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, she reached for him—her fingers threading through his hair, trembling, but sure. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, but her grip was steady.

That was all the answer he needed.

Flynn eased the lace down her thighs with agonizing slowness, the soft drag of fabric heightening every nerve, every ache. She clenched around nothing, her body coiled so tight she thought she might unravel before he even touched her.

His lips followed the path his hands had taken—kissing her hip, her inner thigh, everywhere but the place that ached for him most.

Feather light. Worshipful.

A torment she never wanted to end.

When he finally settled between her legs, his hands splayed wide over her thighs, grounding her, she let out a soft, broken breath—her head falling back against the cabinets with a quiet thud.

It wasn’t just sex.

It hadn’t been for a long time.

And that terrified her more than anything.

Because this— this —was the kind of moment that left echoes. The kind that carved itself into memory and never let go.

Flynn’s voice, low and wrecked, broke the silence. Teasing, yes—but laced with something deeper. Something that sounded a lot like love.

“Mo chridhe…”

His lips brushed her skin, soft and sure.

“Let me show you what you mean to me.”

He lowered his head slowly, deliberately, his lips brushing the tender skin of her inner thigh. His tongue followed, drawing soft, teasing strokes that made her breath catch and her hips twitch forward, aching for more.

A moan slipped from her lips—quiet, helpless—as he trailed kisses along her thigh, slow and sinfully patient. Every press of his mouth was a promise, every pause a torment .

Her fingers tangled at the back of his neck, nails digging lightly into his skin as if she could anchor herself there—hold on as the world tilted beneath her.

The tension between them crackled like lightning waiting to strike. Her body was a livewire—every nerve a lit fuse, every breath a plea.

Flynn’s mouth hovered, lips brushing maddeningly close but not quite. His voice was a velvet rasp against her skin.

“Aye, that’s it, lass,” he murmured. “Don’t hold back. Tell me what you need.”

Heather’s voice trembled, breathless with want.

“You, Flynn,” she whispered, broken and bare. “I want you.”

A groan rumbled low in his throat—dark, wrecked, and so full of hunger it stole the strength from her legs.

“Good girl,” he whispered against her skin, the praise like a brand. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He moved closer, his lips finding the soft, flushed heat of her.

His tongue danced across the sensitive folds, a delicate caress that quickly became urgent.

He lapped and licked. Explored and demanded.

Her breath hitched in her throat. He lowered his head further, and the taste of her was pure ecstasy.

Her hips lifted instinctively, seeking him, chasing the wave that crested higher with every wicked stroke of his tongue. He worked her with maddening precision—slow, relentless, devastating—until thought dissolved and only sensation remained.

Each flick, each languid circle, sent tremors through her, coaxing breathless sounds from her lips she hadn’t known she could make. Her fingers fisted in his hair, her thighs trembling around his shoulders, her body arching into him— wordless and desperate.

She was unraveling for him. Coming apart thread by thread.

The air between them crackled with heat, her body trembling as he deepened the rhythm. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her core. She arched into him, breath hitching, pleasure winding tight.

Another flick of his tongue—and she shattered, a strangled cry catching in her throat as her body pulsed around the wave that crashed through her.

He didn’t stop. His mouth moved with steady reverence, drawing out every last tremor. Her body quaked beneath him, breath stuttering. When he finally looked up, his eyes found hers—dark, hungry, and full of awe.