Page 21 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

" Y e're five times yer weight. What do they use for these dresses, lead?"

Despite her chattering teeth and the water she was still coughing up, Erica found herself almost wanting to laugh at his irritated tone. Even half-drowned, she could hear the underlying worry in his voice, the way his grip on her never loosened despite the obvious strain.

When they finally entered the shallow water near the bank, Lachlan's long legs reached the muddy bottom. He lifted her easily then, carrying her the last few feet to dry land before they both collapsed onto a patch of soft grass, breathing hard.

Erica landed hard against Lachlan's broad chest, her body sprawling across his as they both gasped for breath.

Her sodden skirts spread around them both like a blue puddle, the heavy fabric tangling with his legs.

His shirt was plastered to his torso, revealing every hard plane and ridge of muscle beneath the wet fabric.

Water droplets caught in his dark hair, and his breathing was still labored from their struggle to shore.

"Are ye all right, lass?" he asked quietly, his hand coming up to run possessively along her spine, checking for injury with gentle, thorough strokes.

"Aye," she managed, though her voice came out breathier than she'd intended.

She should move. She knew she should move.

But something about the way he was looking at her—intense, protective, hungry—kept her frozen in place.

The passion from their earlier kiss was rising again despite the cold water still dripping from her hair, sparked by the intimate way their bodies were pressed together.

His chest was solid beneath her, rising and falling with each breath, and she couldn't help but remember the glimpse she'd caught of him shirtless in their chambers. The memory sent heat flooding through her cheeks and lower, pooling in places that made her shift restlessly against him.

The movement drew a sharp intake of breath from Lachlan, and she felt him tense beneath her. His hand, which had been moving in soothing circles on her back, stilled.

"Erica," he said, her name a warning.

But she was caught in the spell of the moment—the way the afternoon sun caught the water droplets on his skin, the way his blue eyes had darkened as he looked at her. She could feel every point where their bodies touched, could see the pulse beating rapidly at the base of his throat.

Her dress had ridden up during their fall, and she was acutely aware that her legs were tangled with his, that only the thin, wet fabric of her chemise separated her from the hard muscles of his thighs.

The impropriety of it should have shocked her, but instead it sent a thrill of something dangerous and exciting racing through her veins.

"Are ye havin' fun?" Lachlan asked, and there was something dark and amused in his voice that made her look up sharply.

The smirk playing at the corners of his mouth told her he was perfectly aware of the effect their position was having on her. Heat flooded her face as she realized how she must look—sprawled across him like some wanton lass, her body pressed intimately against his.

"Oh!" she gasped and tried to scramble away from him. "I apologize. I dinnae mean to… "

But his arms came around her, holding her in place with gentle but implacable strength to cut off the words from her lips.

"Easy," he murmured, his voice rough with something that might have been desire. "There's nay need to apologize for anythin'."

"But I was... we were..." she stammered, acutely aware that he was making no move to release her.

"Ye were exactly where I wanted ye," he said simply, his thumbs stroking along her ribs in a way that made her breath catch. "And if I'm bein' honest, I quite enjoyed havin' ye on top of me."

The bold words sent another wave of heat through her, and she found herself staring at his mouth, remembering the way it had felt against hers. The way he'd kissed her with such hunger, such desperate need.

"Lachlan," she whispered, not sure what she was asking for.

"Aye, lass?"

Before she could answer, a sneeze escaped her, breaking the spell of the moment. The practical reality of their situation—soaked to the skin beside a lake, with the afternoon air growing cooler—reasserted itself.

"Come," Lachlan said, sitting up and pulling her with him. "We need to get ye warm and dry."

But instead of helping her to her feet immediately, he caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to his. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, and she saw something fierce and possessive flare in his eyes.

"When ye are ready for me to claim ye," he said, his voice low and rough with promise, "I willnae let ye out of our bed for hours."

The words sent heat spiraling through her belly and lower. She could see the intent in his eyes, could feel the barely leashed desire in the way his hand trembled slightly against her skin.

This wasn't the gentle, patient man who'd been giving her space to heal. This was the Highland laird, the warrior who took what he wanted and held it with uncompromising strength. And the shocking thing was, instead of terrifying her, it made something deep inside her respond with matching hunger.

"Is that a promise?" she whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

His smile was slow and dangerous and full of wicked promise. "Oh, aye, lass. That's a vow."

"We need to get ye out of those wet clothes," Lachlan said, his voice rough as he helped her to her feet. "Ye'll catch yer death in that soaked dress."

His hands moved to the laces at her back, fingers working with surprising gentleness to loosen the waterlogged fabric. But as the heavy wool peeled away from her skin, leaving her standing in just her thin linen chemise, his movements slowed.

The fine fabric had gone nearly transparent when wet, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin. Erica felt his gaze like a physical touch, saw the way his eyes darkened as they traveled over her form with undisguised hunger.

"Ye highland gods," he breathed, his voice so low she almost missed it.

When she moved to cover herself, he caught her hands, his touch burning against her chilled skin.

"Daenae," he said quietly, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. "Ye're bonnie, lass. Daenae hide from me."

The raw appreciation in his voice sent heat flooding through her, making her nipples tighten visibly beneath the damp linen. She watched his gaze drop, saw him swallow hard before he forced himself to step back.

"Fire," he said roughly, as if reminding himself. "Need to get ye warm."

But even as he moved away to gather wood, she caught him glancing back at her, his eyes lingering on the way the chemise outlined her breasts, her waist, the curve of her hips.

When the flames finally caught, he dragged a fallen log closer to serve as a seat. "There," he said, then his hands moved to his own clothing.

Erica's breath caught in her throat as she watched him strip away his wet boots, then reach for the hem of his shirt. The firelight played across his movements as he pulled the fabric over his head in one smooth motion, and she felt something deep in her belly clench with need.

Sweet Mary.

Erica was unable to look away from the masterpiece of his back. Water droplets traced paths down his spine, and she wanted to follow them with her tongue, to taste the salt and heat of his skin.

"Like what ye see, wife?" His voice carried a note of dark amusement as he turned, giving her the full view of his chest.

Erica swallowed. She tried to answer, tried to form words, but her mouth had gone completely dry. All she could do was stare at the perfection of him—the broad shoulders, the defined muscles, the way the firelight caught the dark hair scattered across his chest.

When his hands moved to the ties of his breeches, Erica's pulse began to race. She knew she should look away, should give him privacy, but she was mesmerized by the slow, deliberate way he worked the fastenings.

"Breathe, lass," he murmured, noticing her rapid breathing. "Just breathe."

But breathing became impossible as the wet fabric finally gave way, sliding down his powerful thighs to pool at his feet. Her eyes followed every magnificent line of him, and when he turned back toward her—completely unashamed of his nakedness—she felt her knees go weak.

"Ye're starin'," he observed, moving toward her with predatory grace.

"I..." she started, but the words died in her throat.

"I what?" He stopped close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could see the pulse beating rapidly at his throat.

She tried again to speak, to say something, anything, but her mind had gone blank with want. All she could think about was how magnificent he was, how the firelight turned his skin to gold, how much she suddenly wanted those strong hands on her body.

"Use yer words, wife," he said softly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her bones. "Tell me what ye want, Erica."

Her lips parted, but for a moment, nothing came out. The fire behind him threw light and shadow across his face, painting him in molten gold, fierce and beautiful. The heat inside her was unbearable—her skin felt too tight, her breath too shallow.

“I want ye…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I want ye to show me what belongin’ to ye feels like. Give me a taste, husband.”

He growled, a low rumble that vibrated in her bones. It wasn’t angry. It was hunger—pure, male, and dangerously restrained.

“Come here,” he said softly, hand extended.

She went to him as if pulled by something stronger than her own will. When their hands touched, he brought her close, one arm curling around her waist, the other hand cupping her cheek.

“Ye're shakin',” he murmured, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Is it fear?”

“Nay,” she breathed. “Nae fear. Just… ye.”