Page 42 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)

Strong hands caught her flailing arms, holding her firmly but gently as consciousness slowly returned. The stone walls of Kinnaird's chambers came into focus, lit by the dying embers in the hearth. Lachlan's face appeared above her, concerned and alert.

"It's all right, love. Ye're safe. It was just a dream."

She was trembling, cold sweat dampening her shift despite the warmth of their bed. The phantom sensation of Leo's blade at her throat made her reach up instinctively, fingers touching her neck.

"He was there," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Leo. He had a dirk, and he was sayin'... sayin' I'd never be lady of his clan. That he'd gotten me at last."

Lachlan's arms tightened around her, pulling her against his chest. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, grounding her in reality.

"He's dead, Erica. He cannae hurt ye anymore. None of them can."

"I ken that. I do. But in the dream..." She shuddered. "It felt so real. The hate in his eyes, the blade... I could smell the blood on him."

"The mind has strange ways of dealin' with what we've endured," Lachlan said softly, his hand stroking her hair. "Ye've seen more violence these past weeks than many warriors see in years. It's nae wonder yer dreams are troubled."

She pressed closer to him, drawing comfort from his warmth and solidity. "I thought I was stronger than this. I faced him down when he was alive, stood me ground. Why am I afraid of him now that he's gone?"

"Because now ye have time to feel the fear ye couldn't afford to feel then. When ye were facin' him, ye had to be strong for yer people, had to act. Now yer mind is finally lettin' ye feel what ye pushed aside."

His words made sense, but the lingering terror of the dream still clung to her. "What if the nightmares daenae stop? What if I never feel safe again?"

"Then I'll hold ye through every one until they do," he said firmly. "Ye're not alone in this, Erica. Ye daenae have to carry the weight of it all by yerself anymore."

She lifted her head to look at him in the dim light. There was no judgment in his eyes, no suggestion that her fear made her weak. Only understanding and unwavering support.

"Thank ye, husband," she whispered, the words coming from somewhere deep and honest.

"I would do anythin' fer ye, wife," he replied, his voice rough with emotion. "More than I thought possible."

When he kissed her, it started with a gentle, soft caress—a silent reassurance.

His lips traced the shape of hers with slow, deliberate strokes, as though savoring the moment.

But as his kiss deepened, the comfort he gave shifted into something more urgent, more consuming.

His hands slid to her waist, pulling her against him with a hunger that echoed her own.

She could feel the heat of his body, the hard, undeniable pull of desire between them.

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and she responded with an intensity that surprised them both.

The kiss turned desperate, full of need, her body pressing against his as if trying to merge into one.

The fire between them flared, and the world outside their shared space ceased to exist. This was no longer just a kiss—it was an unspoken promise, a demand to be felt, to be understood, to forget everything that had haunted her.

"Make me forget," she whispered against his lips. "Help me remember what's real."

He didn’t need words to understand. Her breath hitched—just slightly—but it was enough.

His hands moved to her face, cupping it with such tenderness that it was as though he was holding her very soul.

“I’ve got ye, love,” he murmured, his voice rough with need, his thumb sweeping across her skin in a tender promise.

His voice was gravel and warmth, threaded with need, thick with emotion.

But his eyes—his eyes burned with an intensity that matched the storm brewing between them.

Their lips collided again, but this time it was no longer gentle.

It was fierce. His tongue slid against hers in a kiss that was searing, hungry, desperate.

Every inch of their bodies seemed to demand more, craving the heat, the connection.

As his hands explored, tracing the curve of her back, her body arched towards him instinctively, and she felt the last of her fears melt away under the pressure of his touch.

She gasped against him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing the anchor of his body, of his touch.

His hands moved with purpose, trailing down her neck, her back, over her breasts, hesitating on her nipples, learning the shape of her with reverence and want.

When he traced the curve of her spine, her body arched into him.

Her hips lifted, the way her hands tangled in his hair and held him there, close, told him everything.

He moved over her, his body a shield and an offering, and when he finally slipped into her, the world dropped away.

Her breath caught, then quickened, chest rising and falling as their bodies pressed closer, deeper, more urgent.

Every inch of him inside her felt like a breaking open and a coming home.

His hand slid into her hair, his other anchored at her waist, holding her as if he was afraid she might disappear. She moaned his name, a sound pulled from somewhere deep and real, and he answered with a kiss so rough and tender it stole the breath from her lungs.

They moved together in a rhythm that was instinct. Her legs wrapped around him, drawing his full length in deeper, her nails raking lightly down his back out of the impossible desire to feel him even closer. Every motion was a question and an answer, a plea and a promise.

He whispered to her between kisses. Just fragments—“so bonnie,” “mine,” “I feel ye”—like prayers offered to something he could barely believe he deserved. She responded in kind, her voice breaking with emotion, with pleasure, with the flood of something deeper than either of them had planned for.

She felt everything—his breath against her throat, the heat of his skin, the way his body trembled with restraint as he tried to hold himself back, just for her, just to make this last. He was giving her everything, and in return, she gave him all of herself—fearless, unguarded, completely open.

The tempo built slowly, then all at once. A rise of heat, a crackling wave of sensation that climbed and climbed until it was too much, too perfect, too consuming. And when she shattered—when he did too—it wasn’t quiet.

They didn’t speak for a long while. He stayed wrapped around her, still inside her, their bodies slick with sweat and still trembling in the aftermath. His hand never left her skin. He kissed her forehead, her cheek, and the edge of her jaw, like she was sacred, and he only just realized it.

She rested her head against his chest, listening to the thunder of his heartbeat slowly settle. Her fingers traced lazy circles on his side, memorizing him in a way that went far beyond flesh.

“Ye still with me?” he asked, voice low and rough in her ear.

She nodded, her voice quiet but sure. “Always.”

And she meant it