Page 26 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

H is eyes found hers, dark and full of conflict. For a heartbeat, the mask of the dutiful laird slipped, revealing the man beneath—the one who'd danced with her beneath lantern light, who'd looked at her in that cream silk gown as though she were the only woman in the Highlands.

"Isolde," he breathed, her name both warning and plea.

She finished binding his arm, her fingers lingering on his skin. Her pulse quickened at the warmth of his flesh, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips. "The laird who keeps me at arm's length wouldnae be looking at me the way ye are now."

Ciaran's hand covered hers, stilling her movement but not pushing her away. "What happened taeday doesnae change what must be."

"Daesnae it?" She leaned closer, emboldened by the heat in his gaze. "We fought as one today. Ye saw me as I truly am, nae just a MacAlpin."

"I've always seen ye," he admitted roughly. "That was never the problem."

"Then what is?" she challenged, her fingers still trapped beneath his larger hand. "If ye've always seen me, why let a name stand between us now?"

The firelight caught the conflict in his eyes, and for one breathless moment, Isolde thought he might finally speak the truth that hung between them.

Instead, Ciaran withdrew his hand, his expression shuttering once more. "Let it be, Isolde. "

"Always running from what ye cannae control," she muttered, frustrated by his retreat.

"I'm laird first," he replied. "Me people depend on me making decisions with me head, nae me—" He stopped abruptly.

"Yer heart?" she finished for him, her voice softening.

Ciaran didn’t react to her words, still his muscles tensed beneath her touch, then gradually relaxed. The firelight played across his skin, highlighting the powerful contours of his shoulders, the strength in his arms that had wielded a claymore as though it weighed nothing.

When she moved around to face him, her heart stuttered in her chest. His torso was evidence of years of warfare and training. He was lean and hard, with dark hair tapering down to disappear beneath his kilt. Another scar, this one longer and paler with age, curved across his ribs.

"That one?" she asked, fingers hovering above it.

"Border skirmish. Five summers past." His voice had dropped lower, rougher.

She dipped the cloth again and began to clean his chest, aware of his eyes following her every movement. When her fingers brushed against his skin, she felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Isolde." Her name was a warning on his lips.

"Ciaran." She met his gaze steadily, defiantly, not retreating an inch.

Something in his eyes changed, and the careful control he'd maintained fractured. His hand shot out, capturing her wrist as she made another pass with the cloth.

"Ye're playing with fire," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Butterflies fluttered in her belly. "Perhaps I wish tae burn," she answered, just as softly.

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Ciaran's hand slid from her wrist to her waist, drawing her closer with agonizing slowness. His other hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

"If we dae this," he breathed against her lips, "there's nay going back."

"I dinnae want tae go back," she whispered, hands splaying across the solid warmth of his chest. "I want tae go forward."

Their lips met in a kiss that started gentle but quickly blazed into something fierce and hungry.

Built up tension, of wanting and denying, erupted in a storm of need that rivaled the tempest outside.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him as her fingers tangled in his dark hair.

Ciaran lifted her, carrying her the few steps to the bed without breaking their kiss. He laid her down with surprising gentleness, his body covering hers as his mouth trailed fire down her throat.

Isolde arched beneath him, her hands exploring the muscles of his back, tracing each scar as though memorizing his history written in flesh.

“Come here,” he said, voice low, voice rough.

She moved into his arms without thinking, heart pounding so hard it ached in her ribs. His hands went up to cradle her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks. He looked at her as if she were the only thing left worth fighting for.

“Ye sure?” he asked, even now, still giving her the choice.

“Aye,” she whispered, and leaned into him.

The first kiss was slow. Deep. Her hands slid up his chest, palms dragging over the light dusting of hair, feeling the power beneath his skin. He made a low sound, a growl buried in his throat, and kissed her harder.

Then his hands were on her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she felt him—fully—hot and thick, already stiffening between them. A needy sound slipped from her lips, half-moan, half-gasp.

He backed her toward the bed with slow, sure steps, never breaking the kiss. His tongue swept hers, coaxing and claiming, and she gave herself over to the taste of him, her knees going soft. When the backs of her legs hit the mattress, he eased her down, following her with his weight.

She lay back, hair fanning across the furs, breathing hard. He looked down at her like a man starving.

Her shift had already slipped off one shoulder. With a slow hand, he tugged the rest down. The fabric gave way easily, and her breasts spilled free, nipples already peaked, aching for his touch.

“Sweet saints above,” he murmured, voice thick. “Ye’re so bonny, Isolde. I can’t wait tae make ye mine.”

“Then dinnae.”

With a groan, his mouth found her breast—hot, wet, and possessive.

Isolde gasped as he drew her nipple into his mouth, suckling slow, then harder.

His hand moved to the other, fingers teasing, rolling the bud between calloused tips until she writhed beneath him.

Her thighs pressed together, slick already pooling between them.

He switched sides, tongue tracing lazy circles before taking her in again, groaning low against her skin. The sound of it vibrated through her chest and straight down to her core.

Her hands clawed at his back, needing him closer.

“Ciaran—please?—”

He kissed down her ribs, over her belly, until he reached her waist.

She lifted her hips, opening them to reveal the wetness between her legs glistening in the firelight. His gaze didn’t leave her. He looked—devoured—then knelt between her knees.

He spread her open with gentle hands, and when the cool air hit her slick folds, she shivered.

“Look at ye,” he whispered, voice reverent. “Drippin’ fer me already.”

She bit her lip, eyes fluttering as he leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue over her folds made her cry out, sharp and breathless. He groaned like a man tasting heaven, then did it again, slower. His tongue parted her folds, found her sensitive spot, and circled it with aching precision.

“Oh, gods—Ciaran?—”

Her hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling, anchoring herself as he licked her. Again. Again. Slow and deep, then faster, suckling that swollen nub until her legs trembled on either side of his shoulders. She was soaking, whimpering, grinding against his face without meaning to.

He moaned into her cunt, like he loved the taste, loved the feel of her losing control.

He pulled back for a moment, lips shiny. “Ye taste like sin, mo chridhe .”

Then he was back at it, feasting like a man possessed.

Her orgasm built quick, too quick—tightening, pulsing, desperate.

And when she came, it shattered her. Her body bowed, mouth open in a silent cry, her thighs clamping tight around his head.

He held her through it, tongue easing her down with slow, lazy strokes.

But when she reached for him—eyes glassy, heart still racing—he came up and kissed her, letting her taste herself on his mouth.

“Please,” she whispered. “Let me feel ye.”

Her hands found his waist, tugging for him to come to her. And there he was—fully bare, thick and hard and glistening at the tip, the length of him flushed deep and pulsing.

He eased onto her, his manhood pressing against her soaked folds, and she rolled her hips instinctively, sliding him along her slit, coating him in her slickness.

“Isolde,” he said, voice shaking. “If I move again, I willnae stop.”

“Then dinnae.”

But he stilled. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to hers.

"I cannae," he whispered, voice rough with restraint. "Nae like this, nae with yer reputation at stake."

"I dinnae care about reputation," she protested, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"But I dae." He shifted to lie beside her, gathering her against his chest. "Ye deserve more than a hasty coupling at a wayside inn."

Though frustration coursed through her, Isolde felt the truth in his words. Whatever lay between them was too important to rush, too precious to risk tainting with regret.

He shifted to his side, drawing her close. His manhood pressed against her thigh, hot and aching. He made no effort to hide his need, but he held her like she was something he’d die to protect.

Ciaran pulled the rough blanket over them both, his arms a shelter more secure than castle walls. "Sleep, lass," he murmured against her hair. "I've got ye."

Cradled against the warmth of him, her body still humming with unfulfilled desire, Isolde drifted into exhausted slumber, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath her cheek.

Ciaran woke to pale dawn light filtering through the shutters, his body curved protectively around Isolde's smaller form.

During the night, the blanket had slipped down, revealing the graceful curve of her shoulder and a tantalizing glimpse of her breast. Her hair spilled across the pillow like liquid fire, one strand caught at the corner of her lips.