Page 27 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

He ignored the pain that shot through his body, instead fighting the urge to trace that strand with his finger, to wake her with kisses and finally claim what they'd both nearly surrendered to the night before.

His body responded instantly to the memory, to her closeness, but he forced himself to remain still.

The previous night had been about comfort, about the need to feel alive after facing death.

In the cold light of morning, the reality of their situation remained unchanged.

He was laird of a powerful clan with responsibilities to his people; she, daughter of a failing house with nothing to offer but herself.

And yet...

Ciaran stayed still for as long as he could bear, but the ache in his body—the memory of her breathless moans, the way she’d fallen apart beneath his mouth—refused to fade.

He turned his head slightly, watching the slow rise and fall of her bare back, the fine sheen of sleep still clinging to her skin.

The need that stirred in him wasn’t just physical. It was deeper. Hungrier. He wanted to know what it felt like to be inside her while she clung to him. Wanted to see her eyes when he filled her. But more than that—he wanted her to want him, fully and freely.

One hand moved, brushing her hair gently back from her cheek. She stirred, lips parting on a sleepy sigh.

“Mm... Ciaran?” Her voice was soft, rough with sleep.

“I’m here, mo chridhe ,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder.

She shifted toward him, the blanket slipping down to reveal the full swell of her breast. He drew in a breath, the sight stealing whatever resolve he’d clung to. She didn’t cover herself. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him.

She searched his eyes, something unspoken passing between them. Then her fingers came up to cup his cheek, and she kissed him.

It started tender, but turned fast into something deeper. Her mouth opened to him, tongue sliding against his, and he groaned low in his throat. He shifted closer, pressing their bodies together, and she felt his manhood hard against her hip.

She smiled into the kiss. “Ye’re wantin’ me.”

He gave a short laugh. “Aye, lass. I’ve been wantin’ ye since the moment ye stormed into me life wearing that mask with a tongue sharper than me dirk.”

“Did ye mean it?” she asked quietly. “Last night?”

He didn’t lie. “Aye. Every word.”

She rolled him gently onto his back, surprising him.

“Until then,” she whispered, “let me make ye feel good this time.”

She rolled him gently onto his back, surprising him.

Ciaran’s breath caught as she climbed over him, straddling his hips, her thighs warm and soft against his. He reached for her, but she caught his wrists and pressed them gently to the bed.

“Let me,” she said again, voice firmer.

His throat bobbed as he nodded.

She leaned down, kissed him slow, deep. Then moved to his neck, her lips brushing the stubble along his jaw, her teeth grazing his throat. His pulse kicked, and his hips bucked slightly beneath her.

She kissed down his chest, slow and reverent, her hair brushing his skin. Her fingers traced the lines of his stomach, then dipped lower. When she reached his manhood, she wrapped her fingers around him—firm but careful—and he groaned.

“Isolde…”

“Shh,” she said, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest. “Let me learn ye.”

She stroked him slowly, watching his face, noting every hitch of breath, every clench of his jaw. He was thick and hot in her hand, the veins along the shaft prominent, the head already slick.

She bent low and kissed just above where her hand held him, and he cursed under his breath.

Then she took him in her mouth.

Ciaran’s hips jerked, and his hands gripped the sheets. Her lips closed around the head of his manhood, tongue swirling softly before she slid down further, her cheeks hollowing with each motion. She moaned as she tasted him, the sound vibrating through him.

“Sweet Mary, lass…” he gritted, teeth clenched. “If ye keep that up…”

She pulled back just enough to smile at him. “Ye’ll what?”

“I’ll disgrace meself.”

She laughed softly and climbed back up to kiss him, her lips swollen and warm.

He rolled her beneath him then, unable to hold back any longer. “Now ‘tis me turn.”

His fingers slid between her thighs, parting her gently, and he found her soft folds already slick with need. He stroked her slowly, watching the pleasure bloom across her face, then eased two fingers inside her. She arched with a cry.

“I want ye,” she breathed.

“Ye have me.”

He rubbed her with his thumb as his fingers moved inside her, curling just right, and her hips rocked against his hand. Her climax came fast—sharp and shaking—and he held her through it, kissing her face as she trembled.

When her breathing slowed, she opened her eyes and reached for him. “Ciaran,” she whispered, voice husky with need. “Please.”

He moved over her again, bracing himself on his forearms, their bodies pressed close from chest to thigh. She opened to him instinctively, her legs wrapping around his waist, their hips aligned so perfectly he could feel the slick warmth of her folds cradling his manhood.

He slid against her slowly, deliberately, the thick length of him gliding between her soft folds, rubbing where she needed him most. She gasped, clutching his shoulders, her hips chasing the motion.

“Isolde…” His voice was tight, strained. “Ye’re makin’ it very hard tae be a good man right now.”

“Then dinnae be,” she breathed against his mouth. “Just be me man.”

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand moving between them. He caught her with his fingers, circling her slowly, spreading the wetness across her aching center. She moaned, arching into him, and he swallowed the sound with his kiss.

Her hand slipped between their bodies and wrapped around him, stroking him gently. He cursed softly into her neck, hips stuttering against her.

“Let me,” she whispered. “I want tae see ye fall apart, too.”

Her touch was sure, slow at first, matching the rhythm of his body as it moved along hers. She stroked him from base to tip, her thumb brushing over the slick head as his manhood throbbed in her grasp.

He groaned, his forehead resting against hers. “Ye’ll ruin me, lass.”

He reached down again, fingers slipping through her folds, finding her tender nub and circling it just right. She cried out, hips bucking. Their pleasure built together—him grinding against her soaked heat, her stroking him in return, both trembling with the ache of how close they were.

This time when Isolde climaxed, it hit sharp and deep. She buried her face in his neck, whimpering as she came, her body clenching with nothing to hold. Her hand faltered, but Ciaran caught it, guided it once more as his own release chased hers.

“Isolde—” he gasped, and she felt the pulse of his pleasure against her belly.

After, he collapsed gently to her side, chest heaving, arm still wrapped tightly around her waist. She curled into him, her cheek resting over his heart.

They lay there in silence for a while, the fire casting soft shadows over their skin, their bodies slick with shared need and tenderness. No words were spoken, but something had changed between them—deepened.

He hadn’t claimed her body. Not fully. But her heart had been claimed.