Page 33 of The Laird’s Dangerous Prize (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #1)

The backs of her legs met the bedframe, and with a sharp tug, he freed her from her gown. She stood bare in the moonlight and flickering candle glow, her skin kissed with gold and silver. He took his time undressing, eyes locked on hers with a hunger that made her skin flush.

First the belt, then his tunic, each layer falling away like a promise being fulfilled. She drank in every inch of him—broad chest dusted with dark hair, the taut muscles of his abdomen shifting as he moved. His scars were reminders of the man he was—fierce, unyielding, all hers.

When he pushed down the last of his garments and stood fully bare before her, her breath caught in her throat.

His manhood stood proudly between his thighs, long and fully erect, veins pronounced, the flushed tip glistening with need. There was nothing shy or uncertain about him. He knew what he carried, and he made no move to hide it. His body was a declaration, and every inch of it screamed possession.

Her thighs pressed together at the sight, aching for him. Ciaran saw it—saw her hunger—and a smirk curved the corner of his mouth.

“Aye, lass,” he murmured, voice a low growl. “Ye see what ye dae tae me?”

He moved toward her slowly, like a predator ready to claim his mate. The candlelight flickered against his skin, casting shadows over muscle and sinew, heat radiating from every step.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, kneeling on the edge of the bed. “How ye’d look underneath me. How tight ye’d feel wrapped around me manhood. And now I’m going tae find out.”

Without a word, he eased her down onto the bed, sliding her beneath him. His mouth moved to her throat, trailing kisses down her collarbone, then lower, lingering at her breasts. His tongue circled one nipple, then the other, until she was arching up into him, breathless and aching.

“Ciaran…” she whimpered, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I ken, lass,” he said, voice gravelly. “I ken what ye need. And I’ll give it tae ye—but on me terms.”

He moved lower, palms spreading her thighs, parting her for him. She felt bare, exposed, but never unsafe. His eyes darkened as he took her in, already wet, already wanting.

“Sweet saints,” he muttered. “You’re soaked fer me.”

When his tongue found her, she cried out, hips jolting up. He licked her slowly, then harder, locking her in place with strong arms as he devoured her with ruthless focus. He alternated between soft teases and firm, relentless strokes, like a man who’d waited far too long to claim what was his.

Her moans filled the room, ragged and rising. “Please,” she gasped, trembling under him.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. One hand slid up to her breast, kneading as his tongue flicked mercilessly at her most sensitive point. Her thighs clenched around him as the wave built inside her—too big to fight, too deep to escape.

When she shattered, she screamed his name, her voice raw and shaking.

Ciaran held her through every tremor, then climbed up her body, slow and deliberate, pressing the length of his arousal against her slick folds.

“I’m nae done,” he said, looking down at her flushed, panting form. “Nae until ye ken who ye belong tae. Are ye sure ye want this, fer there is nay turning back?”

She nodded eagerly.

He thrust into her in one deep, claiming stroke, and Isolde cried out again—half-pain, half-bliss—gripping his back with desperate fingers.

They moved together in a rhythm that was anything but gentle. He was fierce, relentless, pushing her higher with each thrust, driving into her with a hunger that bordered on primal.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice raw.

She opened her eyes. What she saw in his—possession, worship, need—stole her breath.

“I love ye,” she whispered, and it wasn’t planned. It just was.

He stilled for a moment, that look overtaking him—like she’d undone him more than any war ever had. Then he kissed her, deep and rough, and began to move again. This time it was slower, deeper, hitting places inside her that made her body light up.

When the second release came, it was fierce and sudden. She sobbed his name into his neck, her nails digging into his back as she trembled all over again. With a groan, Ciaran followed, hips jerking once, twice, as he spilled himself inside her.

They lay tangled together, breathless and spent, the candlelight throwing golden shadows across their bare skin.

“Ye're mine ferever now. I'll never let ye go,” he murmured against her temple, one hand splayed protectively across her belly.

She smiled faintly, heart full. “Then dinnae.”

And in that silence neither of them had to say another word.

"What happens now?" she whispered finally, giving voice to the question that hung over them.

His hand stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle path. "I return tae MacCraith lands. I speak with me council."

"And then?"

"And then I come back fer ye," he said, the certainty in his voice warming her more than the blankets tangled around their bodies. "Whatever objections they raise, I'll overcome them. The MacCraiths and MacAlpins were allies once, they can be again."

Isolde propped herself up on one elbow to study his face in the dim light. "Ye make it sound simple."

"Nae simple," he corrected, brushing a strand of copper hair from her face. "But necessary."

She laid her palm against his cheek, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingers. "I fear fer Rhona," she admitted, her voice catching. "If Wallace has her..."

"We'll find her." Ciaran covered her hand with his own. "Since the attack, I've had men watching Wallace borders. If she's been taken there, I'll ken by the end of tomorrow. "

"And if we're too late?"

His eyes held hers, unflinching. "Then Wallace will answer tae me personally."

The fierce protectiveness in his tone sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the night's chill. This man, who had fought for her when she was nothing but a nameless woman in danger, would move mountains to protect those she loved.

"I need tae send word tae me men," he continued, his tactical mind already formulating plans. "They'll watch the southern passes where Wallace's territory meets yours. If they've taken her beyond his borders, we'll need faster horses."

Isolde silenced him with a gentle finger against his lips. "Fer tonight, can we nae just be Ciaran and Isolde? Nae laird and lady, nae strategists, nae clan representatives? Just us?"

The hardness in his expression softened, his hands drawing her closer until her body lay flush against his. "Just us," he agreed, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Fergive me, I've spent so long being just Laird MacCraith, I sometimes forget who Ciaran is beneath."

"I ken who he is," she whispered against his skin. "He's the man who sees me—nae just as a MacAlpin, but as meself."

His arms tightened around her, and in that embrace, Isolde felt safer than castle walls could ever make her. Whatever uncertain future awaited them, this moment of perfect understanding was real and true.

"When all this is done," he murmured into her hair, "when Rhona is safe and Wallace no longer threatens your clan, then we can build something of our own. Something that honors the old ways, while forging a path forward. Taegether. Ye need tae trust me."

The promise in those words, in the way his hands cradled her as though she were precious beyond measure, filled the cracks that fear and loss had carved into her heart.

For the first time since her mother's death, since watching her clan's slow decline, hope bloomed within her. It was fragile but persistent .

They came together again, this time slower until the first tentative light of dawn crept through the window, painting the chamber in pale watercolors. Ciaran stood beside the bed, pulling on his clothing, his expression torn between duty and desire as he looked down at Isolde.

"Aileen will come soon," he said softly, reluctance evident in every line of his body. "I must be gone before the household wakes."

Isolde rose, the sheet wrapped around her as she moved to stand before him. The night's intimacy still clung to her skin, his scent entwined with hers in a way that made this parting feel like tearing a wound.

"How long?" she asked, her fingers straightening his collar in a gesture so domestic it made her heart ache with longing for a thousand such mornings.

"A fortnight. Nae more." His hands captured hers, bringing them to his lips. "By then, I'll have me council's answer—or I'll have found a way around their objections."

"And Rhona?"

"Me men won't stop searching. I swear it on me honor."

She nodded, believing him despite years of learning that promises often shattered against reality. Something about Ciaran MacCraith demanded trust, even from a woman who had learned early that trust was a luxury rarely afforded to daughters of failing clans.

There was a soft scratch at the door. Aileen's signal. Their time had run out.

Ciaran pulled Isolde into a final embrace, his kiss fierce and tender at once, as though trying to imprint the memory of her upon his very soul. "Wait fer me," he whispered against her lips.

"I've waited fer ye two years already," she reminded him with a sad smile. "What's a fortnight more?"