Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The fire in Catriona's chamber had burned low, casting long shadows across the furs strewn over the bed. The scent of dried lavender and beeswax clung to the air, thick with the warmth of the hearth.
She stood by the window, her fingers tracing the cool glass where frost had begun to creep along the edges.
The wool of her gown clung to her hips, the fabric worn thin from years of use, but she didn't move to undo the laces at her back.
Nae yet.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, like the pause before a storm breaks, charged with something unspoken.
She reached for him. There was no urgency in the movement.
It lacked the compressed, frantic heat of the well-side or the desperate tension of the rain-soaked archway. Those moments had been collisions, breaking apart before they could truly begin.
This was slower.
This was her hand lifting in the dim orange light to find the heavy line of his jaw, her thumb brushing the stubble as she turned his face toward her. Anthony went still under her touch, a sudden, absolute cessation of movement that he granted to very few things in this world.
She traced the scar.
She had wanted to do it properly since the night he'd told her about the fire, since he'd stood in the study with his voice hollowed out like a burnt-out shell and let her see what lived behind the commands and the locked doors.
Her fingers followed the jagged topography from his jawline down the sensitive cord of his throat. She moved unhurriedly, learning the map of him with the same specific, clinical care she brought to the things that truly mattered.
He let her.
That was the thing that pulled the air from her lungs more than anything else. It wasn't just the wanting; she had lived with the weight of that for weeks, naming it and keeping it at arm's length through sheer stubbornness.
This was different.
This is Anthony MacArthur.
The man who owned the air in every room he entered, who had rebuilt himself into something unassailable after the fire took everything soft.
Nothing was managed. Nothing was closed off. He offered himself up for her inspection without a single shield raised.
She felt the hitch in his ribs as he breathed.
His hands came up slowly, his fingers spreading across her waist before sliding over her ribs to the curve of her shoulders.
Anthony exhaled slowly, the sound rough.
“Ye daenae have to,” he murmured, his voice low, the burr of his accent wrapping around the words like a promise.
His hands flexed at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to reach for her but refusing to presume.
Catriona turned, the firelight catching the silver threads in her dark hair, the scars that ran from her collarbone down beneath the neckline of her gown. She didn't flinch when his gaze dropped to them. Instead, she lifted her chin, just slightly, and met his eyes.
“I ken.”
That was all the permission he needed.
His hands were calloused, the skin rough from years of gripping a sword, but when his fingers brushed the back of her neck, they were careful.
Reverent.
The heat of his palm seeped through the fabric of her gown as he traced the line of her spine, slow, deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of her. She shivered, not from cold, but from the way his touch seemed to brand her, marking her as something precious.
Something his.
“Ye're trembling,” he observed, his breath warm against her ear as he leaned in. His lips grazed the shell of it, just barely, and she felt the words more than heard them. “Tell me to stop.”
She didn't.
Instead, she turned into him, her palms flattening against the hard plane of his chest.
The wool of his tunic was coarse beneath her fingers, the steady thud of his heart a counterpoint to the racing pulse in her own throat. His scent wrapped around her. Smoke and leather and something darker, muskier, the scent of a man who had spent too long denying himself.
She tilted her head back, her lips parting as his mouth descended, not in a rush, but with the slow inevitability of a tide pulling her under.
The first press of his lips was firm, demanding without being cruel.
His tongue swept against the seam of her mouth, and she opened for him with a soft gasp, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. He tasted of heather ale and something wild, untamed, and when his teeth grazed her lower lip, she moaned into his mouth, the sound needy, desperate.
His hands slid down to her waist, his grip tightening just enough to bruise, pulling her flush against him so she could feel the hard ridge of his manhood straining against his trews.
“Feck,” he growled against her lips, the word a vibration that traveled straight between her thighs.
She smiled, her hips rolling against him without thought, seeking friction. His hands slid up, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the fabric, teasing, testing.
His mouth crashed back onto hers, hungrier now, his teeth nipping at her lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. She arched into him, her nails scraping down his chest, and he hissed, the sound raw, animalistic.
His hands found the laces of her gown, tugging them loose with practiced ease, the fabric parting to reveal the pale expanse of her skin.
He lowered his head, his lips pressing to the scar with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. Then lower, to the next, and the next, his breath hot against her skin, his tongue darting out to taste her.
She gasped when his teeth grazed her nipple, the sensation sharp, electric, her back arching as he took the peak into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make her whimper.
“Anthony.”
“Aye, love?” His voice was a dark murmur against her skin, his hands sliding down to grip her thighs, lifting her effortlessly.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, the heat of him searing through the thin linen of her shift, his manhood a thick, insistent pressure against her core.
He carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, laying her down among the furs before following, his body covering hers, his weight a delicious pressure that pinned her in place.
She reached for the hem of his tunic, tugging it up, her fingers skimming over the ridged planes of his abdomen, the scars there. Old wounds, some still angry and red, others faded to silver.
He let her explore, his breath coming faster as her nails scraped over his hips, his thighs, before she found the fastenings of his trews. The leather was stiff beneath her fingers, but she worked it loose, her pulse hammering in her ears as she freed his cock.
It was thick, heavy in her hand, the skin hot and smooth over the rigid length. A bead of moisture welled at the tip, and she smeared it with her thumb, watching as his nostrils flared, his hips jerking into her touch.
“Christ, Catriona.” His voice was rough, strained, his hand covering hers, guiding her strokes. “If ye keep that up, this'll be over before it begins.”
She smirked, stroking him again, slower this time, her thumb swirling over the slick crown.
His growl was answer enough. He caught her wrist, pinning it above her head as he leaned down, his mouth crashing onto hers again, his kiss bruising, possessive. His free hand slid up her thigh, pushing the fabric of her shift aside, his fingers finding the wet heat between her legs.
She was soaked, her arousal slick on his skin as he teased her entrance, circling, but not entering.
“Please,” she gasped against his lips, her hips lifting, seeking more.
“Please what?” His fingers slid higher, brushing her clit, the touch feather-light, maddening. “Use yer words, love.”
She whimpered, her nails digging into his shoulder. “Keep goin'.”
His breath hitched.
For a moment, he stilled, his forehead resting against hers, his eyes searching hers in the dim light.
Then, with a groan, he shifted, his manhood nudging against her, the broad head parting her folds. He didn't push in, not yet. Instead, he rocked his hips, the thick length sliding through her wetness, coating himself in her, the friction making her toes curl.
“Ye're sure?” His voice was a rasp, his control fraying.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer. “Aye.”
He entered her in one slow, relentless thrust, his manhood stretching her, filling her so completely she saw stars. She cried out, her back arching, her body struggling to adjust to the invasion.
Anthony froze, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks.
“Feck, ye're beautiful,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Too good. Too feckin' good.”
She panted, her nails raking down his back, her body clenching around him. The sting of being stretched burned, but it was a good pain, a claiming. She rocked her hips experimentally, and he hissed, his grip tightening.
“Move,” she demanded, her voice breathless.
He didn't need to be told twice.
His first withdrawal was slow, deliberate, his manhood dragging against her inner walls before he thrust back in, deeper this time, his hips rolling in a rhythm that made her gasp.
She met him stroke for stroke, her body moving with his, her breath coming in sharp, needy pants as the friction built, the wet sounds of their bodies filling the room.
“Harder,” she begged, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, mimicking the thrusts of his manhood, and she moaned into him, her body tightening, coiling like a bowstring.
Anthony groaned, his pace faltering for just a second before he snapped his hips harder, his manhood pounding into her with a ferocity that stole her breath. The bed creaked beneath them, the furs tangling around their limbs as he drove into her, each thrust deeper, more desperate than the last.
“Come for me,” he growled against her lips, his hand sliding between them to find her clit, his fingers circling, pressing, demanding. “Now, Catriona. Let go.”
The orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body clamping down around him, her cry muffled against his shoulder as her nails raked down his back.
He swore, his hips stuttering as her walls milked him, his own release tearing through him with a groan, his manhood pulsing deep inside her as he spilled, hot and thick.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the crackle of the fire, the slow, lazy drag of his fingers through her hair. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to her lips
“Mine,” he murmured, the word a vow.
She smiled, her fingers tracing the inked lines of the dragon tattooed across his shoulder.
“Aye,” she whispered. “Yers.”