Chapter 21 #3
He kissed her again, deeper, as his hands moved with purpose, helping her free herself from the confines of her gown, before tugging at his own garments.
Fabric loosened, shifted, fell away in pieces that neither of them cared to track, until there was nothing left between them but warmth and skin and the rising urgency neither of them tried to deny.
Bare now, Lachlan explored her body with a deftness that only made her tingle all the more—Isabel gasped, her head tipping back against the stone as sensation rushed through her, sudden and consuming. She had thought she understood desire before this moment. She had not.
“God, ye feel…” he muttered, his voice breaking off as though he could not quite find the words.
There were no words. Only sensations. She felt it in the slight tremble of his fingers, in the way his control slipped just enough to betray how much this affected him.
Her body answered him instinctively, her hips shifting again, seeking more, her breath coming faster as the sensations built, layered, intensified.
When he lifted her again, it was not to move away, but to carry her farther inside, to the bed waiting in the dim light of the chamber beyond.
“Your leg,” she protested.
“‘Tis fine. All of me is fine.”
This time, when he set her down, it was slower, his hands lingering, his gaze fixed on hers as though asking a question he did not voice.
“More than fine,” she whispered, her gaze perusing the length of his solid body.
Of course she’d realized he was tall, a giant among men.
But seeing him in his gloriously naked form was…
Isabel licked her lips. His legs were thick with muscle, a brush of hair along the length.
She scanned from his feet to his knees, his thighs, taking in the scar, still fresh pink from his injury.
The wound had completely healed, and within a year, the pink would most likely turn to white.
Shaped almost like a starburst, she reached for it. The tips of her fingers soft.
Lachlan gasped, his eyes shutting.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, flicking her gaze up to study his face. He did not look in pain. He looked...
“Nay,” he croaked. “Quite the opposite.”
Growing bold with his answer, Isabel continued to stroke his skin, caressing over his ribs.
Trained in healing, he was not the first man she’d seen without clothes, but he was the first man she’s seen…
aroused. Jutting from between his hips was an impressive sight, one she’d not laid eyes on before.
One she’d been curious about as she’d felt it pressed against her when they kissed.
Without hesitation, she touched him, her fingers circling the shaft, feeling the smoothness of his skin, the hardness underneath. Lachlan let out a growl, his eyes flying open to meet hers.
“Lass…” he warned. “‘Twill be over before it begins if ye–”
She squeezed and stroked upward, and Lachlan groaned. “If I what?” she asked.
“That. If ye do that.”
Isabel grinned. It seemed she had found Lachlan’s weak point.
And he didn’t let her continue, pushing her hand aside.
Before she could reach for him again, his own hand was on her, fingers brushing the curls at the apex of her thighs, sliding between the folds, until she too was gasping, nearly doubled over with pleasure. Apparently, she too had a weak spot.
“Do ye like that?” he asked.
She answered it by pulling him down onto the bed with her, surprised at her own daring, even as her actions emboldened her to do more.
Their limbs entwined, and his lips met hers.
The hardness of his chest, his thighs, his arousal, pressing to the softer points of her breasts, her belly, her own thighs.
Lachlan’s mouth lifted from her lips, skimming over the length of her neck, her collarbone, and she sighed against him, tracing her fingers down the muscles of his back, careful not to touch his shoulder injury, even though it had healed. He swore he wasn’t in pain but—
All though left her as his mouth found her breast, his tongue darting out to stroke a hardened nipple.
Isabel tried to breathe, but she could barely think beyond, dinna stop.
Isabel threaded her fingers through his hair, the length of it loosened from the leather thong he normally kept it tied back with.
She gave a tug, arched her back, a soft moan escaping her.
Lachlan’s breath grew uneven and his touch less steady as he stroked her body with fingers and tongue. Every movement built upon the last, every caress bringing her closer to something she could not yet name but felt all the same.
“Are ye certain? I we continue… ye will be mine.”
“Aye.”
And then he was sliding inside her. Her breath caught, her fingers tightening against around his shoulders as the sensation settled, sharp at first, but then transforming, deepening, becoming something else entirely.
He murmured something against her throat, low and soothing, his hand steady at her hip as he gave her time to adjust, to follow him, to choose this fully.
And she did. All of him. Edicts and declarations and betrothals be damned. She wanted Lachlan.
A slow, building rhythm seized her with each thrust, until thought itself gave way to intoxication. The world narrowed again, but this time it did not hold still—it moved, pulsed, carried her with it in a way that left no space for doubt or hesitation.
Her body responded before her mind could catch up, her breath breaking, her hands stroking over his muscled back, the thick ropes of his arms. His name escaped her without thought, and the sound of it seemed to make his control slip in measured increments as the pace between them quickened.
And then she was cresting over the precipice, soaring into pleasure and delirious rapture. Isabel clung to him, her body shuddering beneath the force of her release, the intensity leaving her breathless, shaken.
He followed soon after, his thrusts faster, his breath rough against her skin as he pressed into her with a final, undeniable force, his own feral release breaking through in a way that left him just as shaken.
For a long moment afterward, neither of them moved. The world returned slowly. Piece by piece.
Their breathing uneven, their bodies still connected in a way that could not be undone. And even as the quiet settled back around them, even as the danger beyond the walls remained, everything between them had changed.
When the sun began to set and the world beyond them came back to the present, Isabel lay beside him, her gaze fixed on the narrow window as the sky softened toward evening.
The gray of day had given way to something warmer, streaks of gold and fading blue stretching across the horizon.
The wind still pressed steadily against the glass, carrying with it the restless sound of the sea loch.
For a time, she did not move. The stillness felt fragile, as though even the smallest movement might break whatever had settled between them, and she found herself reluctant to disturb the cocoon they’d created.
Surprisingly, they had yet to be disturbed, but she knew that tranquility would be brief as they were still preparing for an imminent battle.
This momentary reprieve had been unexpected and a gift.
The warmth of his presence remained at her back, steady and undeniable, his soft breath at her neck a constant she had not expected to find comfort in, grounding her in a way that felt both new and deeply unsettling, as though something inside her had changed without her even realizing it was happening.
For a moment, she allowed herself to lean into that feeling—to believe in it, however briefly.
To believe that this, whatever it was between them, might exist outside the reach of everything waiting beyond the walls of Dunvegan.
That her uncle wouldn’t be furious and possibly punish them both severely.
Isabel exhaled slowly, the breath leaving her as her gaze remained fixed on the fading light beyond the window.
The sense of stillness in the room no longer felt like safety—it felt temporary, like a pause between heartbeats.
The battles had not been left behind but followed them here.
The enemy threading their way into this place just as surely as they had threaded their way into her thoughts.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze sliding toward Lachlan. He lay beside her, close enough that she could still feel the warmth of him, the reality of him, and for a moment she studied him in silence, as though weighing something she had not yet spoken aloud.
“We are no’ safe here,” she said quietly.
Lachlan’s eyes blinked open. He did not answer at once, but she saw the truth of it settle in his expression even before he spoke. This place, for all its strength, for all its distance from the Bruce and the battles waged in his name, was not beyond reach.
And that made everything between them—this fragile, undeniable connection they had chosen to step into—something far more precarious than either of them had been willing to admit.
Because it was no longer only a matter of desire. Or even choice. It was something that could be used against them. Something that could be taken away.
By enemy or ally.