Chapter 8
Heather—Present Day
T he inn room was small, tucked beneath the sloping eaves, with low beams and a narrow window that rattled faintly in the wind.
Woodsmoke from the pub below lingered in the air, threaded with the sharp tang of rain on stone.
A single lamp burned on the bedside table, throwing honeyed light across the quilt, the walls—and the man who closed the door behind them.
Flynn didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned back against the wood and watched her, blue eyes steady in the half-light.
Heather’s pulse skipped. Her skin still hummed with the song, with his voice, with the way he’d looked at her downstairs and then said I love you like it cost him nothing and everything.
She turned away, fingers fumbling with her coat’s buttons—too fast, too clumsy. “Seriously?” she muttered to herself.
“Easy, Campbell” Flynn said quietly.
Her gaze snapped up. He hadn’t moved, but the heat in his eyes was unmistakable.
“You’re just…” She gestured vaguely. “Standing there.”
“Aye.” His mouth curved. “Waitin’ for you to look at me.”
The air thickened. She wanted to move, to say something clever, to break the tension, but Flynn pushed off the door first, crossing the room in that quiet, deliberate way that always undid her.
When he stopped in front of her, his hand lifted—not to grab, not to drag—but to brush a damp strand of hair back from her cheek. Gentle. Unhurried. Like this wasn’t something he meant to take, but something he was offering.
He dipped his head, breath warm at her temple. “Tell me no, Heather,” he murmured. “An’ I’ll stop.”
Her heart clenched. Before, the word might have been there out of sheer reflex.
Tonight, it wasn’t.
“Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered.
The tiniest flicker of relief flitted through his smile before hunger took over. Then his mouth found hers.
It wasn’t teasing this time. No quick brush to wind her up and walk away.
He kissed her slow and certain, deepening with every heartbeat until the room blurred at the edges.
Heather clutched at his shirt, desperate to anchor herself, but his arms were already wrapping around her, pulling her in like he’d been waiting to close that last inch since the day she’d barreled out of a cow pasture and into his life.
Her back bumped the bedpost, knees knocking the side of the mattress. Flynn followed, steady as stone, one hand braced on the post, the other at her waist, holding her like he had no intention of letting go.
“Heather,” he whispered against her lips.
She dragged in a shaky breath. “Yeah?”
His forehead rested against hers, eyes searching. “I didn’t say it downstairs because of the song,” he said, voice rough. “Or the whisky. I meant it. All of it.”
Heat flared in her chest—want tangled with something far more dangerous. The old urge to joke, to dodge, to back away scratched at her ribs, but his gaze didn’t waver. He didn’t look like a man swept up in the moment.
He looked like a man who’d already decided.
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers trembling only because she was holding so much in place at once. “You really don’t do things halfway, do you?” she managed.
His grin went crooked, equal parts wicked and soft. “Not with you.”
That broke something loose. She tugged him down to her again, mouth crashing back to his, and this time nothing about it was careful. The kiss burned—hungry, unrestrained, months of tension and missteps finally coming apart at the seams.
Flynn groaned into her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her like he needed the contact as much as she did. She fisted her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
When his mouth trailed to her jaw, then lower to the curve of her throat, Heather’s knees gave completely. He caught her with an easy curse and a huff of laughter, sweeping her off her feet as if she weighed nothing at all and laying her back against the quilt.
The lamplight painted him in gold and shadow as he hovered over her. His thumb traced her cheek, soft and sure, even as his eyes darkened.
“Still with me?” he asked.
Heather swallowed. “More than ever.”
His smile this time wasn’t cocky. It was quiet, almost disbelieving, like he couldn’t quite believe she was really here with him. “Good,” he said. “Because tomorrow can wait.”
Then his mouth was on hers again, and the last of her restraint went with it.
She didn’t remember who moved first, whether it was his hands at her waist or hers tugging at his shirt, but suddenly there was skin. Warm, freckled, familiar and still somehow new. His palm skimmed the bare line of her side and her breath hitched; his chuckle rumbled against her mouth.
“God, lass…” The words slipped out rough, unpolished. “Look at ye.”
He caught her wrist, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm. “Mo chridhe,” he murmured, the Gaelic rolling out on instinct.
Heat curled low in her belly at the sound of it, at the way his accent thickened when he forgot to rein it in. His hands framed her face for a heartbeat, eyes burning into hers.
“Do you ken what you do to me?” His voice cracked softer, then dropped again as his fingers tightened at her hip. “I’m wrecked for anyone else, Heather Campbell. Completely.”
“Show me,” she said, surprised by how steady it came out.
Whatever control he’d been clinging to snapped. His mouth crashed back to hers with a groan that went straight through her. Their laughter dissolved into breathless sounds as the rest of their clothes became unnecessary obstacles: his shirt, her jeans, the last scrape of cotton giving way to heat.
She tried not to look, tried not to stare, but when his boxers hit the floor and he straightened above her, her eyes had a mind of their own. He was all long lines and solid muscle, familiar from a dozen stolen moments, and somehow it still knocked the air from her lungs.
“God,” she exhaled before she could stop herself.
His mouth twitched. “Flatterer.”
She rolled her eyes, even as her cheeks burned. “You know exactly what you look like. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
He huffed a laugh, but some of the swagger faded under the way she was looking at him. His hand came up to scratch the back of his neck, suddenly almost shy. “Aye, well. You’re not exactly rough on the eyes yoursel’, Campbell.”
That tender, uncertain note in his voice undid her more than any cocky quip. Something in her steadied. If she couldn’t give him the words yet, then at least she could give him this.
“Come here,” she said, reaching for him.
What happened next wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. It was hands and mouths and laughter that kept getting cut off by the shock of pleasure, by his low, reverent curses, by the noises she didn’t realize she could make until he pulled them from her.
At one point, when his mouth dragged down her throat and his fingers toyed at the waistband of her panties, she gasped his name, half warning, half plea.
He stilled. “Heather.”
She forced her eyes open. “Yeah?”
“Say stop and I will.” His forehead rested against her sternum, breath hot against her skin. “Say slow and I’ll slow down. You set the pace, mo rùn . Understood?”
Warmth flooded her, hot and oddly fragile. Nobody had ever said it like that before. Not as a line. As a promise.
“Okay,” she whispered. Then, after a beat, bolder: “Don’t stop.”
His answering groan sounded like a prayer and a curse in one. “Right. That, I can do.”
He peeled away lace and slipped his hand between her thighs, testing, learning. Heather’s heart lept, her hips arching into his touch before she could think better of it. A laugh broke from him.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Such a greedy wee thing.”
“Don’t start,” she managed, but the protest melted into a gasp when his thumb found her aching center—exactly where she needed it.
Her moans came quieter than she expected, breathy and a little shocked, like she kept surprising herself. Flynn’s head dipped, his mouth finding her breast, then lower, his words a tumble of praise against her skin.
“Beautiful… that’s it… good girl…”
Her fingers dug into his hair, clinging, torn between wanting more and wanting to make this last forever. When the pressure built too sharp, too bright, she choked out his name again.
He drew back slightly, breath unsteady, pupils blown wide. “You alright?”
Heather nodded, chest heaving. “Yeah. I just…” She swallowed. “I want you.”
Something in his expression broke all the way open. He kissed her once—slow, lingering—before shifting, reaching for the bedside drawer with a muttered, “Thank Christ this inn’s not run by Catholics.”
She snorted. “You’re terrible.”
“You like me terrible,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth quirking as he rolled the condom on with quick, efficient hands.
When he settled between her thighs again, he paused. Really paused. One hand braced by her head, the other cradling her cheek, like he was giving her one last chance to change her mind.
“Ready, Heather?” he asked.
She met his gaze, the nerves and want tangled together, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
The first push stole her breath. He went slowly, painfully slowly, as he watched her, pulling back whenever she tensed, easing forward when she relaxed. It was too much and not enough all at once.
“You’re alright,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her temple. “Breathe for me, lass. That’s it. There ye go…”
When her body finally gave around him, a shiver went through them both.
“Oh,” she whispered, the word half laugh, half disbelief.
“‘Oh’ is good,” he said, voice strangled. “I’ll take ‘oh.’”
She swatted his shoulder weakly, then looped her arms around his neck and pulled him down, closing the last bit of emotional distance the same way she’d closed the physical. “More, Flynn.”
His answering laugh broke around the edges. “Aye, ma’am.”
He did.