Chapter 8 #2
This man loved her. She felt it in every touch, every word. And she wanted him to know she loved him too—but the words stayed stuck, locked behind her ribs.
She had to make him feel it. Had to let him know that even though she couldn’t say the words out loud just yet, she wanted to show him what he meant to her.
Gazing into Flynn’s ocean blue eyes, she placed her hands on his bare chest, gently signaling for him to move off of her. With Flynn now standing beside the bed, she rose to her feet—then dropped to her knees before him.
Flynn’s eyes darkened as he watched her every move.
“Let me…“ she whispered never breaking eye contact as he stood bare before her. Slowly, she gathered her red curls into a loose ponytail, the movement unhurried, intentional—she wanted him to watch every second.
Flynn’s throat bobbed. “Christ, Campbell.” His hand slid into her hair, not to guide, but to hold on. “I’m not walkin’ out of this room alive, am I?”
She slid the condom off him with a teasing drag of her fingers, earning a sharp curse from Flynn.
She paused there, her breath warm against his skin, letting the tension stretch until Flynn’s hand trembled in her hair.
The heat of him filled her mouth on the first slow slide.
The weight, the taste—it was overwhelming, intimate in a way that made her pulse skip.
Flynn’s hand fisted in the quilt at his side, his other gently grasping her wild curls as if he couldn’t decide whether to hold her there or draw her closer.
“Mo chridhe,” he groaned, the Gaelic slipping out raw, instinctive.
My heart.
Her body flushed at the sound, at the way his hips jolted despite himself. She set her rhythm deliberately—slow, savoring—her hand working where her lips couldn’t. Every groan, every curse, every tremor in him was hers to summon.
When his head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut, she smiled around him and pressed deeper, desperate to steal more of those sounds.
“Sweet Christ—Heather—” His voice broke, hips threatening to buck. “Lass, if ye keep…”
The warning died in his throat, torn away by another guttural groan.
Heather only pressed deeper, steady, relentless, her hands braced at his hips to anchor him. She wanted this; not just the taste of him, not just the power of undoing him, but the way it felt to give him everything without fear. To prove, without words, what she was too terrified to speak.
If I can’t tell him, then I’ll show him. I’ll show him until he knows.
His fingers threaded into her hair, trembling, not pulling but holding, like she was the only thing keeping him upright. The sound of his voice—broken Gaelic, whispered reverence, her name fractured by need—seared itself into her bones.
“Mo chridhe… mo nighean ruadh…”
Her chest clenched so hard it almost hurt.
God, I could love you. I already do.
The thought came unbidden, dangerous, but she didn’t run from it this time. She sank into it, giving him more.
“God above…” His voice cracked, rough with desperation. “I can’t—Heather, I’m—”
She didn’t stop. Her pace matched the frantic beat of his pulse, every gasp and shudder winding her tighter with something fierce, something unshakable.
Flynn’s body went taut, his breath shattering into a ragged cry. He spilled into her mouth, Gaelic curses torn from his throat as though she’d broken him apart in her hands.
Heather held steady, swallowing him down, her body thrumming with triumph, tenderness, something so sharp it could only be love. She stayed with him until his shudders eased, until his grip loosened in her hair and the storm inside him gave way to trembling silence.
Only then did she pull back, her lips swollen, her chest heaving. She looked up at him—this man who had wrecked her and remade her in equal measure—and thought:
If this isn’t love, I don’t know what else it could be.
Flynn’s eyes found hers, glassy, undone, and his thumb brushed across her lower lip with a reverence that nearly undid her.
“Christ, Campbell…” His voice was hoarse, wrecked, but so full of awe it made her heart squeeze. “Warn a man next time you plan to melt his bones.”
Heather laughed softly, smug warmth curling through her as she lifted her head to look at him. “Good. That was the point.”
She didn’t feel fear. She didn’t feel doubt.
She felt… right .
Like she finally understood something about herself she’d been too afraid to see.
Her smile turned slow, confident.
“Maybe I like being the one guiding you this time,” she teased.
Flynn groaned, dragging a hand down his face like she’d just undone him all over again.
“God help me, lass… I’m putty in your hands.
” His hand skimmed down her spine, gripping her closer as his voice dropped, rough as gravel.
“But mark my words, Heather Campbell—first chance I get, I’m claiming every sound you’ve got. ”
Her pulse jumped, but she only smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “We’ll see, Duncan. Maybe I’ll let you.”
Later, when the frantic edge burned away into something slower, he rolled onto his side and pulled her with him, keeping her tucked against his chest like he had no intention of letting the world back in.
She went willingly, her leg tangling with his, her head under his chin, the steady beat of his heart thudding against her cheek.
Flynn’s fingers traced idle, absent patterns up and down her spine. Heather’s body felt loose and boneless, the fight and the fear and the day’s heaviness all finally giving up the ghost.
“Campbell,” he murmured after a while, voice gone thick with sleep and satisfaction. “D’ye ken what we’ve got ahead of us?”
Heather made a small, noncommittal sound. “Cursed loch with alleged teeth.”
He chuckled, chest rumbling under her ear. “Aye. Treasure hunts, kelpies, certain doom. And me with my fiery-haired faerie at my side.”
She tipped her head back enough to squint up at him. “Faerie?”
His grin flashed, lazy and bright. “Och, the most dangerous kind. Tempted a poor soul right to his knees.”
Her cheeks warmed and she nudged his ribs with her fingers. “You’re leaning hard into mythology today. First kelpies, now faeries. What’s next?”
“Dragons, if you keep mockin’ me,” he said solemnly, then ruined it with another sleepy laugh.
Heather rolled her eyes, but the sound melted something in her. She pressed her face back to his chest, hiding the smile she couldn’t seem to shake.
His hand stilled at her back, resting there, solid and warm. “We’ll face it all, lass,” he said quietly. “Whatever’s waitin’ out there. Together.”
The words slipped through her, gentle and sure, settling in the spaces that usually felt sharp. For once, she didn’t argue. Didn’t look for a caveat.
She just let herself believe him.
The scent of smoke and rain drifted faintly through the cracked window. Flynn’s breathing slowed under her ear, evening out as he slid toward sleep, arm still heavy around her.
And if her last hazy thought before drifting off was that maybe, just maybe, her mother’s threads had been leading her here all along, to this man and this journey and this impossible future…
She didn’t fight that, either.