Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Ye think ye can play with fire, do ye, Isabelle?” he growled, his brown eyes flashing with warning.
Declan grabbed her hand before she could pull it off the table, his fingers tightening around hers like iron.
“I’m nae afraid of a wee fire, me Laird ,” she shot back, her voice bold even as her pulse hammered in her ears.
He pressed closer, his chest nearly brushing hers, and his jaw tightened.
“Bold words for a woman who’s mine now,” he snarled, his tone dangerous, commanding.
Isabelle’s lips parted slightly, defiance gleaming in her eyes, and he felt the fierce thrill of her stubbornness.
The urge to bend her to his will, to taste the fire she dared to spark, clawed at him from deep inside.
Suddenly his appetite was no longer on the food before him, but on her.
“Ye’ll learn, Isabelle, that I dinnae suffer fools, or wives, lightly,” he said, voice low, almost a growl, as his grip didn’t loosen.
“And I’m nae a fool, me Laird !” she snapped, trying to twist her hand free, but his strength pinned her.
He caught her gaze, dark and magnetic, and felt a surge of desire that made his teeth ache with need. Every inch of him ached to claim her lips, to show her exactly who held power in this marriage.
He leaned in slightly, the scent of her— faint lavender, faint spice— wrapping around him like a trap.
“Ye think yer stubbornness is attractive?” he hissed, the dominance in his voice sharpened with raw hunger.
“I dinnae think it is,” she replied, her eyes daring him, her voice trembling only slightly despite the fire in her chest.
“Then ye’re a fool, Isabelle, or ye lie,” he shot back, the words dripping with both scorn and desire.
She gasped. "I dinnae lie."
He held her gaze, and for a fleeting moment, the world shrank to the space between them, the tension crackling like lightning in the storm.
He could taste the heat of her skin even from inches away, and the need to bend her to him, to make her understand her place beside him, threatened to overwhelm his control.
She squared her shoulders, meeting his intensity with her own, and he felt the exquisite torture of being both enraged and enthralled.
“Ye’ve a reckless tongue, Isabelle Cain,” he said, his voice cutting through the air, sharp and commanding.
“And ye’ve nae yet seen the full of it, me Laird ,” she shot back, her defiance igniting him further.
Declan’s pulse thudded in his chest, a heady mix of anger, need, and possessiveness. He wanted to kiss her, to show her exactly who ruled, to lift her off her feet and press her against the wall of their chamber and leave no doubt of his control.
He released her hand for just a heartbeat then gripped it again, firm and unyielding.
“Ye think ye can goad me and not pay the price? That is nae true,” he demanded, his tone dripping with alpha authority.
“Ye’ll nae push me around, Declan,” she hissed, her jaw tight, but there was a shimmer of mischief in her gaze that only fanned his flame.
Every nerve in him screamed to capture her lips, to make her feel the consequences of challenging him.
Declan exhaled slowly, tasting the tension, letting it build, the fire between them almost unbearable. His mind wrestled with the need to dominate and the thrill of her defiance, each tug-of-war stoking his desire.
“Ye’ll learn, Isabelle,” he muttered, his grip unrelenting, “that I take what is mine and when I do… when I make ye tremble and gasp under me touch, ye shall ken that I am yer master.”
Her cheeks burned.
Declan’s eyes darkened as he studied her, every line of her face etched with stubborn pride.
“Aye, that is what I thought. Ye’ve a tongue like a blade, Isabelle, but ye are nae wise to what happens between man and wife under the sheets,” he growled, his fingers tightening around hers again, dragging her closer.
“That is where true power lies, and once I give ye a taste of it, ye will be me slave.”
She tilted her chin, daring him, the faintest spark of a smile teasing her lips.
“And how do ye ken that it will nae be I that wields such a power, merely by allowing ye to lay with me? To do these things ye wish to do to me?” she shot back, her voice low but unwavering, and he felt the heat of those words burn through him.
He pressed a little closer, his chest brushing hers, the fire of his desire igniting at her defiance.
“Ye think ye’re clever, challenging me?” he said, teeth clenched, every word vibrating with command.
“I am clever, and I’ll nae be cowed by a man who thinks he can dictate me thoughts through his rigid member,” she hissed, her gaze locking with his.
A slight smirk appeared on his face. For the first time ever, a woman was on the verge of truly making him laugh. The sheer force of her spirit made his pulse race, his body aching with need to claim her, yet he held back, testing the limits of their battle.
He fought the rising hunger that clawed at him. He wanted to seize her, bend her to him, imprint the truth of his ownership with a kiss that would leave them both breathless.
“Ye’ll pay for tempting me so, Isabelle,” he said, voice low and dangerous, the warning clear in every syllable.
She pressed back slightly, defiance blazing in her eyes, and he felt the exquisite torment of wanting and waiting all at once.
Her hand slipped free briefly, and she smirked, “Perhaps I like a man who thinks he rules me, me Laird , but ye have promised nae to consummate this marriage until I am ready. I expect ye to honor yer word.”
The words hit him like a spark, and he had to resist the urge to crush her to him in a fierce, possessive kiss.
“I will honor it, lass. But when the time comes, ye’ll regret that bold tongue of yers, mark me words,” he said, voice rough, yet there was an undercurrent of longing he could not hide.
He watched Isabelle’s chest rise and fall, her defiance mingling with a warmth that made him ache to pull her to him.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, though his hand trembled slightly with the effort to restrain himself.
“Ye push me beyond measure, Isabelle,” he whispered.
“Then perhaps ye should learn to control yerself, me Laird ,” she murmured, her voice teasing, a spark in her eyes that dared him.
Declan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides for a heartbeat before he seized hers again, strong and unyielding.
“Control isnae for women who tempt me so,” he growled, the dominance in his tone as sharp as a blade.
She laughed softly, bold and reckless, “Then perhaps I should tempt ye more, me Laird , and see if ye can resist me.”
He pressed a fingertip lightly under her chin, tilting her face toward his, close enough to feel the rapid beat of her pulse.
“Ye would be wise to remember who commands here,” he warned, his voice low and throaty, yet every fiber of him wanted to cross that line.
Isabelle met his gaze unwavering, her lips parted just slightly, “And ye would be wise to remember I’m nae so easily commanded.”
The words ignited the tension further, every inch between them crackling with the promise of inevitable surrender.
Declan’s resolve wavered, his desire almost unbearable, yet he forced himself to step back a breath. He felt the blood rushing to his manhood, his member throbbing.
He let go of her hands though his eyes never left hers, smoldering with hunger and warning.
“Ye are a maddenin’ woman, Isabelle,” he said, voice dark, voice like gravel and whiskey, and the fire in him raged beneath the surface. “Ye dinnae ken what ye do to me. So I will show ye.”
With those words he pivoted toward her and pulled his kilt up revealing his hardened staff.
Isabelle responded with a gasp.
“I… What… is...”
“Och, suddenly the lass is without words,” he said.
“It’s… I…” she whispered.
“Aye, it is. This is what ye do to me. I keep me word to nae consummate our marriage ’til ye are ready, but there are other ways to please yer laird, wife,” he groaned.
“There are?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Indeed, watch me and learn, wife,” he said.
He wrapped his hand around his rigid member and slid it up and down. Her eyes grew wider, and her lips trembled.
Declan fully enjoyed performing in front of her. He moved his hand slowly and deliberately.
“Ye want me to… that is, am I to do that?” she asked.
“Aye, lass. Nothin’ would please yer laird more in this moment,” he said.
He watched as she gulped, her eyes darting back and forth between his hard staff and his eyes. Then he extended his hand to hers. She softly placed it in his, and he guided it onto him. A whisper of a breath escaped her.
Declan sighed feeling her hand on his manhood. “Yer mere touch drives me toward bliss,” he observed.
“I am not confident I ken what to do,” she said.
“Like this,” he explained.
He moved his hand on top of hers, sliding it up and down his rod. Before long, he removed his guidance and let her do it.
“Ah, lass. Yer hand feels so good,” he groaned.
With that encouragement, she moved a little faster, and he wondered if all women knew instinctively how to please.
He locked eyes with her, allowing his eyes to roam from hers to her lips and back again. Then down to her heaving chest, bouncing gently as her hand moved. His lust for her drove him to the edge.
“I am going to release,” he groaned.
With that he spilled his seed with a loud moan that shook the room.
“And now, it is me turn to please ye, wife,” he said.