Before she could answer, he kissed her—deep and claiming and achingly thorough. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of ale and dark promises, and she melted into him with a soft sound that he swallowed greedily.
“Shh.” He nipped at her lower lip. “Remember? Quiet.”
Her heart hammered as his hands found her waist. In one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the storage trunk, settling her at the perfect height. The wood was cool and solid beneath her, and suddenly his eyes were level with hers, burning with intent.
“Much better,” he murmured, stepping between her knees and spreading them wider with his hips. “Now I can properly finish what we started this morning.”
A tremor ran through her. “Erik?—”
“Put yer hands behind ye,” he commanded softly. “Brace yerself on the trunk. And stay quiet fer me.”
She obeyed, leaning back slightly, and watched as he dropped to his knees before her. The sight of the Wolf of Skye kneeling between her thighs, hunger burning in those gray-blue eyes, stole every coherent thought from her head.
His hands slid up her calves with deliberate slowness, pushing her skirts higher. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this since left ye, little bird,” he said against the inside of her knee, his breath hot through the fabric. “About the taste of ye. Ach, about makin’ ye come apart with me mouth.”
A whimper tried to escape—she bit it back, trembling.
“Good lass.” He pushed her skirts up around her waist, baring her intimate flesh entirely, and the cool air against heated skin made her gasp.
His mouth found her pearl and lightning sparked behind her eyelids. She pressed one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the trunk hard enough to splinter wood.
“Ach, ye’re so sweet,” he whispered, easing the fabric aside. “So delicious.”
Then his tongue—hot and wicked and devastatingly skilled—traced a long, slow stroke along her folds that made thought impossible. In the next room, she could hear her father shufflingcards, his occasional sigh, and it strangely only heightened every sensation until she was drowning in pleasure and desperate need, writhing against his mouth.
Erik worshipped her with patient thoroughness. Long strokes followed by quick flicks. Soft kisses alternating with gentle suction. He took her higher with each deliberate caress, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her steady as she trembled.
When he sealed his lips over her pearl and sucked while his tongue worked without mercy, she shattered with strangled moan. Pleasure crashed through her in waves so intense she had to bite down on her own fist to muffle the cry that wanted to tear free. Erik gentled immediately, drawing out every last tremor until she was boneless and gasping.
He rose slowly, settling between her knees, and cupped her face with both hands. His eyes were dark with want and something deeper—something that made her heart forget how to beat properly.
“I love ye,” he said quietly, fiercely, like the confession had been burning inside him too long. “I dinnae ken when it happened or how tae stop it, but I love ye, Claricia.”
Her lips parted, words forming—but footsteps sounded beyond the door.
“Claricia?” Her father’s voice, concerned. “Are ye all right in there, lass?”
Erik’s thumb traced her swollen lip, his gaze holding hers with silent promise. Then he was gone, slipping out through a hidden passageway while she straightened her skirts with trembling hands.
And she knew—with absolute, terrifying certainty—that she loved him too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Ye’ve outdone yerself, m’lady.”
Claricia turned from arranging the last of the heather sprigs along the high table to find Mhari beaming at her, flour still dusting the cook’s plump cheeks.
The Great Hall glowed with warmth—rushes laid fresh and sweet-smelling, candles burning in every sconce, tables groaning beneath platters of roasted venison and honey-glazed duck.
“’Tis certainly bonnie,” Claricia admitted, surveying her work with tired satisfaction. She’d been organizing since dawn—directing servants, approving dishes, ensuring every detail reflected the importance of this celebration. A union between the Highlanders and the Norse. Between her father’s line and Erik’s. Between two hearts that had somehow found each other despite a king’s decree and centuries of bloodshed.
Erik’s confession from earlier that day still echoed through her like cathedral bells, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on her, the way he’d looked at her afterward with such raw vulnerability that her chest had ached.
“The jarl will be pleased,” Mhari said, patting her arm with maternal affection. “As will yer faither. ‘Tis a proper feast fer a proper union.”
Claricia’s smile wavered. Her father. She’d barely seen her father for the rest of the day—he’d kept to his chambers, claiming fatigue from travel, though she suspected he was simply avoiding her.
He’ll come around,he has tae. Because I’m nae leavin’. This is me home now.
