Again, and again. And with each thrust, he lifted his hips to meet her, driving deeper. Hazel watched him unravel as her quim clutched at him and pleasure still pulsed through her.
She’d seen him climax before, back at Moy. But not like this. Then, he’d held onto control. Not this time.
His teeth were bared, the cords of his neck strained as he dragged her down his rigid shaft once more.Sweat gleamed off his skin. His eyes were wild. Desperate. He was a man completely undone, and it thrilled her to see it, to know that she had driven him to this state.
Riding him like this made her feel powerful. Brazen. She loved it. And she loved him.
This young laird who’d burn everything to the ground, just to be with her.
Who gave himself to her, who showed her all of him.
Craeg’s hoarse cry filled the chamber as he thrust his hips up again, slamming her down upon him and grinding them together. Ecstasy pulsed deep inside her core, heat flooding her womb yet again as he released.
Panting and trembling, they stilled.
Hazel hung over him, bracing herself against his heaving chest.
There were no words for this. Nothing that could describe the beauty—the perfection—of this moment. She’d asked Craeg to give her memories to blot out the ugliness, and he’d done just that.
The world had shifted, and now nothing would ever be the same again.
Rising from the sheepskin, Craeg fetched a clay bowl of water and a square of linen. Then, returning to where Hazel still lay, her coltish limbs bathed in firelight, he knelt at her side. He cleaned her up first, tenderly washing away his seed from the damp curls between her legs and the smooth skin of her thighs.
He then washed himself, aware that her gaze tracked his every move.
His belly tightened under her scrutiny, a familiar heat igniting low in his spine.
And then, his prick stiffened, rising like a pike between them.
Hazel gave a low, breathy sigh, and his lips curved. “Pay him no attention, lass … he’ll settle soon enough.”
She laughed, a warm sound that made his breathing grow shallow.
By the Saints, he loved this woman.
Putting the wash bowl and cloth aside, he stretched out next to her once more. He then propped himself up onto one elbow, his gaze drinking in the lines of her face. He’d never tire of looking at her, of reassuring himself that she wasn’t leaving.
She’d agreed to stay, to become his wife.
He needed to keep telling himself it was true. He hadn’t torched their relationship, after all. She still wanted him.
A fierceness rose in his chest.
This time, he’d ensure nothing stood in the way of their marriage.
Hamish Macquarie was dead. That seer’s prophecy had been right all along. Hazel would be his downfall. And yet, the man had set his own course of destruction. If he’d left his daughter alone, he’d still be alive now. Instead, his paranoia, his lust for influence and power, set him on a road with only one end.
Craeg traced his fingertips down the swanlike line of her neck, to the outlines of her collarbones and the shallow valley between her pert, rose-tipped breasts. “Ye are lovely enough to make a man weep,” he said then, his voice choked.
A gentle smile curved her full lips. “Daft lad,” she chastised him gently, her own voice rough with emotion. “There are plenty of bonnier women out there.”
He shook his head. “Not in my eyes.” His hand splayed across the indentation of her belly button. “And I shall worship ye until ye agree with me.”
She gave another laugh, this one filled with sensual promise. “No, Craeg … it’s my turn to worshipye.” And with that, she sat up and gently pushed him onto his back. “I cannot ignore something so magnificent.”
His shaft thrust up between them like a standard.
Craeg snorted. “He’s a demanding bastard. As I said, don’t give him any—” His voice choked off as she leaned down and hungrily swallowed the swollen crown of his rod.
