Holding his gaze, she challenged him, stroking him, squeezing with long, hard strokes. She wouldn’t let him go. He was hers. All of him—even that rough, untamed side of him that he sought to hide.
The flames rose higher and higher in his eyes….
She’d won. His control snapped. She was on her back, and he was kissing her, his mouth moving over her lips, her jaw, her neck. Dominating. Ravaging. Wild and free.
He licked and sucked, making her shudder as his warm breath blew across her damp skin. He cupped her breasts and buried his face between her, the stubble of his beard scraping the tender flesh. She arched against him, needing more. Needing his mouth.
He covered her throbbing nipple and sucked, pulling her between his teeth until she writhed against him. Until her body began to spasm.
He lifted his head and held her gaze as he entered her in one hard thrust. The pleasure made her cry out. So big and thick, he filled her so completely, the pleasure was so acute, she couldn’t stand it.
And then he started to move, holding her gaze the entire time. The raw intensity of his expression took her breath away. It wasn’t just lust, or even just love, but something far more elemental: a perfect union of two bodies and two souls into one. He was meant for her and she for him.
She could feel the emotion surging in him just under her fingertips, his entire body pulsating with the pressure of everything that had happened between them. How close they’d come to losing each other. He thrust deeper and deeper. Harder and harder. And she met him stroke for stroke.
This was it. He was out of control, utterly consumed. And so was she. Never had she felt so alive and free. She felt the pressure build, knew she was close, but she had to hold on…. He sank in her deep, pushing higher, forcing her.
She couldn’t breathe. It felt too good. She pulsed with heat, and sensation rippled through her in warm, wet waves.
She felt him stiffen, saw the pleasure transform his face, and heard the deep guttural cry that tore from him as his release gripped his body, and she let go…weightless for a long heartbeat before breaking apart with a shattering intensity, her body contracting hard around him, the warm rush of his seed spilling deep inside her.
He was merciless, not even letting her catch her breath. Still warm and tingling, he rocked his hips against her, rubbing her hard against him until she cried out again. Slow and strong, wave after wave of sensation crashed over her. And when the last ebb of her release had faded, he nestled her against him tenderly, as if she might break.
She was moved beyond speech by the magnitude of what had just happened. He’d given her everything: his love, his body, his soul, and his trust.
Lachlan smoothed his hand over her warm, velvety skin, watching as the frantic rise and fall of her chest slowed. He didn’t know what to say. Words seemed an imperfect substitute for what he was feeling right now. Happy, content, relieved—all seemed utterly inadequate.
The misery of the past few days had been put behind them. The uncertainty of revealing his bargain with Argyll, the pain of their confrontation, arriving home with his brother to discover her gone, seeing her on that rock, realizing what Hector intended, and then watching her jump into the frigid, churning seas. It had all been expunged, released in a cataclysmic explosion of love and lust.
She’d stripped him to the core, seen behind the veil of civility, and given him only love and acceptance.
He’d made her his wife, bound her to him for eternity, but never had he felt so free—unchained, as she’d called it.
My wife.
She sighed deeply.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She turned to him and smiled. “More than all right.”
He tilted her chin, gazing deep into her eyes. “I love you.”
“I know.” Her mouth curved in a naughty little grin. “You finally succeeded in proving it to me.”
“Thank God,” he groaned. “I don’t think I could do that again.”
But as they found out a few hours later, he was wrong.
Epilogue
August 1608
Flora strolled across the moors with her husband, savoring the last hours of calm before the storm. It was hard to believe a year had passed since they’d returned to Breacachadh. But Mary’s wedding to Allan was only a few days away, and soon the guests would be arriving for the week-long celebration, provoking a mix of nervousness and anticipation. For the first time in years, all of her brothers and sisters would be in the same place at the same time—except for Hector, who was still the reluctant guest of Argyll.
She sighed contentedly. That dark day seemed a lifetime ago.
The late summer sun beat down hard and bright, intensifying the vibrant panoply of colorful flowers strewn across the countryside. She inhaled deeply, the sweet, pungent scent a gentle reminder of nature’s bounty this year. Everywhere she looked were signs of the largesse that had befallen them since they’d returned to Breacachadh. It seemed almost…magical.
