“Declan—”
“I ken it’s mad,” he continued, unable to stop now that he’d started. “I ken we barely ken each other, that this marriage was forced upon us both. But I cannae stop thinkin’ about ye. Cannae stop wantin’ ye.”
She swayed slightly, and his hands came up instinctively to steady her, gripping her shoulders through the thin robe.
“You’re infuriating,” she said, but her voice had gone soft, breathless. “Controlling and stubborn and impossible.”
“Aye.” His thumbs traced small circles on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric. “And ye’re reckless and headstrong, and ye argue with everythin’ I say.”
“Someone has to,” she whispered, and then her hands came up to rest on his chest, her palms flat against his bare skin.
The touch sent fire racing through his veins.
Francesca surged onto her toes, pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was quick, trembling, then she broke it.
“I… I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me.”
But Declan growled low, seized her waist, and dragged her against him. His mouth crashed to hers, hungry, devouring. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, desperate. Heat flared, wild and unchecked. He backed her against the wall, lips bruising hers, teeth grazing. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a starving man.
His hands roamed her back, her hips, the soaked linen clinging to her thighs. She arched into him, fire meeting fire. Their breaths tangled, harsh, frantic.
The world narrowed to the press of her body, the taste of her lips, the sweet torment of her yielding. He trailed his mouth down her neck, sucking hard enough to mark. He cupped her breast and used his fingers to tease her until it peaked in the middle. She moaned softly, fingers digging into his hair.
Declan’s control frayed. He lifted her, pinned her against the wall, her skirts bunched round his hands. Her legs tightened around his waist. The contact burned, nearly broke him.
“Francesca,” he rasped, voice guttural, half a plea, half a curse.
She answered with a kiss that stole his breath and made his entire being roar for more. Every muscle strained to take, to claim, to lose himself.
He took her to the bed, and laid her on her back without breaking the kiss. He couldn’t have enough. It would never be enough. He moved on to kiss down her neck, her chest, her stomach, until he knelt down on the floor, pulling her by her knees until she was close to him. He leaned forward until his lips were on her sensitive spot, which he found wet and ready for him. He sucked until she grabbed the bedsheets and arched her back, giving a low cry. Even then, he didn’t stop. He continued, going faster until she gasped and moved her hips as if she wanted to be even closer to him.
Declan pushed her back down, worshipping her, enjoying her taste, and with each touch, he wanted more. She moaned loudly, and in one perfect moment, she shuddered, crying out “Declan!” with such raw abandon that it nearly undid him, and then she fell back on the bed, satisfied.
With a smirk on his face, he stood up and turned her over, ready to give her more pleasure. “I’m nae done with ye yet, lass,” he murmured against her ear, his voice dark with promise. But somewhere, deep in the haze, the old fear clawed back. Hisfather’s hollow eyes. His mother’s grave. Love was weakness. Passion was death.
Declan felt himself stiffen, even as Francesca moaned, eager for more, before she realized something had changed. She reached out for him, but he shifted out of her reach.
“Declan?” Her voice was small, confused, still breathless from what they’d shared. Her hand touched his back gently. “What’s wrong?”
He stretched out on his side of the bed, his back to her.
“Go to sleep, lass,” Declan muttered.
He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer without revealing too much. When she shifted her weight so that she nestled into him, he pretended he didn’t feel the warmth her softness gave him, or the way it took away some of the loneliness from his heart. He controlled his breathing, pretending to fall asleep, but Declan lay awake long after he could hear Francesca’s heavy, steady breaths.
12
Francesca opened her eyes, stretched blissfully, and for one long moment she forgot where she was. The only memories that lingered were of Declan. The inn, the rain, Declan’s hands on her body, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that had left them both breathless, and how he had luxuriously satisfied her.
Her lips curved in a knowing smile. Last night had been… different. She had felt more emotionally connected to Declan than ever before. Sure, just when she thought it would go further, he had stopped abruptly, surprising her by telling her to sleep.
But, he had given her more than she could have ever hoped for, so she had decided not to press him. She just hoped to have returned some of the warmth she had felt.
“Thought ye’d sleep through half the morn’, lass. I was headed downstairs for some dram before we head back to the castle.”
Startled, she glanced up to see Declan standing near the hearth in their inn room, one hand braced on the mantel as if he’d been there for hours. She tilted her head, searching his face for some sign, some softness.
His expression was unreadable as usual, but his eyes lingered on her, running over her bare shoulders and arms, and his voice had a new note to it that stabilized Francesca.
