She rolled her eyes, even as her cheeks burned. “You know exactly what you look like. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
He huffed a laugh, but some of the swagger faded under the way she was looking at him. His hand came up to scratch the back of his neck, suddenly almost shy. “Aye, well. You’re not exactly rough on the eyes yoursel’, Campbell.”
That tender, uncertain note in his voice undid her more than any cocky quip. Something in her steadied. If she couldn’t give him the words yet, then at least she could give him this.
“Come here,” she said, reaching for him.
What happened next wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. It was hands and mouths and laughter that kept getting cut off by the shock of pleasure, by his low, reverent curses, by the noises she didn’t realize she could make until he pulled them from her.
At one point, when his mouth dragged down her throat and his fingers toyed at the waistband of her panties, she gasped his name, half warning, half plea.
He stilled. “Heather.”
She forced her eyes open. “Yeah?”
“Say stop and I will.” His forehead rested against her sternum, breath hot against her skin. “Say slow and I’ll slow down. You set the pace,mo rùn. Understood?”
Warmth flooded her, hot and oddly fragile. Nobody had ever said it like that before. Not as a line. As a promise.
“Okay,” she whispered. Then, after a beat, bolder: “Don’t stop.”
His answering groan sounded like a prayer and a curse in one. “Right. That, I can do.”
He peeled away lace and slipped his hand between her thighs, testing, learning. Heather’s heart lept, her hips arching into his touch before she could think better of it. A laugh broke from him.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Such a greedy wee thing.”
“Don’t start,” she managed, but the protest melted into a gasp when his thumb found her aching center—exactly where she needed it.
Her moans came quieter than she expected, breathy and a little shocked, like she kept surprising herself. Flynn’s head dipped, his mouth finding her breast, then lower, his words a tumble of praise against her skin.
“Beautiful… that’s it… good girl…”
Her fingers dug into his hair, clinging, torn between wanting more and wanting to make this last forever. When the pressure built too sharp, too bright, she choked out his name again.
He drew back slightly, breath unsteady, pupils blown wide. “You alright?”
Heather nodded, chest heaving. “Yeah. I just…” She swallowed. “I want you.”
Something in his expression broke all the way open. He kissed her once—slow, lingering—before shifting, reaching for the bedside drawer with a muttered, “Thank Christ this inn’s not run by Catholics.”
She snorted. “You’re terrible.”
“You like me terrible,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth quirking as he rolled the condom on with quick, efficient hands.
When he settled between her thighs again, he paused. Really paused. One hand braced by her head, the other cradling her cheek, like he was giving her one last chance to change her mind.
“Ready, Heather?” he asked.
She met his gaze, the nerves and want tangled together, and nodded. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
The first push stole her breath. He went slowly, painfully slowly, as he watched her, pulling back whenever she tensed, easing forward when she relaxed. It was too much and not enough all at once.
“You’re alright,” he murmured, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her temple. “Breathe for me, lass. That’s it. There ye go…”
When her body finally gave around him, a shiver went through them both.
“Oh,” she whispered, the word half laugh, half disbelief.
