Page 87 of The Laird’s Wrong Wife

“I told ye it wasnae a problem.”

“Well, now it wouldnae be,” she whispered.

For a minute, there was nothing but silence between them. Ceana didn’t know what to feel, and a part of her needed to make that clear.

“Ye can go to meet yer people now, me Laird. As ye can see, I am alive.”

His gaze dropped to the bruises on her arms. “I ken ye are alive. I saw ye speak. I have heard ye breathe.” He raised his eyes to hers. “I need to make certain ye’re alive, Ceana. I need to calm somethin’ inside me.”

Ceana cocked her head, then held out her uninjured hand. “Then help me out of the bath. I can show ye properly.”

“What are ye sayin’?” Oscar asked, his voice rough.

He remained on one knee, close enough for her to see the pulse beneath the dirt at his throat.

“I want ye to lift me out of the bath and lay me on the bed.” She ran her thumb across his cheek. “Then I want yer mouth on me.”

His breathing stopped for one beat. “Ye want me to… even after what just happened to ye?”

“Aye. I want to feel yer hands and hear yer voice. I want ye to listen when I tell ye what I need.”

Oscar narrowed his eyes at her, almost in disbelief. “All right.”

Without waiting any longer, he rose and grabbed a towel. He wrapped it around her before lifting her out of the water. Once she was seated on the stool, he kneeled again and dried her with slow pressure, beginning at her feet and working upward.

His touch followed the condition of her body. Around the scrapes, he blotted the moisture. Near her ribs, his hand remained open and light. By the time he reached her breasts, her nipples had tightened beneath the linen.

His gaze lifted to hers, a question in it.

“Continue,” she said.

He passed the cloth over each breast, then slid one arm beneath her knees and carried her to the bed. Ceana directed him to arrange the pillows until she could recline without pulling at her ribs. Her damp hair spread across the linen as she relaxed further into the mattress.

Oscar sat beside her. “Tell me, Ceana. Where do ye want me to touch ye?”

Ceana took his hand and placed it below the soreness along her ribs. “Here. And everywhere else. Well, everywhere that doesnae hurt.”

A smirk curved his mouth before he bent and kissed the inside of her unbound wrist. His mouth trailed up her forearm, stopping before the first bruise. He pressed another kiss to the clear skin above it.

When he reached her shoulder, his lips lingered there while his hand slid up her waist, his thumb stroking the underside of her breast.

Ceana exhaled. “Closer.”

Oscar supported the back of her neck and kissed her. His mouth opened over hers with slow pressure, tasting of clean water and the smoke that still clung to him. She threaded her fingers through his hair and drew him nearer. The movement pulled at her side, and she winced.

Oscar lifted his head at once. “What? What is it?”

“It is only me ribs. Keep me flat.”

He removed a pillow from beneath her and waited until her breathing steadied. Then his mouth returned to her throat. He kissed along her collarbone before closing his lips around one nipple.

Ceana curled her fingers into his hair. His tongue slid over the sensitive peak, slow enough that she felt each stroke. When she pressed her breast toward him, he drew more of it into his mouth and sucked. Low heat gathered between her legs. She shifted beneath him, seeking pressure that his careful position denied her.

“Oscar.”

He released her nipple and kissed down her stomach. His hand remained spread across her waist, clear of every bruise.

“Is it all right if I move yer legs?” he asked.