Page 68 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

"What dae ye think about how I feel now?"

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. When she spoke, her voice was soft but certain. "I think ye want me. And I think..." She paused, then smiled. "I think it's clear I want ye too."

The simple declaration hit him like a physical blow. The music, the other dancers, the entire celebration seemed to fade away until there was only Iona in his arms, looking at him with a combination of desire and affection that made his chest tight.

"Dae ye want tae stay at this celebration?" he asked quietly.

"Not particularly," she admitted, her cheeks pink but her gaze steady.

"Then perhaps we should retire. Long day of preparations..."

"That sounds very... sensible," she agreed, though her smile suggested she had the same ideas he did about how they'd spend their early retirement.

They made their excuses to his parents—fatigue from the day's hosting duties—and slipped away from the great hall. The corridors leading to their chamber had never seemed so long, and by the time they reached their door, the tension between them was almost unbearable.

They stood on opposite sides of the chamber. His green eyes held hers across the room, dark with an intensity that made her breath catch.

Neither spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy with want and uncertainty.

Ruaridh moved first, crossing the stone floor with deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving her face. She met him halfway, drawn by something stronger than caution or fear. When they stood close enough to touch, he raised his hands slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn't.

His palms cupped her face with infinite gentleness, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones. "Iona," he whispered, her name a question and a prayer.

In answer, she reached up and wound her arms around his neck, her fingers threading through the dark hair at his nape. The last distance between them disappeared as he lowered his head and she rose to meet him.

Their lips found each other with desperate tenderness, soft at first, then deeper as restraint gave way to need. She could taste the Highland air on his mouth, could feel the tremor in his strong hands as they held her face like something precious.

His jacket fell to the floor, followed by her shawl. Her fingers worked at the laces of his shirt while his hands found the ties of her gown, both moving with careful urgency, as if afraid the moment might shatter if they rushed.

The fire crackled in the hearth, painting their skin in gold and shadow as fabric whispered to the stone floor around them.

Ruaridh pulled her to the bed, hovering over her, resting on his forearms. He kissed her neck and the space between her breasts, pausing to take one nipple in his mouth, before he moved to the other.

Iona gasped, her legs opening on their own, ready for him. Ruaridh pushed himself between her legs the thick head of his manhood dragging through her slick folds—teasing, torturing.

“Ye’re soaked, mo gràidh. But I’ll not rush this. Nae the first time.”

“Aye. But I need tae feel ye…”

He groaned, forehead pressing to hers. “Ye’re going tae be the death of me.”

Then he started to press in—slow, thick, hot.

Iona gasped, her nails digging into his back as he pushed deeper, inch by inch, her body stretching to take him. It burned in the most perfect way. Nothing—nothing—prepared her for the feel of him.

“Ye’re… ” she choked.

“Aye,” he grunted, jaw tight. “I’m tryin’ tae go slow.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist and dragged him the rest of the way in with a gasp.

He swore in Gaelic—something primal, guttural—and stilled, buried to the hilt inside her.

For a long moment, they didn’t move. Her body adjusted to his size, her breath shaking, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She looked up at him and saw fire in his eyes.

He cupped her cheek. “Ye feel like everything good. Hot and tight and perfect.”