Page 82 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

The words settled between them like a benediction, full of truth and hope and the kind of love that grew slowly but rooted deep. When he leaned closer, she met him halfway, their lips finding each other with the natural ease of two people who belonged together.

The kiss was soft at first, tender and full of gratitude for what they'd found in each other. But as the golden light deepened around them and the privacy of their secret garden wrapped them in its embrace, tenderness gave way to something more urgent.

"Iona," he murmured against her lips, her name a prayer and a question all at once.

"Aye," she whispered back, understanding exactly what he was asking. "Here, in our garden. Where everything blooms again."

His hands moved to frame her face, his thumbs tracing the line of her cheekbones as if memorizing her features in the dappled light. "Are ye certain? Anyone could⁠—"

"Nay one comes here," she assured him, her own hands finding the laces of his shirt. "It's been forgotten by everyone except us. And I want... I want tae make new memories here. Beautiful ones."

The urgency that had been building between them found its release in the privacy of their restored sanctuary. Clothes were shed with gentle haste, every revealed inch of skin touched and treasured in the golden afternoon light. The soft blanket beneath them was warmed by sun and desire, creating a cocoon of intimacy in their secret place.

When he moved over her, his body strong and sure above hers, Iona felt the last walls between them crumble completely. This wasn't just physical joining—it was the final sealing of hearts that had found their way to each other through darkness and uncertainty.

"Mo chridhe," he whispered against her throat as they moved together, the Gaelic endearment rough with passion and tenderness. Me heart.

"Aye," she gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders as waves of sensation built between them. "Yers. Always yers."

“Ye haunt me thoughts,” he growled against her lips.

She moaned, gripping his shoulders. “Then take me.”

“Nay,” he said, voice low, rough. “Nae yet. I’ll have ye screaming first. Then I’ll take ye.”

He shifted until he was on his knees before her, and the sight of such a powerful man bowing there made her legs tremble.

He lifted her skirts, eyes never leaving hers. “Spread fer me, mo gràidh.”

She obeyed, breath shuddering as cool air kissed the heat between her thighs. He leaned in and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to her inner knee.

Then his mouth was on her.

The first lick was slow and deliberate, the flat of his tongue dragging from bottom to top, and she cried out, fists gripping the edge of the blanket. He held her open, his thumbs spreading her folds, and began to feast like a man starved.

His tongue lapped at her soft folds, soft at first, then firmer, then with maddening rhythm until she could hardly breathe. His nose brushed against her with every stroke. His groans rumbled into her core.

“Ruaridh—”

“Aye,” he muttered against her. “Say me name when ye come. Again.”

He plunged two fingers inside her, curling them to stroke that place that made her toes curl. Her head fell back, mouth open, moaning as he worked her with expert precision—tongue circling, fingers pumping, his body wedged tight between her thighs.

Her legs trembled. Her thighs tried to close around his head, but he shoved them apart with a growl.

“I said I’d have ye screaming,” he rasped.

Then he sucked her hard—just once—and her body exploded.

She sobbed his name as her climax crashed over her like a storm, her muscles locking, her vision blacking at the edges. She could feel herself pulsing around his fingers, the aftershocks rolling in waves as he licked her through it, slower now, gentler.

By the time he pulled back, her chest was heaving and her legs were jelly.

He stood, his mouth slick with her, and kissed her fiercely. She could taste herself on his lips, and she didn’t care. She wanted more.

She gave him a wicked smile. “I want ye tae dae that again, Ruaridh MacCraith. But slower.”

“Aye, mo leannan,” he growled and swept her into his arms, laying her down like a prize he’d fought for. “Then I hope ye like the sound of yer own voice. Because I’m nae going tae stop.”

And he didn’t.

The world narrowed to that moment, that place, that man who had become everything to her. The gentle sound of the fountain provided a musical backdrop to their whispered words and soft cries, while afternoon light painted everything in shades of gold and rose.

When he finally slipped into her, it was with an intensity that left them trembling in each other's arms, hearts racing and breath mingling in the warm air. They lay entwined on the blanket, skin cooling in the gentle breeze, utterly content in their private paradise.

"Thank ye," Ruaridh said eventually, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "Fer this place, fer what ye've given me. Fer showing me that beautiful things can grow again, even after they've been damaged."

"We both needed somewhere tae bloom again," she replied, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Somewhere that was just ours."