Page 55 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“Ye’re exactly what I need.” Her eyes blazed with certainty that stole his breath. “Scars and all.”

She rose on her toes, closing the distance between their mouths with agonizing slowness, giving him every chance to pull away.

He didn’t.

The first brush of Euan’s lips against hers was gentle—almost tentative, as if he feared she might shatter. Moyra made a soft sound in her throat, pressing closer, and felt his control fracture.

His mouth opened over hers, no longer gentle but consuming—a desperate claiming that spoke of months of denial, of attraction fought and resisted until resistance became impossible. His hand tightened in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, and Moyra’s world narrowed to the heat of him, the taste of whisky and something darker, the solid strength of his body pressed against hers.

She’d never been kissed before. Her father had paraded through their hall, hoping to make advantageous matches, but she’d always managed to avoid their advances. Nothing could have prepared her for what came—nothing like the way Euan’s mouth moved over hers with devastating precision, coaxing responses she hadn’t known she was capable of giving.

His scarred hand moved from her waist to cup her jaw, thumb stroking her cheekbone with such tenderness it made her chest ache even as his kiss turned more demanding. She felt the contrast—brutal strength held in check by iron will, passion leashed but barely, the fine tremor in his frame that said he wanted more but wouldn’t take it.

Moyra’s hands found his bare chest, tracing over muscle and scar tissue and heated skin. She felt his heart hammering beneath her palm, felt the sharp inhale when her fingers traced the edge of that terrible scar, felt the way he shuddered as if her touch undid him.

“Moyra.” Her name came out rough against her mouth, half prayer and half curse. “We should—I cannae⁠—”

“Dinnae stop.” She kissed the words against his lips, then his jaw, then the scar that traced his neck. “Please dinnae stop.”

He groaned—a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and claimed her mouth again with renewed intensity. His hands mapped her body through layers of fabric, exploring curves with careful reverence even as his kiss turned hungry, almost desperate. She felt him walking her backward until her spine met the stone wall, felt the full length of his body pressed against hers in ways that made her entire being scream for more.

That was dangerous. Everything about it was impossibly dangerous—kissing a man who should be her enemy, wanting someone whose clan had feuded with hers for generations, feeling safe in arms that could break her as easily as protect her.

But she didn’t want to stop.

Euan’s mouth left hers to trace her jaw, her throat, the sensitive place behind her ear that made her gasp and arch against him. His breath came harsh and fast against her skin, his hands trembling slightly as they framed her face, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“Ye’re so beautiful,” he breathed against her throat. “So bloody beautiful it makes me forget every reason this is a terrible idea.”

“Maybe it’s nae such a terrible idea.” Her fingers traced the strong line of his spine, feeling muscles shift beneath scarred skin. “Maybe⁠—”

A sharp knock at the door made them both freeze.

“Me laird?” Niall’s voice came through the wood once again, apologetic but urgent. “The Council’s demanding an audience. They’ve heard about the attack, about Lady Moyra’s attempt tae leave. They want answers.”

Reality crashed back like cold water. Moyra felt Euan tense against her, felt the moment his laird’s mask slammed back into place even as his hands lingered on her face.

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he called back, his voice steady despite how his chest still heaved against hers.

“Aye, me laird.”

Footsteps retreated. Silence fell, broken only by their harsh breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.

Slowly—reluctantly—Euan stepped back, putting proper distance between them. His grey eyes blazed with emotions she couldn’t fully read, his mouth slightly swollen from their kisses, his chest still bare and marked with the evidence of a lifetime spent fighting.

“I need tae—” He gestured vaguely toward his discarded shirt. “The Council. They’ll want explanations.”

“What will ye tell them?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

“The truth.” He pulled the shirt over his head, wincing slightly as fabric caught on his injured shoulder. “That ye’re under me protection. That anyone who questions that answers tae me personally.”

“Even when it costs ye the Council’s support?”

“Even then.” He moved to the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. When he looked back, something fierce and possessive blazed in his eyes. “That kiss changed naething about what I promised ye, Moyra. But it changed everything about what I’m willing tae fight fer.”

Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the ghost of his touch burning against her skin and the taste of him still on her lips.

Moyra sank onto the bench and tried to process what had just happened.

She’d kissed Euan MacLeod.