Page 66 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

“I prefer men who are...” She paused, watching his jaw clench. “Who are less... overwhelming. Less intense. Men who dinnae fill every room they enter or make me forget how tae breathe properly when they stand too close.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It sounds safe.” Her voice wavered despite her best efforts. “It sounds like nae constantly feeling off-balance and confused and⁠—”

“And what?” His thumb traced her lower lip now, making coherent thought impossible. “Attracted? Because that’s what this is, lass. This thing between us that ye keep trying tae deny.”

“I’m nae denying anything. I’m simply saying⁠—”

“Ye’re saying I’m nae yer type while looking at me like ye want tae devour me whole.” His voice went rough, almost harsh. “Ye’re lying, Moyra MacKenzie. And we both ken it.”

The accusation snapped something in her chest. “Fine. Ye want the truth?”

“Aye. I dae.”

“The truth is ye terrify me.” The words came out in a rush, too honest to take back. “Ye make me feel things I dinnae want tae feel. Ye make me imagine a future I cannae afford tae hope fer. And ye stand there asking me tae marry ye like it’s simple when nothing about this is simple!”

His eyes darkened. “Moyra⁠—”

“I’m nae finished.” She pressed her palms against his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath her hands. “Ye want tae ken me type? Me type is a man who daesnae make me question everything I thought I knew about meself. Who daesnae make me want things I cannae have. Who daesnae⁠—”

Euan’s mouth crashed against hers, swallowing whatever else she’d been about to say.

For one heartbeat, Moyra froze. Then something inside her broke completely, and she was kissing him back with a desperation that bordered on violence. Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as her mind screamed that this proved his point entirely.

His large hands found her waist, lifting her until her back pressed against the door and her legs wrapped instinctively around his hips. The position brought them flush together, and the heat radiating from his body made coherent thought impossible. She felt every hard plane of muscle, every controlled breath, every barely restrained tremor that said he wanted this as badly as she did.

“Still nae yer type?” The question came rough against her mouth.

“Shut up.” She kissed him again, harder this time, trying to erase the smug satisfaction from his voice.

It worked. His control cracked further, one hand moving from her waist to tangle in her hair while the other gripped her thigh hard enough to leave marks. She felt him shudder when her teeth caught his lower lip, heard the groan he couldn’t quite suppress when she rolled her hips against his.

That was exactly what she’d been trying to avoid—that overwhelming need that made everything else fade to background noise.

“Moyra.” Her name came out strangled. “We need tae⁠—”

“Dinnae stop.” She traced kisses along his jaw, down his throat, feeling his pulse hammer beneath her lips. “Please dinnae stop.”

Euan’s grip tightened, his body going rigid with barely controlled restraint. “If we dinnae stop now, I willnae be able tae⁠—”

“Good.” She found his mouth again, kissing him with a desperation that bordered on madness.

He made a sound low in his throat—half surrender, half warning—before his mouth opened over hers completely. The kiss turned consuming, all pretense of gentleness abandoned as he claimed her with a thoroughness that made her entire being sing.

Her back hit the door with enough force to rattle it in its frame. Euan’s body pressed against hers, pinning her there with a delicious weight that made her arch into him. One of his hands slid from her hair down her spine, tracing every curve with possessive precision. The other moved to her breast, thumb circling through layers of fabric until she gasped into his mouth.

“Still think I’m nae yer type?” He sounded smug, smiling against her lips.

“Ye’re the worst.” But her hands betrayed her, already fumbling with the laces of his shirt. “Absolutely insufferable.”

“Aye.” His mouth traced her throat, teeth grazing skin that made her whimper. “But ye want me anyway.”

She did. She wanted him with a desperation that terrified her. Wanted his hands on her skin, wanted to feel the heat of him without barriers, wanted to lose herself in this overwhelming need until nothing else mattered.

Her fingers finally found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward with impatient hands. She felt his stomach muscles clench beneath her touch, heard his sharp inhale as her palms traced scarred skin.

Then his hand caught her wrist, stopping her progress with gentle firmness.