Page 68 of The Laird’s Sinful Secret

When his mouth reached the place between her thighs, Moyra’s breath caught. She’d heard whispered rumors about such acts, crude jokes made by men who thought women weren’t listening. But she’d never imagined⁠—

Her thoughts fractured as his tongue touched her, a single deliberate stroke that made her entire body arch off the bed. A sound she didn’t recognize ripped from her throat—something between a gasp and a sob.

“Euan—”

“Let me.” The words rumbled against her sensitive flesh, vibrating through her entire being. “Let me take care of ye.”

And then he was doing things with his mouth that made her forget everything except what she felt. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her as wave after wave of pleasure built and crested and crashed through her. She felt herself tightening, her body gathering like a bowstring drawn taut, her breath coming in desperate pants.

“Euan,” she gasped, his name the only word she remembered. “I⁠—”

His answer was to intensify his attentions, to add a finger carefully pressing inside her, and that was it. Her world shattered into a thousand pieces of light and color and sound, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain as she cried out his name and rode the waves until they finally subsided, leaving her limp and trembling and utterly undone.

Euan moved back up her body, gathering her against his chest as she shook with aftershocks. His arms came around her, holding her together when she felt like she might fly apart completely.

“Alright?” His voice was rough, strained in ways that told her he was affected too.

“Aye.” She buried her face against his chest. “I think that’s... more than alright.”

His chest rumbled with laughter, but there was strain beneath it. “Ye’ll be the death of me, lass.”

Moyra pulled back just enough to see his face, really see him. The firelight from the hearth highlighted the strain in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. She’d found her release while he remained wound tight, controlled, still fighting the battle against his own desires.

“Ye didnae...” She let the sentence trail off, heat flooding her cheeks.

“I willnae.” His voice was flat. Absolute. “Nae now. Today is about ye.” The look in his eyes said he was talking about more than just physical pleasure. About healing. About taking back what had been stolen from her. Today was about reminding her body that touch didn’t have to mean pain or confinement. Today was about pleasure without price. About trust. His hands traced her spine, his touch gentle despite the tension still thrumming through him. “Just let me hold ye.”

And that that was almost more overwhelming than the pleasure itself. The quiet intimacy of lying tangled in his arms with no expectations beyond that moment. No strategies. No politics. Just a man holding a woman, helping her remember what it felt like to be whole.