Page 56 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Why?" The word came out breathless.

"Because I've been losin' me mind thinkin' about ye." His forehead dropped until it nearly touched hers. "Because every time I close me eyes, I see ye in that bath. Because I cannae stop wantin' things I have nay right tae want."

Her hands came up, gripping his forearms for balance. "Lachlann⁠—"

"So tell me." His breath ghosted across her lips. "Tell me ye feel it too. Tell me I'm nae the only one who's burnin' from this."

The last of her restraint crumbled.

"Aye," Alba whispered. "Aye, I feel it."

Something fierce and wild flashed in his eyes. "Say it again."

"I—"

"Say it."

"I feel it." Her fingers tightened on his arms.

His mouth crashed into hers.

The kiss was nothing like Alba had imagined during all those years of secret longing. It wasn't gentle or tentative or sweet.

It was desperate.

Lachlann's hand fisted in her hair, angling her head as his lips moved against hers with urgent hunger.

His other arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against his body. Heat radiated from him—the sweat-slick warmth of his skin through the thin linen of his shirt, the solid strength of muscle beneath.

Alba gasped against his mouth and he deepened the kiss immediately, his tongue sweeping past her parted lips.

The taste of him flooded her senses—salt and man and something uniquely him that made her head spin.

She pressed closer, her hands sliding up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the flex and release of muscle as he held her. One of her palms found bare skin where his unlaced shirt had fallen open, and the contact sent fire racing through her veins.

And his, apparently. Lachlann groaned, low and rough, and the sound vibrated through her entire body.

His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, trailing heat down to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Alba's head fell back, a soft sound escaping her throat that she barely recognized as her own voice.

"Christ," Lachlann breathed against her neck. "The sounds ye make, lass."

His hand slid from her waist to her hip, fingers spreading possessively across the curve. Even through layers of fabric, the touch burned. He pulled her tighter against him, and Alba felt the full evidence of his desire pressing into her belly.

Heat pooled low in her stomach, liquid and aching and entirely new.

"Lachlann," she gasped.

He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers.

They'd gone dark, pupils blown wide with want. His chest heaved with each breath, and she could see the rapid pulse beating in his throat.

"Still think I dinnae mean it?" His voice was wrecked. "Still think I'm just bein' braitherly?"

Alba shook her head, unable to form words.

"Say it." His hand tightened on her hip. "I need tae hear ye say it."

"Nay." Her voice came out hoarse. "I dinnae think that."