Page 88 of The Merciless Laird
He searched her face with the thoroughness he gave everything that mattered. He looked for hesitation, for the held breath, for the flinch of the past. He found none of it. What he found was her, unarmored, decided.
He brought his free hand up slowly and tucked a loose strand of hair back from her face. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone. He felt her breath shift, not a brace, but a soft, loose release.
"Aye," he said quietly. "They have."
He drew her down.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls of the chamber.
The scent of peat smoke mingled with the faint musk of dried lavender strewn across the furs, the air thick with the kind of quiet that only existed when two people had been circling each other for too long.
Matilda stood close to him. The wind howled against the castle walls, a restless, hungry sound, but she barely heard it. Her pulse was louder.
“Ye’re tense,” he murmured, his voice rough, the burr of his accent wrapping around the words like a caress.
His hands settled on her waist, where she had put it few seconds ago, fingers digging in just enough to make her breath hitch.
Not painful. Possessive.
Matilda exhaled slowly, the sound unsteady. “Aye. And if ye keep daein’ that, I’ll only get worse.”
A chuckle vibrated against her neck as he brought his face closer. The wool of his kilt brushed the backs of her bare legs. She’d already shed her stockings, the fire’s heat too much, the anticipation more so. His lips grazed the shell of her ear, his breath hot.
“Then let me help ye with that.”
His hands slid down her arms, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of her.
When his fingers found hers, he laced them together, pulling her flush against him. The hard ridge of his manhood pressed into the cleft of her thighs, unmistakable even through the layers of fabric between them.
They clenched. She could feel how wet she was, the slick heat between her legs growing with every drag of his lips along her neck.
“Ye’ve been drivin’ me mad fer weeks,” he growled, his teeth scraping her earlobe before he sucked it into his mouth.
The sharp sting of the bite sent a jolt straight to her core. “Every time ye walk into a room, every time ye look at me with thosedamn eyes,” His hands slid up, palming her breasts through the thin linen of her shift, thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked, aching. “I’ve been wanting tae dae this fer a long while.”
Matilda arched into his touch, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Then why wait?”
His answer was a growl, low and feral, then he kissed her. The kiss was nothing like the stolen, chaste ones they’d shared before. It was hunger, it was need.
His tongue plunged between her lips, claiming her, and she met him stroke for stroke, her nails digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. He tasted like whisky and sin, the kind of flavor that lingered, that made her want to lick every inch of him just to chase it.
Ivar broke the kiss only to tear her shift over her head, the fabric ripping in his haste. The cool air hit her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his eyes as he took her in. Her heavy breasts, the dark pink of her nipples, the way her ribs rose and fell with every ragged breath. His calloused hands cupped her, thumbs circling her nipples until she whimpered, her back bowing.
“Highland gods, Matilda,” he groaned, his voice rough as gravel. “Everytime I see ye, all I can think about is how perfect ye are.”
She didn’t let him admire her for long. Her fingers fumbled with the brooch at his shoulder, then the belt at his waist, her need making her clumsy.
She pulled the kilt away, and then there was nothing between them but skin and heat. His manhood jutted out, thick and flushed, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
She wrapped her hand around him without thinking, her thumb smearing the wetness over the swollen crown. He hissed, his hips jerking into her grip.
“Ye keep daein’ that, lass, and this’ll be over before it begins.”
Matilda smirked, stroking him again, slower this time. “Who says I’m done?”
Ivar’s control snapped.
