Page 251 of Auctioned to the Cruel Highlander
He looked up at her, big and scarred and proud everywhere else in his life, and gave her the one thing she had never had from him without strain—humility.
“I am yers to do with as ye please,” he murmured. “Just please, believe me.”
Ava’s throat tightened so hard it hurt.
He had spent their whole marriage deciding, withholding, commanding, retreating. She had spent it trying to read him from scraps and silences. Now he was here on his knees, in her Castle MacLeod, asking for belief like a man who knew he had no right to expect it and wanted it anyway.
That broke the last of her anger open.
She went down too, the hem of her skirt spreading around her knees on the floor, and cupped his face in both hands before she could talk herself out of it. His skin was warm, and his eyes closed at her touch for one second, and she felt that all the way in her heart.
Then she kissed him.
The first contact held weeks of pain in it. It held relief, too. He made a rough sound low in his throat and caught her waist, careful even in hunger.
Ava kissed him harder. She wanted no more half-measures. No more waiting for the next wound. She wanted him to feel exactly what it had cost her to stay away and exactly what it cost her to come back to him now. Slowly, he lifted her to her feet and walked her to the bed. They didn't stop until the back of her feet hit the frame.
His hands slid up her back slowly, asking as they moved. She answered by shifting closer on her knees and parting her lips under his. The fire popped once in the fireplace. Outside the door, the castle kept its distance.
Ciaran drew back only far enough to look at her. “Ava.”
“Aye.”
“Are ye sure?”
She traced the scar at his throat with one fingertip and then laid her hand flat over his heart. “I am sure.”
That was all he needed.
He kissed her again, slower this time, and the pace undid her more thoroughly than force would have. His hands were firmer now as they trailed over her back with a slowness that made her almost groan. She felt every press of his fingers through the fabric of her dress.
He found the laces at her back without rushing.
Ava held still while he worked them loose, her face pressed into the side of his neck, her breath coming in short bursts. The dress gave, and he pulled it down her shoulders, letting the cool air kiss her skin.
She closed her eyes.
He let his hands do most of the work. His palms moved over her shoulders, her sides, the dip of her waist, as if he wanted to memorize all of it before he allowed himself to want more.
Ava felt heat gather low in her belly. She pressed closer and felt his breath quicken against her temple.
“Ciaran…”
“I ken,” he said.
His hand slid lower, and she felt him cup the heat between her legs through the thin linen of her shift. Her hips moved of their own accord, pressing into his touch.
He kept the pressure steady and slow, and she gripped his shoulders tight and said nothing. There was nothing left to say that her body was not already saying plainly. Even when he laid her on the bed.
When he slipped his fingers beneath the linen, she made a short, sharp sound.
He stroked her with intent, watching her face the whole time. She could feel that even with her eyes half-closed, the weight of his attention, the fact that he was taking note of every breath she drew and every shift of her hips.
Heat built fast, and she was close enough that her thighs had begun to tremble when he withdrew his hand.
Ava opened her eyes to find him looking at her with an expression that made her heart flutter.
She decided to reach for him this time around.
