Page 61 of The Laird who Craved her

"Careful, lass," he warned, his tone dangerously low.

"Or what?" Claire challenged further, her resolve hardening. "Or what will ye do, Finn? Send me away sooner?"

That was the mistake.

The next thing, before she could process the sudden shift, her back was pressed hard against the cold, unyielding stone of the wall. His large, calloused hands braced on either side of her head, caging her completely as the raw, volcanic heat radiating off his body rolled over her in suffocating, intoxicating waves.

"And ye wonder why I'm sending ye away," Finn muttered roughly, his face hovering mere inches from hers.

Claire's heart hammered against her ribs, her breath hitching as he shifted his hand, sliding it down from the wall to rest firmlyon her waist. But he didn't stop there. His thumb found the bare sliver of skin just above her hip, where her shift had ridden up, and he pressed a slow circle that sent a shudder cascading down her spine. The stone bit into her shoulder blades, but she couldn't feel the cold anymore, only the brand of his palm searing through the thin linen.

"Ye tremble," he observed, his voice dropping to a dark, velvet murmur against her ear. His other hand came up, not to cage her, but to trace the line of her collarbone with the barest tip of his finger, trailing a path of fire up the column of her throat until his thumb hooked gently under her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "Is it fear, Claire? Or is it something far more dangerous?"

She swallowed hard, feeling the bob of her throat against his touch. "Both," she admitted, her voice a fractured whisper.

"Good," he breathed, and the single word was a rough caress.

He leaned in, not to kiss her mouth, but to press his lips to the corner of her jaw, just below her ear, where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. He lingered there, tasting the salt on her skin, his breath hot and uneven, while his hand on her waist tightened, drawing her pelvis flush against the hard, rigid strength of his thighs. The rough wool of his kilt scraped against her bare legs, a maddening friction that made her gasp.

His mouth drifted lower, dragging a torturous path down the side of her neck. He paused at the hollow of her throat, his tongue tracing the delicate dip there. Claire's fingers flew to his shoulders, clutching at the leather cuirass as her knees buckled.He caught her instantly, his arm banding around her lower back like iron, pulling her up until she was balanced on the balls of her feet, practically draped against him.

"Finn..." she gasped, his name a plea torn from somewhere deep in her chest.

"I ken," he growled against her skin. And then his teeth grazed the tender junction of her neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, just a sharp, possessive scrape that made her cry out and arch into him. Her fingers scrabbled at the fastenings of his cuirass, but they were utterly useless against the leather straps. She had never touched a man like this, had never felt the hard, living heat of a warrior's body pressed so intimately against her own. Her hands shook with the unfamiliarity of it, with the sheer overwhelmingnewnessof every sensation.

Finn stilled beneath her fumbling touch. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes searching her face with a sudden, sharp awareness.

"Claire," he said, and his voice had shifted, still rough, still hungry, but now threaded with something softer. "Have ye ever…"

She shook her head before he could finish, a hot flush of embarrassment rising up her neck to stain her cheeks a brilliant crimson. "Nay," she whispered, the word barely audible. "I have never... there has never been..."

He exhaled slowly, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to cost him something vital. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, at the trembling of her lips, the desperate way her fingers still clung to the leather of his cuirass as if he were the only anchor in a storm.

Then, very deliberately, he released her waist. His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs stroking the burning heat of her cheeks with a tenderness that made her eyes sting.

"Look at me," he commanded, but his voice was gentle now, a low rumble that invited rather than demanded. She obeyed, her gaze lifting to meet his. "I am going to touch ye now," he said, each word slow and deliberate. "But I need ye to understand something first. I willnae hurt ye. I willnae rush ye. And if at any moment ye want me to stop, ye say the word, and I will. Do ye understand?"

She nodded, a jerky, uncertain motion.

"Good," he murmured. "Now I am going to take off this cuirass, and I want ye to watch. I want ye to see what I am doing. Nothing will happen that ye do nae see coming. Aye?"

"Aye," she breathed, and the word felt like a promise.

He stepped back just enough to shrug off the heavy leather, letting it fall to the floor with a dull clatter. Beneath it, his linen shirt clung to the broad planes of his chest, damp with the heat of their shared exertion. He watched her as she watched him,her eyes tracing the hard lines of his shoulders, the way the thin fabric stretched across the muscles of his arms.

"Ye can touch me if ye wish," he offered, his voice a low invitation.

Claire reached out with a trembling hand, her fingers hovering over his chest for a long moment. Then, slowly, she pressed her palm flat against him. The heat of his skin seared through the linen, and she felt the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hand. He was sosolid, so unyielding, and yet he stood perfectly still beneath her touch, letting her explore at her own pace.

Her fingers curled into the fabric, and she tugged gently. "Can I..." she started, then faltered.

"Can ye what?" he prompted, his voice patient.

"Can I feel your skin?"

The question hung between them, fragile and intimate. Finn's jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek, but he nodded once. He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, baring himself to her completely.

Claire's breath caught in her throat.