Page 67 of The Highlander's Chosen Wife
“Declan…” she breathed, her voice trembling.
He drew back slightly, brushing his thumb across her lower lip. “Aye, love?”
Her eyes fluttered open, meeting his. “Take me,” she said softly.
His arms circled her, pulling her against him. She felt the solid strength of him, his chest against her.
“I thought I’d forgotten how to feel,” he murmured, voice low. “But ye’ve reminded me. Every time ye smile, every time ye speak me name.”
He threw back the covers and hungrily pushed her nightshift up her body. Isabelle felt her skin come alive under his touch. She lifted her arms so that he could pull the fabric off of her completely.
He kissed her naked breasts, slowly, his lips soft and lingering against her. She responded with a sigh, her fingers threading through his hair.
Their movements were unhurried, filled with the ache of connection long denied. Her hands slipped to his shoulders, down the curve of his back, feeling the solid warmth beneath the linen.
His lips brushed her neck, the line of her collarbone, kissing her all over before coming to rest at her waist. His hand moved between her thighs allowing his thumb to press against her rosebud.
She released a gasp.
Each touch sent ripples through her, each breath he took matched her own. “Ye tremble,” he whispered.
“Aye,” she breathed. “Because of ye.”
He smiled against her skin. “I’ll be gentle, lass.”
“I dinnae want ye to be gentle,” she whispered, her voice full of yearning. “I just want ye.”
Her words seemed to undo him. He kissed her again, a kiss that spoke of every emotion he’d buried, hunger, fear, tenderness. With that he placed his body between her thighs.
She felt the plunge of his hard manhood entering her. Her hands grabbed at his back. He moved, sliding inside of her with a groan.
Isabelle clung to him, her arms winding around his neck. Their bodies moved together as if drawn by some silent rhythm, not of passion alone but of belonging.
“Ye’re mine, Isabelle,” he whispered against her lips, his breath ragged.
“Aye,” she murmured. “And ye’re mine, Declan.”
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, and for a long moment, they simply moved together. She wiggled under him as his throbbing flesh explored her. She opened her thighs wider, allowing him to slide in deeper.
“Oh, ye feel like heaven, lass,” he murmured.
The fire crackled in the hearth, the soft wind outside brushing against the stone walls. Isabelle felt as though the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them, two hearts beating in unison.
Her hand lifted to his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
He caught her fingers and kissed each one softly. “Ye dinnae ken what ye do to me,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“I think I do,” she said, smiling faintly. “For I feel the same.”
The warmth of his body seeped into hers, and she felt utterly safe for the first time in years. Every wall she had built, every wound she carried, seemed to fade beneath his touch. The weight of his strength pressed her into the mattress.
He placed his hand around her thigh and pulled it up her body. “Ye’re me peace, Isabelle,” he said softly. “And me storm.”
Her heart ached at the tenderness in his words. “Then may ye never wish for calm,” she whispered, and leaned up to kiss him again.
Their lips met once more, slow, deep, and full of promise. His hands slid over her—her shoulders, the curve of her arm—grounding her in the moment. She breathed in his scent, her body trembling beneath his touch, and she knew there was no turning back. She felt the familiar pulse growing in her belly.
“I feel it once more. ’Tis happening...” she whispered.
