Page 59 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
Sorcha lifted her chin. “That doesnae mean ye must always.”
“Sorcha—”
A thunderclap cut him off.
The horse in the nearest stall started, rearing back with a panicked whinny. Sorcha stumbled toward the sound, reaching for the beast’s halter, but her foot slipped on the wet straw.
She fell, or started to. Rowan’s arm caught her around the waist, hauling her against his chest. The impact knocked the breathfrom her lungs. She pressed her hands flat against his bare skin to steady herself.
Oh…
His heart pounded beneath her palms. Or perhaps that was her heart.
They stood frozen, her body flush against his, her fingers spread across the warmth of his chest. Water dripped from the roof onto both of them, cold against her heated skin.
Rowan’s arm tightened around her waist. His jaw clenched, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them.
“Ye are determined to throw yerself into danger, are ye nae?” His voice was rough.
“Only when ye are near to catch me.” The words came out before she could stop them.
His breath hitched.
And then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was not gentle or slow. It was something else entirely. Hungry and desperate, as though the last thread of his restraint had finally snapped.
Sorcha rose onto her tiptoes, her fingers sliding into his wet hair and pulling him closer. She had no thought for propriety now. No thought for duty or obligation or any of the walls she had built around herself.
There was only him. The warmth of his skin beneath her palms. The sound he made against her mouth, a low groan that he swallowed back immediately.
He backed her against the stall door, one hand bracing beside her head, the other still firm on her waist. He pressed her into the wood, and she felt every inch of him, every hard line and solid muscle.
This is what I didnae ken I was waitin’ for.
His mouth left hers to trail kisses along her jaw and down the column of her throat. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, a soft sound escaping her lips.
“Rowan…”
He pulled back at the sound of his name, just far enough to look at her, and she opened her eyes. His chest heaved. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and she saw the war raging behind them.
Want.
Fear.
Want again.
Her hand rose before she could think, her fingers brushing the scar that ran from his brow to his cheek.
“Ye daenae have to stop,” she whispered.
His jaw tightened. “Sorcha…”
“I am yer wife.” She traced the scar, her touch feather-light. “I am nae afraid of ye.”
That isnae entirely true. I am afraid of how much I want ye. But that is different.
He caught her wrist and lowered her hand from his face. His eyes held hers for a moment, before they shuttered.
