Page 64 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“I have ye,” he said against her throat. “I am nae going anywhere.”
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails biting through the linen of his shirt as his fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles. He watched her face the entire time, watched the way her lips parted and her eyes fluttered shut. Her breath came faster and faster until she was panting against his chest.
“Please,” she whispered.
He did not know what she was asking for, but he gave her more anyway.
He pressed into her harder, moved faster, watched the tension build in her body like a storm gathering on the horizon. Her back arched, her head fell back, and a broken cry tore from her throat as she shattered against his hand.
He held her through it, gathering her close as her body trembled and shook. He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing the same air. Her fingers clutched at his shirt like he was the only thing keeping her upright, and in that moment, he felt like he might be.
“Lass,” he said, his voice rough with want and wonder. “Ye stir the beast I keep chained inside me. Ye have nay idea what ye do to me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sorcha had never felt anything like this in all her life. Not fear, though there was fear there somewhere beneath the surface, a distant awareness that she was standing on the edge of something she did not fully understand.
It was not duty either, though duty had been her compass for so many years that she had almost forgotten there was any other way to navigate the world.
This was want. Pure and terrifying and so much bigger than she had ever imagined.
This felt so good.
Her body still hummed from his touch, from the way his fingers had moved inside her with such confidence and care. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her skin, the pressure and the rhythm and the way he had watched her face as she fell apart against him.
“Rowan,” she breathed, and her fingers slid into his hair of their own accord, tangling in the dark waves at the nape of his neck.
He groaned softly at the sound of his name on her lips, and the vibration of it traveled through his chest to where she was pressed against him.
His hand drifted down her waist, then up again, tracing the curve of her hip and the dip of her ribs as though he was trying to memorize her by touch alone.
She was trembling now, her whole body shaking with the aftermath of what he had done to her and the anticipation of whatever might come next.
It was all so overwhelming, the heat of him and the smell of him and the way he looked at her like she was something precious and dangerous all at once.
“More,” she whispered before she could stop herself, the word slipping out between her parted lips. Her forehead rested against his chest, and she could feel his heart pounding beneath her cheek, fast and strong. “Please, Rowan. I want more.”
His arms tightened around her for a moment, pulling her closer, and she thought he might lift her onto the desk or carry her to the chair by the fire or simply take her right there against the maps and the ledgers and the scattered wood shavings.
But then something changed.
His body went rigid beneath her hands, every muscle tensing at once like a bowstring pulled too tight. His hands, which had been moving so confidently over her skin, went still where they rested on her waist.
Nay…
She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at his face.
His jaw was clenched so hard that she could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His grey eyes, which had been dark with want just moments ago, had gone distant and cold, looking at something she could not see.
“Rowan?” She reached up to touch his face, her fingers brushing against the scar that ran from his brow to his cheek. “What is it? What is wrong?”
He caught her wrist, his grip gentle but firm, and lowered her hand back down to her side. He stepped away from her, putting distance between their bodies that felt like a chasm after the closeness they had shared.
What’s going on?
Sorcha swayed slightly where she stood, still dazed from the pleasure and confused by the sudden change in his demeanor. Her body ached for his touch, still hungry and aching, and she did not understand why he had stopped when everything had felt so right.
“Rowan,” she said again, and she hated the way her voice trembled, hated the vulnerability that crept into the word. “What happened? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”
