Page 78 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
She is nervous.
The thought should have made him step back, should have reminded him of all the reasons he needed to keep his distance. Instead, it pulled him forward one step, then another, until the space between them had shrunk to something dangerous.
“The gown,” he said, his voice low. “It suits ye.”
“Flora chose it.” Her words came too fast, tumbling over each other. “I wasnae certain about the color, but she said that?—”
“Flora was right.”
He stepped closer. Close enough to smell the lavender in her hair and the faint sweetness of whatever oil Flora had rubbed into her skin.
He could see the pulse beating in her throat, rapid and shallow.
I shouldnae. I should step back. I should walk away.
But his body did not obey. His body had stopped listening to him the moment he had seen her standing behind her brother at Sinclair Castle with her spine straight and her eyes fierce, refusing to flinch.
“The hunt,” he said, because he needed to say something. “I am ridin’ out with the men. It is tradition. We bring back the meat for the feast.”
“I ken.” She did not step back and did not look away. Her eyes held his, her pupils blown. He could hear her breath quicken. “Callan told me. He is going with ye.”
“Aye.”
“Be careful.”
“I will come back,” he promised. “I will always come back.”
He did not know why he said it. Perhaps because she looked afraid, or because he wanted her to know that someone would return to her, that she would not be left alone the way he had been left so many times before.
Sorcha nodded but did not speak.
He should leave. The men were waiting in the courtyard. Kerr was waiting somewhere among the guests. Every moment he stood here with her was a moment he was not doing what needed to be done.
But his feet would not move.
He reached for her before he could stop himself. His hand found her face, his palm cupping her cheek, and his fingers slid into the hair at the nape of her neck.
Her skin was warm beneath his touch, and he felt her lean into him, just slightly, a small surrender that made his chest ache and his breath catch.
She gasped.
The sound was soft, barely audible, but he heard it. He felt it against his palm when her lips parted. Her breath came faster now, and he watched the color rise in her cheeks, watched her chest rise and fall beneath the blue wool of her gown.
His body responded before his mind could intervene.
Heat spread through his hips and settled low in his belly. He felt himself harden against the wool of his breeches, the ache growing more insistent.
He was standing close enough that she could feel him if she moved, if she shifted her weight or pressed herself against him.
He wanted her to feel him. He wanted her to know what she did to him. But he did not pull her closer. He stood there with his hand on her face and his blood on fire and his body screaming at him to close the distance, and he did not move.
“Sorcha,” he said, his voice scraped raw by the effort of holding himself back. “I have to go.”
“Then go.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He dropped his hand. The loss of contact made him feel colder than the stone walls and emptier than the corridor stretching behind him.
He stepped back once, twice, putting distance between them that felt like miles.
