Page 95 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
He unfastened his breeches and pushed them down, and she saw him for the first time. He was thick and hard and ready, and her body clenched at the sight of him.
He lifted her easily, his hands gripping her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the soft furs, then climbed over her, his weight pressing her into the mattress.
“I love ye,” he said, then pushed inside her.
Sorcha gasped at the stretch, the way he filled her completely. He was so large that she felt split open, but the pain was fleeting, drowned by the pleasure that followed.
He went still, his forehead pressed against hers, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Tell me if it is too much.”
“It is perfect.” She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. “Move, Rowan. Please.”
He began to move.
Slowly at first, rocking into her with a rhythm that made her moan. He was watching her face, watching every expression, and she let him see everything. The pleasure. The love. The way he made her feel whole.
“Faster,” she begged. “Please, I need?—”
He thrust harder, deeper, and she cried out. His hand slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her sensitive bud, and he circled it in time with his thrusts.
The pleasure built again, higher this time, more intense. She could feel herself tightening around him, could feel the pressure coiling in her belly.
“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me when ye come, Sorcha.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him, at the man she loved, at the man who had saved her and protected her and shown her what it meant to be chosen.
“I love ye,” she murmured.
“I love ye too.” His thumb pressed harder, and his thrusts grew faster, more frantic. “Now, come for me. Come for me, Sorcha.”
She shattered again, and this time, he came with her, his body shuddering above hers, his face buried in her neck.
They lay there afterward, tangled together in the furs, their bodies slick with sweat and their hearts pounding in unison.
“Ye are me wife,” Rowan said, his voice quiet. “Me chosen wife. The woman I will love for the rest of me life.”
Sorcha smiled and pressed a kiss to his chest. “I love ye, Rowan MacLaren, and I am never lettin’ ye go.”
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
The low, golden light of the setting sun spilled through the window of the solar, painting the stone floor in deep, amber hues as dusk settled over the Highlands.
Sorcha sat in the chair by the hearth, though no fire burned in it today, her bare feet tucked beneath her and her growing belly resting against her thighs like a small hill she had learned to carry.
Her carving knife moved slowly, carefully, peeling thin curls of wood from the block in her hands. The shape was still rough, still finding itself beneath her fingers, but she could feel what it wanted to become.
A small horse, like the one she had carved for Rowan what felt like a lifetime ago, but smaller. Sweeter. Meant for smaller hands.
“Ma.”
She looked up.
Elspeth stood in the doorway, with Mr. Turtle clutched against her chest and her dark curls falling across her face in a tangled mess that no amount of brushing could tame.
“How many times must I tell ye?” Sorcha smiled and set her knife down on the small table beside her. “I am nae a ma. The baby isnae even here yet.”
“Ma.” Elspeth crossed the room with the determination of a general marching to war and climbed onto the chair beside Sorcha, wedging herself into the small space between Sorcha’s hip and the armrest. “Morag says ye are me ma now because ye married Da and ye are havin’ a baby and ye will live here forever and ever.”
