Page 62 of The Laird who Craved her

She had seen men shirtless before, of course, laborers in the fields, soldiers training in the yard. But she had neverbeenallowedto look, never been permitted to drink in the sight of a man's body with this kind of aching, reverent curiosity. His chest was a landscape of hard muscle and old scars, silver lines tracing his ribs, a puckered mark just below his collarbone, a long, pale streak curving around his side. He was beautiful and terrifying and so utterlymalethat it made her knees weak.

"Ye are staring," he observed, and there was a hint of dark amusement in his voice.

"I am," she admitted, her cheeks flushing again. "I have never... I did not know..."

"Did nae ken what?" he asked, stepping closer, his bare chest now inches from her own.

"That a man could look like this," she whispered. "That skin could feel so..." She reached out, her fingers brushing tentatively over his pectoral, feeling the hard muscle shift beneath her touch. "...so warm. So alive."

Finn made a low sound in his throat, a rumbling half-groan that vibrated through her palm. "Lass," he murmured, his voice strained, "if ye keep touching me like that, I will lose what little control I have left."

Claire snatched her hand back as if burned. "I am sorry…I did nae mean to…"

"Dinnaeapologize," he cut her off, catching her wrist before she could retreat. He lifted her hand and pressed her palm flat against his chest again, holding it there. "I want ye to touch me. Ineedye to touch me. But I am trying to be gentle with ye, and it is taking everything I have. Do ye understand?"

She nodded, her eyes wide.

"Now," he said, releasing her wrist and stepping back into her space, "I am going to touch ye again. And this time, I want ye to tell me what ye feel. Can ye do that?"

"Yes," she whispered.

His hand found her waist again, but this time he was slower, more deliberate. His palm slid around to her lower back, pressing her forward until her body was flush against his chest. The shock of skin against skin—her thin chemise the only barrier between them—made her gasp. She could feel every ridge of his abdomen against her belly, the hard plane of his chest against her softness, the desperate heat of him seeping through the linen.

"Is this all right?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear.

"Yes," she breathed.

His other hand came up to cup the nape of her neck, tilting her head back. He watched her face intently as he lowered his mouth to her throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the frantic pulsethere. She whimpered, her hands flying to his shoulders, her nails digging into the hard muscle as her knees buckled again.

He caught her, his arm tightening around her back, and lifted her easily until her legs wrapped around his waist. The sudden shift of position brought the hard length of him pressed against the most intimate part of her, and she cried out at the jolt of sensation that shot through her core.

"Shh," he soothed, his voice a low rumble against her throat. "I have ye. I will always have ye."

He carried her away from the wall, cradling her against his chest as he crossed the room. She barely noticed the movement, too consumed by the feeling of his bare skin against hers, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms, the way his breath ghosted hot and uneven across her collarbone.

Then she felt the soft give of furs beneath her back, and she realized he had laid her down on his bed.

He hovered above her, braced on his forearms, his dark hair falling to frame his face. The morning light streamed through the narrow window, gilding his skin in gold and shadow, and she thought she had never seen anything so beautiful.

"Claire," he said, and her name on his tongue was a prayer. "I am going to take off your bodice now. I want to see ye. All of ye. But if ye are not ready, tell me. I will wait. I will wait as long as ye need."

She stared up at him, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Her entire body was trembling, with anticipation, with a desperate, aching need she did not fully understand. She had never been touched like this. She had never beenseenlike this. And yet, looking into his dark, reverent eyes, she felt something shift inside her. A trust so deep and profound it stole her breath.

"I am ready," she whispered. "I trust ye, Finn."

He closed his eyes briefly, as if her words had physically wounded him. When he opened them again, they were blazing with a fierce, possessive tenderness that made her stomach flip.

"Ye have no idea what that means to me," he said, his voice rough. "I will spend the rest of me life trying to deserve that trust."

Then he reached for the laces of her bodice.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle, working the tangled knots with a patience that belied the raw hunger in his eyes. He loosened each lace slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against her ribs with every movement. She shivered beneath his touch, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps.

Finally, the bodice fell open. He pushed the fabric aside, baring her to his gaze, her chemise, damp with sweat, clinging to the curves of her breasts, the swell of her hips. He stared at her for a long, breathless moment, his chest heaving.

"Ye are so beautiful," he said, and the words were torn from him, raw and honest. "I have dreamed of this. Of ye. Of the way ye would look beneath me."

Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat.