Page 63 of The Laird who Craved her

Claire arched into him with a broken cry, her hands tangling in his hair. He kissed a slow, torturous path down her chest, stopping just above the neckline of her chemise. His tongue traced the edge of the fabric, teasing the sensitive skin where her pulse fluttered wildly.

"Finn, please," she gasped, not knowing what she was begging for.

"Please what?" he murmured against her skin. "Tell me what ye need, Claire."

"I do not know," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I have never—I do not know what to do."

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. The heat in his gaze had softened, tempered with a fierce, protective tenderness.

"Ye do not have to do anything," he said. "I am going to take care of ye. All ye have to do is feel. And if it becomes too much, ye tell me. Aye?"

She nodded, her eyes glistening.

He smiled then, a slow, devastating curve of his lips that made her heart stutter. Then he lowered his head again, and his mouth found hers.

This kiss was different from the ones before. It was slow, languid, a deep and deliberate claiming that stole the breath from her lungs. His tongue swept into her mouth with a gentle rhythm, coaxing her to respond, to follow his lead. She did, her own tongue tentatively meeting his, and the sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.

His hand slid down her side, his palm skimming over the curve of her hip, and he pressed her chemise up inch by agonizing inch. The cool air kissed her bare thighs, and she shivered as his fingers traced the sensitive skin just above her knee.

"I am going to touch ye here," he murmured against her mouth, his hand sliding higher, slower,torturouslyslow. "Right here." His thumb brushed the inside of her thigh, so close to where she ached, and she gasped into his mouth. "Is that all right?"

"Yes," she breathed, her hips instinctively lifting toward his hand.

But he did not give her what she wanted. Not yet. Instead, he drew his hand back, his fingers trailing up her stomach, over the thin linen of her chemise, until he reached the peak of her breast. He circled it slowly, deliberately, his thumb brushing over the straining fabric in a rhythm that made her whimper.

"Ye are so responsive," he observed, his voice a dark, velvet rasp. "Every sound ye make. Every shiver. I feel it all. Do ye know that? Do ye know what it does to me?"

"Tell me," she gasped, her hands fisting in the furs beneath her.

"It makes me want to devour ye," he said, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "It makes me want to take me time, to learn every inch of ye until I know your body better than me own."

His hand left her breast and slid down again, this time finding the hem of her chemise. He pushed it higher, baring her legs, her hips, the soft curve of her belly. She was trembling violently now, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she did not stop him. She did not want to stop him.

His fingers found the junction of her thighs, and he paused there, his eyes meeting hers.

"Claire," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I am going to touch ye now. Here." His fingers pressed lightly against her, through the thin barrier of her smallclothes, and she gasped at the electric shock of sensation. "This is where I am going to make ye feel good. This is where I am going to worship ye. Are ye ready?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, please…"

He pressed harder, his thumb finding the hidden peak of her desire through the damp linen, and she cried out, her backarching off the furs. He watched her face as he circled slowly, rhythmically, his movements deliberate and sure.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let go for me. I have ye. I will always have ye."

The pressure built inside her, a coil tightening with every stroke of his thumb. She had never felt anything like this, had never known her body could sing so brightly under a man's touch. She clung to him, her nails raking down his back, her cries muffled against his shoulder as he worked her higher and higher.

"Finn, I…something is…" she gasped, her hips bucking against his hand.

"Aye," he growled against her ear. "I ken. Let it happen, lass. Let go. I have ye."

And she did.

The wave crashed over her, a pleasure so intense it blinded her, stole her breath, shattered her into a thousand brilliant pieces. She cried out his name, her body arching off the bed as the convulsions wracked her, and he held her through it all, his arms wrapped tight around her, his voice a low, soothing rumble in her ear.

When the waves subsided, she collapsed against him, trembling and breathless. He cradled her against his chest, his hand stroking her hair, his lips pressing tender kisses to her forehead.

"Ye did so well," he murmured. "So perfect. My brave, beautiful lass."

She blinked up at him, her eyes hazy with pleasure, and saw that he was watching her with an expression of such raw, aching tenderness that it made her heart clench.