Page 102 of Of Heather and Thistle
The word barely escaped before it caught in her throat, tangled in the storm of everything warring inside her. Panic. Longing. Fear.
She shook her head, hands pushing weakly at his chest—but he didn’t move.
Hewouldn’t.
Flynn’s voice was quiet, almost calm. But something in it cracked around the edges—like holding back was costing him something real.
“You don’t get to run from this.”
His hand slid lower, slow and deliberate, resting at the curve of her hip. His thumb traced a lazy circle, grounding and possessive.
“You don’t get to run fromme.”
Her breath stuttered in her chest. She wanted to fight him. Wanted to hurl words sharp enough to wound.
To rebuild every wall she’d ever lived behind and slam thedoor on whatever this was.
But then his mouth found hers again—hungry, aching, devastating—and every single defense she’d ever built crumbled beneath it.
There was no resistance.
Not anymore.
His kiss devoured her hesitation, burned through her fear until there was nothing left but heat and surrender.
Flynn’s hands traveled lower, skimming the delicate curve of her back, pausing at the hem of her dress.
His fingers grazed her skin—soft, reverent. A whisper of heat that made her shiver.
Heather gasped, her breath catching as his lips brushed just above the neckline of her dress—light, teasing kisses that made her skin feel too tight. Her back arched instinctively, body straining toward him. Every place he touched lit a fire beneath her skin.
His hand curved around her waist, holding her steady as he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
Blue. Blazing. Bare.
“Tell me,mo chridhe,” he whispered again, his voice barely holding together. “What keeps ye from lettin’ go?”
His gaze—searching, searing—cut straight through her.
Every wall she’d built, every instinct to flee, began to crumble beneath the weight of his stare.
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
The words lodged somewhere in her throat, swept away by the rising tide of want and something deeper.
Her body softened against his, no longer rigid with fear but pliant with need—her apprehension unraveling into something far more dangerous: desire laced with vulnerability.
Flynn’s fingers traced the line of her hip, then drifted lower, coaxing a tremble from deep within her. Fire bloomed where he touched, bright and consuming.
His mouth skimmed along her jaw, and when he spoke, it was a molten whisper that made her knees weaken.
“Let me teach your mind what your heart already knows.”
The words vibrated through her—low, raw, resolute.
One hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair as he drew her closer. The look in his eyes—hungry, reverent, possessive—devoured her whole.
In one fluid motion, Flynn lifted her. Her breath caught as he carried her with startling ease, setting her down atop the cool, smooth surface of the kitchen counter. The quiet thud echoed through the space, punctuated only by the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat.
