Page 103 of Of Heather and Thistle
The moment felt suspended—timeless.
Flynn reached for the hem of her sundress, his movements swift but tender, the fabric bunching easily around her waist.
Her bare legs brushed against his jeans, the heat of his body stark against the chill of the countertop.
His gaze flicked downward for the briefest moment, the sight of her skin undoing something in him. A guttural sound escaped his throat as his hand slid up her thigh—confident, reverent.
He leaned in slowly, the edge of his breath brushing her lips.
His fingers traced down her sides, a slow and deliberate path that left her skin tingling in their wake.
He never broke eye contact.
Never rushed. Never looked away.
Every move was purposeful.
Every touch saidyou’re mine.
Heather’s heart pounded, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum summoning something ancient. Her skin burned everywhere his hands lingered, every inch of her alive under his touch.
He didn’t rush.
Didn’t fumble.
Just moved with that same steady, devastating patience that had been undoing her since the moment he first touched her.
His fingers traced along the bare skin of her thighs as he knelt before her, reverent and unhurried. He pressed a kiss just above her knee—soft, lingering.
The scrape of his stubble dragged a gasp from her throat, the contrast of rough and tender sending a shiver racing up her spine.
He reached for the delicate lace of her underwear, fingers hooking beneath the edge of the fabric. And then—he paused.
His gaze lifted, meeting hers with intensity that stole her breath.
A silent question.
A final out.
But Heather didn’t flinch.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
Instead, she reached for him—her fingers threading through his hair, trembling, but sure. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, but her grip was steady.
That was all the answer he needed.
Flynn eased the lace down her thighs with agonizing slowness, the soft drag of fabric heightening every nerve,every ache. She clenched around nothing, her body coiled so tight she thought she might unravel before he even touched her.
His lips followed the path his hands had taken—kissing her hip, her inner thigh, everywhere but the place that ached for him most.
Feather light. Worshipful.
A torment she never wanted to end.
When he finally settled between her legs, his hands splayed wide over her thighs, grounding her, she let out a soft, broken breath—her head falling back against the cabinets with a quietthud.
