Page 104 of Of Heather and Thistle
It wasn’t just sex.
It hadn’t been for a long time.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Because this—this—was the kind of moment that left echoes. The kind that carved itself into memory and never let go.
Flynn’s voice, low and wrecked, broke the silence. Teasing, yes—but laced with something deeper. Something that sounded a lot like love.
“Mo chridhe…”
His lips brushed her skin, soft and sure.
“Let me show you what you mean to me.”
He lowered his head slowly, deliberately, his lips brushing the tender skin of her inner thigh. His tongue followed, drawing soft, teasing strokes that made her breath catch and her hips twitch forward, aching for more.
A moan slipped from her lips—quiet, helpless—as he trailed kisses along her thigh, slow and sinfully patient. Every press of his mouth was a promise, every pause a torment.
Her fingers tangled at the back of his neck, nails digging lightly into his skin as if she could anchor herself there—hold on as the world tilted beneath her.
The tension between them crackled like lightning waiting to strike. Her body was a livewire—every nerve a lit fuse, every breath a plea.
Flynn’s mouth hovered, lips brushing maddeningly close but not quite. His voice was a velvet rasp against her skin.
“Aye, that’s it, lass,” he murmured. “Don’t hold back. Tell me what you need.”
Heather’s voice trembled, breathless with want.
“You, Flynn,” she whispered, broken and bare. “I want you.”
A groan rumbled low in his throat—dark, wrecked, and so full of hunger it stole the strength from her legs.
“Good girl,” he whispered against her skin, the praise like a brand. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
He moved closer, his lips finding the soft, flushed heat of her. His tongue danced across the sensitive folds, a delicate caress that quickly became urgent. He lapped and licked. Explored and demanded. Her breath hitched in her throat. He lowered his head further, and the taste of her was pure ecstasy.
Her hips lifted instinctively, seeking him, chasing the wave that crested higher with every wicked stroke of his tongue. He worked her with maddening precision—slow, relentless, devastating—until thought dissolved and only sensation remained.
Each flick, each languid circle, sent tremors through her, coaxing breathless sounds from her lips she hadn’t known she could make. Her fingers fisted in his hair, her thighs trembling around his shoulders, her body arching into him—wordless and desperate.
She was unraveling for him. Coming apart thread by thread.
The air between them crackled with heat, her body trembling as he deepened the rhythm. A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through her core. She arched into him, breath hitching, pleasure winding tight.
Another flick of his tongue—and she shattered, a strangled cry catching in her throat as her body pulsed around the wave that crashed through her.
He didn’t stop. His mouth moved with steady reverence, drawing out every last tremor. Her body quaked beneath him, breath stuttering. When he finally looked up, his eyes found hers—dark, hungry, and full of awe.
Time slowed. The kitchen faded, leaving only the hush between them—soft breaths, flushed skin, the echo of everything they’d just shared. Flynn pressed a kiss to her neck, his touch gentler now, grounding her.
Heather leaned back against the counter, fingers still tracing the line of his jaw. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes locked on hers, quiet and steady.
A shiver ran through her—not from pleasure, but something deeper.
“I… I’m afraid,” Heather whispered.
Flynn reached for her hand, their fingers intertwining. His touch was gentle now, a stark contrast to the fire they’d just shared.
