Page 90 of Of Heather and Thistle
Flynn stood there, watching her, waiting—not pressing, not pushing, just letting her decide. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That he was giving her the space to walk away. That if she said goodnight, he wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t try to convince her otherwise. Because he wasn’t like the others—wasn’t danger wrapped in charm. He was steady. Safe. And that scared her more than anything. Heather’s throat was dry. She should say goodnight. Turn around. End this here. But her fingers flexed at her sides. Because what if she let herself have this? Just once. Just for tonight. Her pulse was a steady drum against her ribs, the weight of his gaze heavy on her skin.
It had been so long since she had let someone get this close—too close. And she was so, so tired of pushing him away. Before she could stop herself, before she could think too hard about what she was about to do—“Do you want to… do you want to walk me up? To my room, I mean.” The words were out before she could stop them. Her heart slammed into her ribs, her breath catching—oh God, had she really just said that?
Flynn’s expression flickered—surprise, then understanding, then something deeper, darker. “Are you sure?” He let the question hang in the air—no pressure, just the space for her to choose. He wasn’t pushing her, just standing there, allowing her to figure it out alone. Heather hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough for that final chance to run—
But she didn’t take it.
She lifted her chin, exhaling a slow, measured breath. “I think so.”
Heather stood there momentarily, looking up at him, feeling the pull of their chemistry, the undeniable spark between them. She could feel the uncertainty swirling inside her—was this just a fling? A distraction? Or something more?
Her mind raced, thoughts of her past, of the pain she’d carried, all swirling together. She didn’t want to rush this; she didn’t want to jump into something only to be hurt again. But then again, how long could she keep running from the things that felt good and made her feel alive?
“Alright then.” Flynn’s voice was gentle now, his teasing tone replaced with something quieter, almost reverent. He stepped back, offering her his arm with an exaggerated little bow. “Lead the way.” Heather rolled her eyes at the gesture—but linked her arm through his anyway. Together, they walked into the Thistle Haven Inn, the cozy warmth wrapping around them as they crossed the threshold. Byrdie, perched on the windowsill in the small lobby, glanced at them before curling back up into her patch of moonlight, unimpressed.
“Well,” Flynn murmured, a slow, teasing smile curving his lips, “I didn’t see this evening coming. Though, I cannae say I’m complaining.”
Heather’s lips twitched despite herself. “Don’t get too cocky,” she said, though her voice wavered slightly, betraying the storm still swirling beneath her calm.
“Too late for that,” Flynn replied, his grin widening, though something earnest in his gaze softened the banter. “You’ve officially ruined me now, lass. I might never recover.”
She rolled her eyes, ignoring how her heart fluttered at hiswords. “You’ll manage.”
They climbed the creaky staircase in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Flynn let her set the pace, his hand brushing against hers occasionally, his presence solid and reassuring. The hallway was too quiet. When they reached her door, she hesitated, her hand resting on the doorknob. She turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. There was no pressure or expectation—just warmth, patience, and infuriating, irresistible charm.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
“For… I don’t know.” She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “For being here, I guess.”
Flynn smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Anytime, lass.” The space between them shrank. Heather didn’t even know who moved first, but suddenly, Flynn was right there—close enough for her to feel his warmth and his breath brush against her lips. She should stop this. She knew that. But she didn’t step back. Didn’t move away. Instead, her breath came shallow, her pulse unsteady as Flynn’s fingers skimmed her jaw, tracing fire where he touched. Her body tilted forward before she could stop it, before she could remind herself that letting this happen meant letting him in.
And then—
His gaze dropped to her lips.
Heather sucked in a sharp breath, and he felt it. His fingers curled at her waist, his grip tightening. He had seen it. The exact moment she wanted him. And she knew—knew—he wasn’t going to let it slip past them this time.
He lifted a hand, cupping her jaw with aching tenderness, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. It was a question,an offering. She answered by closing the gap between them.
Heather was falling. And she didn’t care if she hit the ground. His hands tangled in her hair, his breath rough against her lips, the heat of his body pressing against hers, and oh—
Oh, she wasgone.
Flynn groaned into her mouth.
One hand slid to her waist, the other drifting down her spine, anchoring her to him until there was no space left—no breath, no thought, only heat.
Heather whimpered, the sound tearing something loose in him. His teeth caught her bottom lip. His hips pressed into hers. And—God—she needed more. She neededallof him.
This was reckless. Dangerous.
And she was already too far gone.
She melted into him, her body yielding like it had been waiting for this—for him—all along.
He was solid and warm, steady as stone, but this? This felt like freefall.
