Page 92 of Of Heather and Thistle
Then his hands slid—shoulders to arms to waist—drawing her into him as his lips found hers.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative. Then deeper. Hotter. Desperate.
Like a dam breaking.
Heather whimpered into his mouth, and that sound snapped something in him. His hand found her waist. His hips pressed forward. His mouth devoured hers like she was something to be claimed.
Her hands roamed his chest, feeling the heat under her palms, the strength of him. He was solid, immovable—and yet something about this felt wild and uncertain, like uncharted land neither of them had dared explore until now.
When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to hers. Bothof them breathless, trembling.
His lips trailed down her neck, his stubble grazing fire over her skin. Her fingers fisted in his shirt. She wanted him closer. Deeper. Everywhere.
Flynn’s hands found the zipper at her side. He hesitated, breath ragged at her ear.
“We can stop,” he murmured, voice low and aching. “Say the word, and I’ll walk out that door.”
Heather’s hands covered his. Steady. Certain.
“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered.
Flynn exhaled hard—like she’d just given him permission to breathe.
And then—everything else disappeared.
She barely registered the sound of her dress sliding from her shoulders. Only the heat of his hands, the weight of his body, the way his mouth claimed hers like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
He lifted her with ease, carrying her to the bed. Heather’s arms curled around his neck, a smile brushing his lips as she whispered his name.
Tonight, she wasn’t running.
She was his—completely, irrevocably his.
Flynn set her down gently, her feet still brushing the floor. But he didn’t pull back.
His hands stayed at her hips, thumbs circling slowly, like she was something to be unwrapped with patience and awe.
His gaze raked over her—hungry, reverent.
“I’ve wanted ye since the moment ye walked into my cottage,” he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw, her neck.
“I tried to be a gentleman… but ye ken, I saw every inch of you in that soaking wet outfit. ”
Heather moaned at his bold admission, arching into his touch.
“That lacy little thing ye wore that day…” Flynn’s voice dropped to a low rasp, thick with heat. “I’ve thought about it more times than I care to admit. How easy it would’ve been to slide it down… to see what ye were hidin’ beneath it. To touch. To taste.”
His words sent a fresh wave of heat curling through her. She could picture it—his hands, rough and reverent, slipping the straps down her shoulders. The way his breath would hitch, how his pupils would dilate with need as her skin was slowly revealed. He’d stare at her like she was a revelation. Like she was something holy.
“I want that too,” she whispered, her fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt. “I want you to touch me, Flynn.”
Flynn let out a guttural sound, something between a groan and a growl. His hips pressed against hers, his restraint fraying at the edges.
“Ye dinnae ken how much I want that,” he murmured, his voice trembling with need. “To feel your skin under my hands. To taste every inch of you. I burn for it, mo chridhe.”
Heather tugged him closer, mouth crashing into his in a searing, hungry kiss.
Their tongues tangled, breath hitching, hearts racing.
