Page 93 of Of Heather and Thistle
Every touch, every gasp, every press of their bodies was a spark thrown onto a growing fire.
And neither of them wanted to put it out.
Flynn’s hands roamed her body like a man starved, mapping every dip, every curve, with aching reverence. He cupped her breasts through the delicate lace of her bralette, his thumbs circling her nipples until they strained beneaththe sheer fabric, drawing a soft gasp from her lips.
His movements were slow, deliberate, as he reached behind her for the clasp. His fingers grazed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. The air between them was charged—thick with tension, anticipation, hunger.
Finally, the straps slid from her shoulders, the lace slipping free.
Heather didn’t look away. Her cheeks were flushed, her chest rising and falling as she held his gaze. There was no fear in her now—just desire, and something rawer beneath it. Vulnerability. Trust.
Flynn exhaled sharply as her bralette fell to the floor. His eyes swept over her, dark and wide, reverent and wrecked.
“Christ,” he breathed. “Ye’re even more breathtaking than I imagined.”
His voice was hoarse, thick with awe. “Bloody hell, lass… you’re exquisite.”
Heather’s cheeks flushed, heat rising beneath his stare. No one had ever called her that—not really. The words lit something inside her, wild and unfamiliar.
For a split second, her old doubts tried to claw their way back in. Would he see the flaws? Would he change his mind?
But then she looked at him—really looked.
He wasn’t seeing imperfections.
He was seeing her.
And he looked at her like she was something rare.
Like he’d found a miracle and was afraid to breathe too hard in case it vanished.
She took a breath and chose boldness.
No second-guessing. No hiding.
Her skin buzzed with anticipation, every nerve alivebeneath his gaze. She wanted his hands on her. Wanted to feel something that didn’t ache.
“Please, Flynn,” she whispered, voice low and wrecked. She didn’t know if she wanted more or just wanted him. Maybe both.
He placed his finger to his lips, “Shh, patience,mo chridhe.” His fingers skimmed along the edge of her underwear, an agonizingly slow, deliberate touch. He held her gaze as he eased the lacy fabric down, tracing the path with his hands, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Every moment was unhurried, reverent—like he was memorizing her, piece by piece.
She was trembling now, every nerve on edge, her body aching—starving—for more.
“You like to take your time, don’t you?” she murmured, a slow smile curving her lips. “I can’t tell if you’re savoring this… or just testing how long I can take it.” She arched into his touch, her voice a low purr.
“Can’t it be both?” He murmured, his lips brushing just beneath her ear. “I like to do things properly, lass. Wouldn’t want to rush into something worth savoring.”
Her breath caught as his hands moved slowly.
Deliberately tracing fire across her skin.
Each touch curled heat low in her belly, winding tighter with every pass.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. He moved like a man with time to memorize her.
She should’ve felt exposed. Vulnerable. But with him?
She just feltwanted.
