Page 95 of Of Heather and Thistle
A slow, lingering smile played on Heather’s lips, a silent affirmation of the truth in his words. They laid tangled in thehush that followed, breath soft against skin, the heat between them still humming like an aftershock.
His arm slipped around her waist like it belonged there. She exhaled softly against his chest, fingers brushing his skin—still warm from everything they’d shared.
He let his hand drift along her hip, lingering at the curve of her breast. A quiet smile tugged at his mouth as he closed his eyes, holding on to the way she felt right then. The rise and fall of her breath matched his own, steady and slow beneath the hush of night.
Heather’s eyes fluttered shut, Flynn’s warmth anchoring her as she melted into his arms. His body curved around hers, steady and sure. The night sounds faded—the hush of wind through trees, the distant chirp of crickets—like the world itself had gone quiet just for them.
He dreamed of her laughter, the fire in her eyes, the way she challenged him without flinching. No woman had ever disarmed him like this—tender and sharp all at once. He didn’t just want her now. He wantedevery version of her,in every moment still to come.
She dreamed of his arms, of lips that knew every inch of her, of the way he held her like she wasn’t breakable—but precious.
Not just his touch.
Thefeelingof him.
Safe.
Seen.
Wanted.
Like she was someone worth staying for.
And she knew she wouldn’t survive it when it all fell apart.
Chapter 27
Heather stirred, the sheets cool beside her. Her fingers brushed the empty space where Flynn had been, and her stomach clenched. A slow, sinking weight settled in her chest—cold and unwelcome. The bed was too big, too empty. Her fingers curled into the sheets, searching for lingering warmth, but there was none.
Of course it was empty.
She sat up so quickly, blankets tangling around her legs, her pulse hammering in her ears. What had she expected? That he’d stay? That last night had meant something more than a moment stolen from reality? She should’ve known better.
A floorboard creaked downstairs, followed by the soft thump of a door closing. Heather froze, her breath catching in her throat. Footsteps climbed the stairs, slow and unhurried. A second later, the door pushed open, and there he was.
Flynn.
His dark hair was mussed like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times on his way back. He had a brown paper bag tucked under his arm and a takeaway coffee cup in each hand. His blue eyes softened the moment they met hers.
“Mornin’, mo chridhe,” he murmured, his voice deep and smooth like honey.
Her composure shattered.
“I thought you might still be sleeping,” he said softly, stepping inside. “I didn’t mean to wake ye.”
He lifted the bag. “I got you a coffee and a pastry. I figured you might be hungry.”
She stared at him, her throat tightening. It was too much—too kind, too thoughtful, too easy. She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t know how to hold onto something that didn’t already feel like it was slipping through her fingers.
Flynn frowned, setting the coffee on the nightstand before sitting at the edge of the bed. “Did ye think I left?”
Heather swallowed, her fingers tightening in the sheets. She should say something—anything—but her throat tightened around the words.
Finally, she forced a hollow laugh. “Wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
His jaw ticked. “Aye. Well, I didn’t.”
She exhaled slowly, staring at the wall instead of him. The weight of his presence and last night’s warmth still lingering between them was too much. Her heart hammered. For a split second, she almost let herself believe it.
