Page 64 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
Even as he forced his thoughts to rest, he could not resist one last attempt at peace. “Ye ken this is unnecessary. I was only protectin’ ye.”
Dawn was slowly creeping its way into the day when he stirred, his body instinctively seeking hers in the near darkness. Even in sleep, he craved her warmth, the soft curves that had become as necessary to him as breathing.
His arm reached across the bed, his hand searching for the silk of her skin. When his fingers found her shoulder, bare beneath the thin chemise, heat shot through him. She was so close, so perfectly within reach. His hand skimmed down her arm.
"There's me bonnie wife," he whispered in her ear, his hand skimming down her arm. "Even angry, ye're still the most beautiful thin’ I've ever seen."
But instead of the reaction he expected, she shifted abruptly away from him, pulling the covers up over her head like armor.
Lachlan's hand hovered in the empty air where she'd been, his chest tight with frustration and something deeper—hurt, maybe. Or longing.
She was mine just yesterday. Respondin’ to me touch, moanin' me name. Now she acts like I'm her enemy.
He stared at the lump of blankets that concealed her, remembering how she'd looked by the lake—eyes dark with desire, lips parted as she'd begged him to touch her. The memory made his body ache with want.
"I could pull those covers away right now," he said, his voice carrying a hint of warning. "Make ye look at me. Make ye remember how good it is between us."
Still no response.
Something snapped in his restraint. In one swift movement, he grabbed the covers and yanked them away, then pulled her up to sit facing him. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in wild waves, her dark eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and something else entirely.
They stared at each other for a heartbeat, the air crackling between them, before he captured her mouth with his. She tried to pull back, her hands pushing against his chest, but her body betrayed her—and she soon melted into him.
When he finally broke the kiss, she was breathless, her pupils dilated with desire mingling with anger.
"Cannae resist yer husband, can ye, lass?" he murmured against her lips.
She looked up at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. "Ye think ye can just... just do what ye want whenever ye please?"
The words were meant to sound defiant, but her voice was breathless, and her hands had somehow tangled in his shirt instead of pushing him away.
"When me wife responds like that? Aye, I do," he said, but then reality crashed back. He had responsibilities. The sun would rise soon, and with it would come the endless demands of leadership. Border disputes with Clan Morrison that needed his attention, correspondence from allies, and training with his men.
"Damn the clan business," he spat, surprising himself with the intensity of the words. When had Erica become important enough to affect his duties? When had the need to touch her, to hear her voice, war with his obligation to his people?
His eyes held hers intently, before reluctantly, he released her. "This conversation isnae finished, Erica. Not by a long shot." With a frustrated growl, he rolled out of bed and began dressing. Each piece of clothing felt like another barrier between him and what he truly wanted.
Tonight I'll come back early. We'll have supper together, and I'll make her talk to me. Listen to me. Make her understand.
He paused at the door, looking back at the bed where she lay. Even furious with her, the sight of her there—in his bed, in his chambers—made something fierce and possessive unfurl in his chest.
"This isnae over, wife. I'll see ye soon." he said quietly to the silence, then left before his resolve could weaken.
By the time he finally climbed the stairs to return to their chambers, the castle had long since settled into its evening quiet. His stomach growled—he'd missed not just supper, but any decent meal at all.
The chamber was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the fireplace. He moved quietly, not wanting to wake her, but he could not help pausing to look at Erica.
By the gods, but she's beautiful.
Even in sleep, even angry with him, she was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen.
He undressed as quietly as possible. His shirt whispered against his skin as he pulled it off, and his boots made soft thuds on the floor. Every movement was careful, controlled, because he knew if she woke and pulled away from him again, he might actually lose what remained of his sanity.
"Ye missed supper," she whispered into the darkness. "Ye told me ye would be back for the evenin' meal."
He paused, sensing rather than hearing the disappointment underneath her words. "Clan business ran late, lass. There was trouble with at the border that couldnae wait."
She sat up slightly, and he could see her silhouette against the pale sheets. "I... I brought ye a plate. In case ye were hungry when ye returned."
