Highland Storm by Ranae Rose Page A

a slight run in the fabric of his shirt, the sodden material seeming to disappear beneath her grip as she felt she was dissolving beneath him—reduced from a living, thinking being to an entity of pure sensation and fierce craving.
    He cried out and she joined him as he pushed her to climax. Her core contracted wildly around his cock, seizing it and urging him to stay, not to withdraw from her body, ever. She didn’t fight her body’s response. Instead, she yielded to it, arching herself beneath him and breathing raggedly as intense spasms made her exclaim wordlessly between gasps.
    His seed rushed into her channel, hot and wet, just as she’d imagined it. Her body milked it from him, gripping him tighter and tighter with each wave of pleasure that washed over her. Having him inside her was so much better than grasping at nothing as she came. She gasped, dug her nails too hard into his shoulders and cried his name.
    When they both were finally still, the only sounds were their heavy breathing and the distant cry of a lark. Alexander remained inside Isla, propped on his elbows, his pulse beating in her core, urging her own heartbeat to fall in time. It did, and perpetuated the feeling they had become one being. He withdrew slowly, pausing to kiss her softly on the lips. The head of his cock brushed her folds, setting off a last, smaller wave of toe-curling sensation. She sighed as he left her completely and the cold air hit her bare skin again.
    He wordlessly retrieved her shift and dress, bringing them to where she sat on the ground, her hair surely wild and her left leg cautiously extended. She raised her arms at his urging and he pulled her shift down over her head, slowly feeling his way over her curves as he clothed her. He did the same with her dress, pulling it down over her body and smoothing its skirts against her thighs. Isla found the sensation of his fingers fluttering against her sides and thighs just as exciting as she had before they’d made love. She’d thought doing so would make her stop craving his touch, but it hadn’t. Though she was sexually satisfied—how could she not be, when her core felt weakened in the wake of such intense relief, and hot with his seed?—she still wanted to feel his skin against hers, to hear the beating of his heart. To be close to him.
    After draping her cloak around her and tying it beneath her chin, he paused to refasten his sporran, then lifted her from the ground, cradling her and turning back in the direction they had come from, where the horses waited less than a mile away.
    “Wait,” she said.
    He paused, his expression soft as his eyes met hers.
    “I’d like to visit the spring again, for just a wee bit before we leave.” Her throat was slightly sore from so much gasping, and her voice quiet, but she knew he’d listen.
    He lowered her at the pool’s edge, and she stared into the clear water, seeing the speckled rocks that rested at the bottom, smoothed by many years of submersion. She bowed her head. This time, she prayed a silent prayer of thanks.
    “So, is it true?” he asked when she turned to face him again.
    She followed his gaze to where it rested on the water. “Aye, it’s true. A prayer sent from the bank of the Spring of Saint Himelin cannae but come true.”
    He rested a hand on her shoulder, pausing thoughtfully before saying, “Aye.”
    “So, you agree?” she asked.
    He nodded.
    “What was it ye prayed for, then?”
    He bent so that his lips brushed her ear when he spoke, sending a shiver racing down her spine. “I prayed that I might feel your lips against mine again, without forcing them there.” He kissed her lightly, and her head span a little as she tasted his lips and remembered witnessing his silent pleading by the spring’s edge. That… this was what he’d prayed for?
    “Come home with me now,” he said, scooping her up from the ground, “and I’ll see ye dried and your foot tended to.”
      She let her head rest against