His hand was firm on her waist as the other slid up her thighs with deliberate slowness, savoring every shiver, every gasp. His fingers found the damp heat between her legs, and Iona cried out, her hips jerking forward without thought. He circled her with slow, maddening pressure, his thumb pressing just where she needed it most. He could feel that she was slick and swollen as he continued circling her.
“Frederick—” she gasped, her voice breaking, and he swallowed her sighs with another deep kiss as he thrust a finger inside of her at the same time his tongue slipped past her lips.
He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against her inner thigh as he leaned in, his breath hot on her skin. “Aye? Do ye like when I do that, lass?”
Her breath faltered, but she sighed “yes” softly against his lips.
His hand moved, slowly and intentionally, tracing the pattern and rhythm that he could tell she liked. He felt the way she responded, the way her body shifted toward his touch rather than away from it, and something in him sharpened in response.
The kiss changed again, less restrained, and more urgent.She is close.
Her hands tightened against him, her breath breaking in quiet, uneven rhythm as he continued, each movement deliberate, each pause purposeful. He did not overwhelm her. He did not lose himself entirely. But he did not hold back from her either.
Not now.
Her head tipped slightly as he guided her, his mouth moving against hers with a deeper pressure that drew a soft sound from her throat, one she did not seem to realize she had made. He felt it as much as heard it, and it pulled something lower and more dangerous from him in answer.
He steadied her again as her balance shifted, one hand firm at her waist, anchoring her without force. His fingers worked faster, circling, dipping, teasing until she was a trembling mess against him, her hips rolling in time with his strokes.
Frederick could feel the way her muscles clenched around his fingers, the way her body trembled, the way her breath hitched. He groaned into her mouth, his own arousal throbbing painfully against his kilt, but he did not stop.
Not when she was this close.
“Let go for me, Iona,” he growled against her lips, his voice rough with need. “There is a good lass.”
The words sent her over the edge. Her back arched, a broken cry tearing from her throat as her orgasm crashed over her,her body shuddering against him, her thighs trembling around his shoulders until her body went limp against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
He held her there, steady, his mouth still against hers, grounding her through it as the tension broke and softened into something quieter, though no less intense.
Iona remained close, her hands still at his chest, her breathing uneven but easing.
Frederick looked down at her, his expression altered in ways he had not yet decided how to name.
“Well,” he said quietly.
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“Well,” she echoed.
Neither stepped away.
Not yet.
17
Iona had not meant to wake as early as she did, yet once her eyes had opened, there had been no returning to sleep. The memory of the night before lingered in a way that made stillness impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again. The heat of his hands, the weight of his mouth on hers, the way he had watched her as though nothing else in the room had mattered. It made her chest tighten in a way she did not yet know how to manage.
She had risen before the rest of the keep had fully stirred, dressing with more care than she would have admitted to anyone. Even as she tied her laces, she had paused, fingers stilled at her bodice, wondering why it mattered. None of it should have, and yet it did.
By the time she entered the dining hall, the morning light had already begun to stretch across the long tables, catching in the worn grain of the wood and warming the stone walls. A few early risers murmured quietly amongst themselves, but her attention did not linger on them. It foundhimimmediately.
Frederick sat near the head of the table, speaking with one of the guards, his posture relaxed. There was no visible tension in his shoulders, no tightness to his jaw. He looked… at ease.
Sure enough, his gaze lifted, settling on her with a familiarity that made her stomach tighten.
“Ye are up early,” he said.
His voice carried easily across the small distance between them, low and unhurried, as though there was no one else present to overhear.