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The living Celtic knot is completely seamless. The midnight-cyan and molten gold threads don't spark or fray anymore; they pulse in a calm, unbroken circle that hums with quiet, immovable authority.
Lachlan lifts my wrist to his lips. He presses a long, reverent kiss directly over the sealed brand, his warm mouth making my breath hitch in my throat.
"Come," he whispers, standing and taking my hand.
He leads me into the steam.
The hot water hits my shoulders like a physical weight, washing away the tension, the dried mud, and the phantom smell of dead leeches. I lean back against the slick green slate wall, closing my eyes and tipping my head back into the spray, groaning at the sheer relief of it.
Lachlan steps into the stream, picking up an oversized bar of cedar-scented soap. He works it between his palms until a rich, thick lather covers his hands, then he steps into my space, trapping me between the stone wall and the heat of his body.
He starts at my throat.
His soapy palms glide over my skin, sliding down across my collarbones, tracing the slope of my shoulders. He washes the gray soot from my ribs, his thumbs skirting the undersides of my breasts, so slow, so thorough, that my breath turns into shallow, ragged gasps. Every brush of his calloused skin leaves a trail of liquid fire behind it.
"Lachlan," I breathe, my fingers digging into the wet muscle of his forearms.
"Hush, mo chridhe," he rumbles, spinning me gently around so my back is to him.
He lathers my shoulders, his hands kneading the tight knots in my neck, working down the valley of my spine until my hips lean back against the heavy, undeniable proof of his arousal. He is rock hard, thick and burning against the cleft of my thighs, weeping heat through the cascade of water.
He turns me back around to face him. His eyes are nearly all gold now, the amber irises burning like twin torches through the rising steam.
"Sit," he commands softly, nodding toward the wide slate bench built into the corner of the stall.
I step over, sinking onto the smooth, warm stone, letting the falling water strike my knees.
Lachlan drops to his knees on the river stones in front of me.
Before I can process what he’s doing, his large hands hook under the crooks of my knees, lifting my legs and resting them over his broad shoulders, opening me completely to the warm spray—and to him.
My breath catches in my throat. "Lachlan, wait—"
He doesn't wait.
He leans forward, his dark beard damp with water, and buries his mouth against me.
A high, broken sound tears out of my throat, my hands immediately flying to his wet hair, my knuckles turning white in the thick strands.
His mouth is hot, rough, and completely merciless. His tongue is broad, flattening against me in long, firm strokes that send lightning arcing straight through my lower belly. He doesn't hold back; he laps at me with a fierce, possessive hunger, drinking the water from my thighs and the slick heat gathering between them, his groan vibrating straight into my core.
"Lachlan—please—" I gasp, arching off the stone bench, my heels digging into his back.
He hums against my skin, the vibration dizzying, relentless. His thumbs press into my inner thighs, holding me wide open, his teeth grazing lightly against the hypersensitive center of me until my hips begin to rock against his mouth in a frantic, desperate rhythm.
The pleasure coils tight and fast, a heavy, suffocating ache that rushes through my blood, fueled by the ancient, electric hum of the bond singing in my veins.
"Look at me, Vivienne," he rasps, pulling back just an inch, his lips glistening with water and slickness.
I force my heavy eyelids open. He’s looking up at me from between my knees, his face flushed, his chest heaving, looking like a pagan god kneeling at an altar he intends to tear down.
He leans back in, his tongue swirling firmly against the swollen nub of my clit, and the world shatters around the edges.
A cry rips from my chest, my head falling back against the slate wall as the climax washes over me in relentless, crashing waves. My inner muscles contract around the empty air, pulsing in rhythm with my hammering heart, trembling so violently I can barely keep my hands in his hair.
Lachlan stays right there, drinking down every tremor, kissing my inner thighs as the aftershocks slowly fade into a sweet exhaustion.
He rises in the steam like a tidal wave.
