Holy Hell. His jack stood up long and hard. There was no uncertainty about its power to conquer a maiden. But instead of making her shrink away, the fire inside her flooded downward, making her throb.

He tipped her chin up with a finger, his mouth devouring any concern she might have. Their hands and mouths grew frenzied, and she grazed her fingernails across his taut arse. It was as hard and sculpted as the rest of him.

He growled something Gaelic in the back of his throat. “Bloody hell, aye,” he said. No clothing stood between them. No barriers forcing them apart. They were together, united in their quest for the pleasure consuming them.

“Touch me, Cain.” she whispered. “Touch me everywhere.”

Calluses on his palms, from swordplay and training, teased the softness of her skin as he stroked her backside, sliding lower still. She was caught between pressing backward into his hands and rubbing forward against his hardness. But she didn’t have time to consider the choice as he lifted her, setting her on the edge of the bed. It was high off the ground, so her legs dangled, spread apart around his hips.

She shivered as his gaze roamed over her bare breasts and stomach, down to the juncture of her legs. The only scrap of covering on her body were her white stockings, tied above her knees. The heat from his bold scrutiny fed her confidence until she cupped under her breasts. Cain’s lips parted as he watched her squeeze them, pinching the sensitive nipples.

“Aye, lass,” he whispered, the words spoken like a tortured hiss.

She lowered her gaze to his proud jack jutting upward between his rock-hard thighs. He was so large and strong, and she was so small and weak in comparison, but he didn’t make her feel that way. His passion, so evident, made her feel powerful and beautiful. She slid her hands along her own body, pressing open her thighs. His gaze dropped as she touched the spot between her legs.

Cain sunk to his knees, sliding his hands up her calves, massaging the muscles as he watched her fingers. She’d never felt so exposed and open before.

“Och, Ella,” he said. “So beautiful.” He met her eyes. “Can ye trust me?”

And in that moment, she did. He was not The Sinclair, first bloody horseman from God to bring doom to her clan. He was not a man whom she was supposed to lure in and kill. He was Cain, the man who listened to her ideas, the man who had made certain she wanted him with total honesty, the man who teased the flames in her body. She gave a nod, and he lowered his face between her thighs.