Her juices coated his mouth, spilling over his chin, clinging to his skin. He savored each drop, his tongue exploring her pussy’s outer lips, pressing against the tiny clitoris, consuming her sweetness.
He was downright shameless now, nibbling at the edges like a starved man, determined not to let a single shudder of pleasure escape. Every lick was better than the last, and he made a low, satisfied sound in his throat as he penetrated her with his tongue, like some kind of animal discovering a hidden treasure.
“Boyd!” she cried out, her scream echoing through the room as she shattered beneath him.
He watched her climax, her body arching, her skin flushed pink. The sight of her undone stole his breath. Her chest heaved, her stomach rippled, and she glowed with a beauty that made him ache.
She wasn’t the frigid English lady he had once hoped she’d be. She was perfect. More than perfect—a treasure.
His heart pounded. A warm, aching sensation spread through his chest, as if something was trying to break free from within him. He was tainting something pure, and the guilt stung.
He kissed her leg, petting her, memorizing every detail of her face. Knelt between her thighs, he lingered, fighting the urge to hold her close.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she reached for him. Her gaze was filled with wonder and a hint of awe. She bit her lower lip, a question forming on her expression before she stopped herself, waiting.
Damn it, don’t look at me like that. I can’t be what you think I am. You have no idea what I’ve planned. What I’m capable of.
A wave of nausea twisted in his stomach.
“You will make a fine wife for a gentleman someday, Beth.”
The words felt like acid on his tongue.
He pushed to his feet, his movements abrupt, trying to distance himself from the overwhelming need to make her his.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. The uncouth Scot who made her scream.
Her brows knitted together as she processed what he said. The silence suffocated him. “But not you?”
The room darkened, the warmth snuffed out.
Without answering, Boyd left, not trusting himself to look at her again.
Chapter fifteen
"A rogue who sets a trap for another must tread carefully, lest he find himself ensnared."The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd stared at the fountain, his head on the verge of exploding. The faint taste of prim Miss Croft lingered on his lips. No amount of Highland whiskey could wash it away. Her face—flushed, hopeful—haunted him. Even if he fled to his native land, the memory would follow.
Footsteps shuffled behind him, dragging him from his thoughts. He turned his head sharply, his pulse quickening, but it wasn’t her. Of course, it wasn’t Beth. After last night, she’d sooner face an executioner than him.
Mrs. Abernathy approached cautiously, as if nearing a bear’s den. Boyd must indeed look the part. “Mr. Sandeman, severalconfirmations have arrived. I wondered what time you’d like to serve dinner.”
“What?”
“For the neighbors. The gentry. The Winemakers you invited for the Christmas feast.”
The reminder hit like a punch. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon wafted from her. No doubt the kitchen had been working since dawn for this mockery of a celebration.
Tension coiled in his stomach, winding like a constricting vine. The revenge. Images of Croft’s sneer flashed through his mind, sharp as broken glass. The wound of humiliation remained raw, throbbing with the call for retribution. Could he do it? To appease the ache he’d nursed all these years, would he expose Beth’s vulnerability before a room full of winemakers? Humiliate her? Bile rose, burning the back of his throat.
Beth’s eyes surfaced in his mind—bright, trusting, and filled with something that tightened his chest. She had looked at him as if he were more than an uncouth Scotsman, as if there were worth in him beyond anger and ambition.
He would sooner face a firing squad than hurt his lass.
“Cancel it.”
Mrs. Abernathy blinked, startled. “What should I tell them?”
