“Aye.” His thumb traced her throat, lifting her chin. “Ye’re mine, Scarlett McLaren. And I’m yers, whether I wanted it or nae.”
The words left her dizzy. She wanted to argue, but the truth in his gaze silenced her. The pull between them was undeniable.
He lifted her easily, setting her on his lap, his hands resting at her waist. The closeness stole her breath. She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palms.
“I should tell ye to stop,” she murmured. “Aye. Ye should.”
She smiled faintly. “But ye ken I willnae.”
His laugh was soft, low, filled with something close to wonder. “I ken.”
Their foreheads touched again. The world outside faded away, no storm, no clan, no rules. Only them.
When his hand slid up her back, she arched into him instinctively. He kissed her again, slower, deeper, every motion deliberate as though he meant to memorize her. His calloused fingers brushed her jaw then the curve of her neck, leaving heat in their wake.
Scarlett’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. The tenderness between them grew from restraint, from everything they had not said. He trembled, not from desire alone but from the memory of almost losing her.
When he finally lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, she didn’t resist.
“Tell me to stop,” he said quietly.
Scarlett touched his face, tracing the scar along his jaw. “Nay,” she breathed. “Nae tonight.”
A shuddering breath escaped him at her soft “nay,” the last of his restraint crumbling into dust. The kiss, already deep, turned consuming. This was no longer a question but an answer. His hands, which had been so careful, so reverent, now moved with a new and thrilling purpose.
He laid her back against the furs, the coarse wool a stark contrast to the softness of his mouth as he slanted it over hers again. One of his hands cradled the back of her head while the other swept down her side, from the curve of her waist to the swell of her hip, mapping her through the layers of fabric that suddenly felt like an intolerable barrier.
“So many damn clothes,” he murmured against her lips, his voice a raw, husky thing.
Scarlett, her blood singing, her mind a haze of want, managed a breathless reply. “Aye… well… ye’re nae exactly… unburdened.” Her own hands fumbled with the fastenings of his tunic, her fingers clumsy and eager.
He let out a low, guttural sound that was half laugh, half groan. “Let me, lass. Before ye drive me truly mad.” He sat back on his heels, his gaze burning into her as his own hands went to the leather belt at his waist. The buckle gave way with a soft clink, and he tossed it aside, the sound followed by the rustle of his tunic as he pulled it over his head.
The firelight caught the planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle and old scars, the dusting of dark hair that trailed down his stomach. Scarlett’s breath caught. She had seen him bare-chested before but never like this, with the intent that hung so heavy in the air between them. His arousal was a clear, formidable line straining against the confines of his trousers, and a fresh, liquid heat pooled low in her belly.
“Yer turn,” he commanded, his voice thick.
He leaned over her, his fingers making quick, surprisingly deft work of the laces at the front of her dress. Each tug, each loosened string, felt like a small surrender. She could only watch, her heart hammering against her ribs, as he parted the fabric, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of her sternum. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her.
“Robert…”
“I ken, lass,” he soothed, his eyes dark with a shared fever. “I feel it too.”
He peeled the dress from her shoulders, down her arms, until she was left in only her thin linen shift. The cool night air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze. He looked his fill, his eyes tracing the outline of her body, the shadow of her nipples against the thin fabric.
“God, ye’re bonnie,” he breathed, the words filled with a reverence that belied the crude hunger of moments before.
He didn’t remove the shift yet. Instead, he lowered his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the fabric just over her breast. She cried out, her back arching off the bed, her hands flying to his shoulders to anchor herself. The damp heat of his mouth, the faint scrape of his stubble through the linen, was an exquisite torture.
“Please,” she begged, not even sure what she was asking for.
He understood. With a final, agonizingly slow pull, he drew the shift up and over her head, tossing it to join the growing pile of their clothes. And then she was bare before him, bathed in the fire’s glow.
For a moment, he simply stared, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The raw hunger in his eyes was tempered withsomething akin to awe. “Scarlett,” he whispered, her name a prayer.
Then his hands were on her, skin to skin, and she gasped at the contact. His palms were rough, calloused from sword and labor, but his touch was devastatingly gentle as he cupped her breasts, his thumbs sweeping over her taut nipples. A sharp, needy sound was torn from her throat.
“Ye like that?” he murmured, lowering his head to replace his thumb with his tongue.
