Page 83 of Reclaimed By Her Scottish Duke

There was such naked amazement in his face that her teasing deserted her.

She touched his cheek. “Are you happy?”

His eyes came back to hers. “Rosaline.” His voice roughened. “I daenae have a word large enough for it.”

He bent and kissed her again. This time, the kiss deepened slowly, all the wonder of the moment still there beneath the hunger.

Rosaline worked loose the knot of his cravat and drew it free. Magnus shrugged out of his coat while she started on the buttons of his waistcoat, neither of them in a hurry.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the spot just beneath her ear, while the fabric loosened beneath his hands. Rosaline pushed his waistcoat down his shoulders and let it fall.

“You realize,” she murmured, “that we are going to have to become respectable, eventually.”

“Nay, absolutely nae,” he said, and kissed her again.

She laughed against his mouth.

He lifted his head, their gazes locking. “I love you, Rosaline.”

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, more urgent now, as he swept her up into his arms. He gently laid her down on the bed. Then his lips traced a fiery trail down her body until they found their way between her thighs. He nuzzled them apart and flicked his tongue against the inside of her thigh until he reached her bud. As his tongue swirled around it, Rosaline arched her back. He teased her closer to the brink before pulling back and slowly trailing kisses back up her belly.

Rosaline let out a mew of protest. “Magnus⁠—”

He cut off her protest by entering her, and her walls clenched around him. He slowly slid in and out of her, until she impatiently grabbed his hips and pulled him deeper.

“Are ye sure, lass? The bairn⁠—”

“Is fine.” She arched up and met his thrust.

He needed no further invitation. He buried himself deep inside of her, and she felt a wave of pleasure start at her toes.

“There.” The word tore out of him, rough and reverent, his forehead dropping to hers. “God, lass. There ye are. Ye feel—” He broke off, and a low, wrecked sound rumbled up out of his chest. “Ye’ve nae notion what ye do to me. None at all.”

She was learning. She felt it in the tremor of the arms braced on either side of her, in what it plainly cost him to keep himself slow and unhurried when she could feel how badly he wanted otherwise. He set a rhythm that was almost cruel in its patience, and with each thrust the wave climbed higher, and he watched her through all of it, his eyes dark in the firelight, murmuring the whole time.

“That’s it. That’s my clever girl. Let me see ye. Dinnae hide from me, nae here, nae ever.” His mouth moved against her throat, her jaw, the corner of her lips. “Look at ye, comin’ apart under me. Ye were made for this. Made for me. Say ye ken it, Rosaline. Say ye’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, and meant it to the marrow.

“Aye. Mine.” Something fierce and tender broke open in his voice. “And I’m yours, lass. All of me, God help ye. Now let go. Let go for me.”

With each thrust, it rose higher and higher until it crested and broke over her.

Her body shook as he took her. And when he spilled inside her, she collapsed under him, spent.

Afterward, she lay curled against him beneath the sheets, her cheek resting over his heart. His arm was wound around her, his hand slowly stroking up and down her back in the dark.

For a while, they said nothing.

Then Magnus murmured, “Do ye think it’ll be a lass?”

Rosaline smiled without opening her eyes. “I thought you were certain it would be a boy.”

“I was certain of nothing. I was merely expressing a preference.”

“You said he would need a pony.”

“A lass can have a pony.”