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The corner of Jamie’s mouth lifts up ever so slightly as he rises to his feet. But when I drop to my knees before him, his smirk fades into something heavier—hungrier. His hands fall loosely to his sides, but tension rolls off him in waves as I undo the button on his jeans. My movements are unhurried; I want him to feel every second of this. With a little tug, I slide both denim and boxers down in one go. Jamie steps out of them, kicking them aside.
I pause for a brief moment, taking him in, and holy hell if the sight doesn’t leave me breathless all over again. It may be the second time I’ve seen him like this, but it’s no less striking. He’s big—thick and long—and impossibly hard already.
But as my eyes trail lower, something else catches my attention, something I didn’t notice last time: a long pale scar running along Jamie’s left thigh. A quiet reminder of what he’s been through.
I reach out instinctively but halt when Jamie stiffens ever so slightly.
“Does it hurt when someone touches it?” My voice is soft.
He shakes his head, though there’s a vulnerability in his expression that tugs at me. “No. It’s . . . more that I don’t really let anyone see it. It’s not exactly something I show off.”
A faint touch of shyness colours his words—a surprising contrast to his usual demeanour—and it absolutely undoes me.
With deliberate care, I let my fingertips graze the scar lightly, tracing its length with all the tenderness I can muster. Jamie doesn’t flinch or pull away this time. Unable to resist any longer, I lean in and press soft kisses along the scar’s path—gentle pecks that linger just enough to let him feel them fully.
When I lift my lips away, Jamie exhales shakily, but I’m not finished with him yet. I trail kisses upwards, faint brushes of my mouth against his legs, teasing him without rushing towards what waits just above. Finally, when I reach him, I trace a path of kisses along the length of his shaft, lingering here and there until my lips find their way to the head. I press a featherlight against it then take him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around him in slow, deliberate circles. He takes a sharp inhale, then a deep, broken sound rumbles from him—a cross between a groan and a growl.
Before I can sink further, Jamie’s hand tangles in my hair, giving it the gentlest tug to pull me off him. I release him with a soft pop, licking my lips as I glance up through my lashes to meet his gaze. His eyes are molten—dark and hungry—but there’s something else there too, something softer that makes my chest tighten.
“Lass,” he says hoarsely, his voice low and strained. “Are you forgetting the part where we agreed to take this slow? How do you expect me to last when you go and do that?”
Grinning mischievously, I rise to my feet, sliding my hands over his torso as I do. My fingers trace lazy patterns across his skin—an idle swirl over a pec here, a light sweep below his ribs there—and I don’t miss the ripple of tension that rolls through him at my touch.
His gaze flicks down to where my fingertips wander. “Are you . . . thinking of painting me right now?” His lips twitch into an irresistible smirk. “Wow, you really do like that body-painting scene in Highland Legacy, don’t you?”
“Aye, well. . .” I tilt my head playfully. “What can I say? Your body is quite the canvas.”
Jamie arches an eyebrow, amusement sharpening his wicked smile as both his hands slide down to cup my backside. He pulls me firmly against him—his hardness pressing insistently against my belly—and the friction draws a soft gasp from me. His fingers dig into the curve of my arse just enough for heat to spark along every nerve ending.
“And what about your power-play kink?” I ask breathlessly, trying not to lose focus under the intensity of his touch. “Is it about you being in control? Or do you secretly prefer being at someone else’s mercy?”
He leans closer until his lips hover just above mine, his grin downright maddening. “A little bit of this,” he murmurs, “and a little bit of that.”
A quiet laugh escapes me at his evasive answer—or maybe just at how impossibly smug he looks while saying it. Going up on tiptoes, so my mouth brushes teasingly close to his ear, I murmur in the sultriest tone I can manage, “All right, then. Let’s say I buy a pair of handcuff, and on the morning of the Highland Games, I lure you into bed just long enough to tie you there.” My teeth graze the shell of his ear lightly. “Do you think anyone would find you before the Games are over?”
Jamie laughs—a low rumble filled with mirth and heat that vibrates through his chest and presses into mine—and bloody hell if it doesn’t send another ache racing through me. “You’re evil,” he says softly, but there’s admiration in his voice too. “Sass.”
The nickname falls from his lips like honey, and hearing it now—in such an intimate moment—floors me more than any smirk or teasing quip ever could.
Before I can even process how much that single syllable unravels me, Jamie bends down and captures my mouth again in another searing kiss that makes thinking impossible.
Without breaking contact with my lips, he scoops me up effortlessly—one arm firm beneath my legs while the other holds fast around my back—and carries me to his bed. He lays me down gently, then I reach out and pull him down onto the mattress beside me.
“Just so you know,” I say softly once our gazes lock again. “My period is over now.”
“Wouldn’t have made a difference if it wasn’t,” Jamie says simply with a shrug. “If you want me, Sass, I’m yours. Anytime.”
The sincerity behind those words is almost too much.
For one long moment neither of us moves nor speaks. We just lie there, gazing at each other as if trying to commit every detail to memory. Then Jamie’s hand begins its exploration, his fingers brushing over the curve of my hip before tracing the dip of my waist. His movements are slow and deliberate, igniting tiny sparks across my skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. I mimic his touch, sliding my hand over the flat plane of his chest where lean muscle shifts beneath smooth, warm skin. My fingers drift through the light dusting of hair there before skimming lower, tracing the ridges of his abdomen.
We remain like this for a while, mapping each other with careful caresses, until Jamie’s calloused fingers skim the inside of my thigh, brushing higher and higher—slowly, teasingly. When he reaches the heat between my legs, I gasp softly, my body arching involuntarily towards him. His eyes lock on mine, his mouth curving into the faintest smile as though cataloguing every hitch of my breath, every sound I make.
At last, he murmurs, “Your choice, Maisie.” His voice deepens, rich with promise. “My fingers? My tongue? Or my cock?”
The words alone are enough to set me ablaze. “Your cock,” I whisper. “I want you.”
Jamie nods once then slides a hand down to grip my thigh firmly, drawing it up and over his hip as he positions himself against me, both of us on our sides.
