Page 71
“Alright if I move over?” he asked, voice low.
She nodded. He shifted slowly, that careful, quiet grace of someone used to small spaces and loud elements—then sank beside her. Not too close. Just enough.
Morag, disgruntled at the shift in balance, gave them both a look of royal offence, jumped off the sofa, then padded out of the room.
“She’s a tough crowd,” Jenn murmured, smiling.
“She’s clearly territorial. I’d feel threatened too if I were her.”
There was that flash again—that dry humour under his reserve. The smile that came a second too late but meant more when it did.
Jenn tucked one leg beneath her, body angled toward him slightly now. The pink book was still in his lap, open but forgotten.
“You know,” she said, nudging him lightly with her foot, “I don’t think your hero is going to tell you what to do next.”
His mouth twitched. “Depends how creative they get with kitchen utensils in the next chapter.”
She laughed—but it caught in her throat when he turned to face her more fully.
The flickering firelight danced across his features. There was nothing overt in his expression, no sudden shift, but everything felt closer now.
His knee brushed hers. His fingers curled loosely around the mug still in his hand, and hers itched to reach over, just to feel that warmth.
“You alright?” he asked softly.
Jenn nodded, but her voice came out softer than she meant. “Just… taking it in. It’s nice. Having someone here like this.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at her. The kind of look that made her skin buzz and her thoughts stutter.
“I like being here,” he said finally. “With you.”
Jenn’s breath caught. And this time, when his hand brushed hers—light, tentative—she didn’t move away. Neither of them rushed. There was no need. The moment stretched like melted sugar—slow, sweet, inevitable. His fingers slid over hers, thumb tracing lightly across her knuckles, and it was ridiculous how intimate that felt. How grounding. How present.
Jenn shifted closer. So did he. Her leg pressed against his now, her shoulder just grazing his arm. And still they didn’t rush. It was as if they were both waiting for something wordless to pass between them—a signal that it was okay. That the world had tilted in their favour, if only for this night.
Ruairidh set their mugs aside. Turned fully toward her. And when he touched her cheek—just the lightest brush of his fingers against her skin—it felt different. Like they’d crossed some threshold.
His thumb lingered near her jaw. “Jenn…”
She closed the distance before he could say anything else.
The kiss was gentle at first. Not hesitant, but sure. Not frantic like after The Beiradale or the times after that. No rushing, no racing. Just warm mouths, shared breath, the delicious friction of slow discovery. When she exhaled, he deepened it—not with urgency, but with reverence. As if this time mattered differently.
Jenn shifted in closer, her hands finding his shoulder, his arm, the curve of his neck. He felt strong beneath her touch, but relaxed. Unhurried. When he pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against hers, he said nothing. He didn’t have to.
The fire crackled. The wind howled.
And Jenn felt, for the first time in a long time, like she wasn’t just sheltering from the storm. She was sharing it.
Jenn leaned in, brushing her lips against his—soft, slow, exploratory. He tasted faintly of hot chocolate and something warmer, something purely him. The heat between them curled low and steady, simmering rather than surging. His hand settled at her waist, anchored and sure, fingers flexing against the curve of her hip through the knit of her jumper. Her hands slipped into his hair, feeling the softness give way to warm, deliberate pressure as he deepened the kiss—not rough, not demanding, just… present.
Ruairidh’s thumb skimmed beneath the hem of her jumper, dragging along bare skin. He pulled back slightly, searching her face. “You want this?”
Jenn nodded, already breathless. “Yes. But… slowly.”
That smile—crooked, a little shy, entirely devastating—lit up his face. “Aye. Slowly.”
They’d already had the conversation. She was back on contraception, and tonight she wanted nothing between them. They undressed each other in soft fits of laughter and murmured sighs, her jumper and bra tossed over the arm of the chair, his shirt shrugged off and left crumpled on the rug. The rest of their clothes followed. He trailed kisses down her neck, slow and deliberate, pausing at her collarbone like he was memorising her by feel alone.
