“I never saw you…” he remembered.
In the meadow, they’d remained partially clothed. She had been shy and concerned they’d be found.
She’d been right to worry.
“This is not the first time I’ve seen you,” Daisy admitted, her voice quiet, but steady.
Alastair’s breath hitched. When?
But even before he could ask, realization struck.
“While I slept,” he murmured.
She nodded. “I had no choice. But I…” Her teeth caught her lower lip, and his gut clenched at the sight. “I didn’t avert my eyes like I probably should have.”
Sweet, funny, alluring, and delightfullynaughty—Daisy.
He huffed a laugh, low and rough. “You are forgiven.” He took a step closer, his voice dipping. “Because, if it had been you…” He shrugged.
Understanding flared in her gaze, something knowing and just a little wicked.
She reached behind her nape, fingers deftly loosening the knot that kept her hair pinned up. With a single shake of her head, the thick, silken braid unraveled, slipping over one shoulder, draping down between her breasts—plump, high, and so maddeningly tempting that his hands clenched at his sides.
“Daisy…” His voice was raw, thick with longing. “You are sure?”
She stepped closer, tilting her chin up, her expression wide open. “Tomorrow is never guaranteed.”
God help him, he couldn’t argue with that.
For an instant, he thought he caught a flicker of something—doubt, fear—dancing in the depths of her eyes. But then, her lips curved into a slow, sultry smile, melting away the shadow before he could grasp it.
Locking his gaze with hers, he tackled her onto the bed, his body caging hers, bracing his weight so she was safe beneath him. “That day, in the meadow,” he murmured, his breath teasing her lips, “I remember thinking you were the most beautiful person to walk this earth.”
Her fingertip traced a slow, languid path along his arm. “And now?”
The question held the air of teasing, but there was something else beneath it. Something fragile.
His jaw tensed, and he forced her to see the truth in his eyes. “Even more beautiful.”
And then he kissed her—deeply, thoroughly—before abandoning her lips to slide lower, his mouth mapping her throat, her collarbone.
“Alastair,” she gasped, trying to pull him back up, but he had other plans.
Today, he would remind her—remind them both—that she had always been his. And he would always be hers.
Alastair was a man on a mission, one he would not abandon until he had mapped every inch of her, until she knew—body, mind, and soul—that he belonged to her.
He moved lower, settling his chest between her thighs, resting his chin against the soft dip of her belly.
A single fingertip trailed downward, featherlight, teasing the most sensitive part of her.
The only time they had made love before had been their first—rushed, urgent, fueled by youth and longing. He’d been too eager, more than a little clumsy.
Not this time.
This time, he would worship her.
He pushed himself up, kneeling on the bed, drinking her in. The sun coming through the window kissed her bare skin, painting her in gold.
