Tavish gave a huffed laugh, kissed her chin, then her neck, then lower, his mouth branding her skin like ink on parchment.
"You mean the one where I lose my sanity?" he murmured.
"No," she said, "the one where you lose your kilt."
For half a heartbeat, he simply stared at her.
Then—with a growl so deep it might've come from the stone beneath Glenravish—he grabbed her hips and hauled her upward, silk and cotton rustling, until she was straddling his lap.
Wanton gasped, and her hands flew to his shoulders, steadying herself against a landscape of sin and sinew.
Her skirts bunched around her hips. Her knees bracketed his thighs. His erection pressed exactly where her curiosity burned hottest.
She rocked, a teasing glide of her wet core against the heavy ridge beneath the kilt.
Tavish groaned like a man in mortal peril.
"Lass," he warned, voice frayed, breath uneven, "ye keep doin' that and this experiment's gonna end before I loose the first plait."
"I'm collecting data," she whispered, breath trembling as she rocked again, the friction sending sparks along her spine.
"Field Observation 22.9: The plaid barrier creates heightened friction and overwhelming pleasure. Must recommend future replication. Repeatedly."
His hands clamped around her waist, fingers digging into her curves, guiding her rhythm now, his gaze locked on her face.
She circled her hips, her core gliding along the length of him beneath the kilt, separated only by tartan and tension.
Tavish's head fell back.
"Sweet saints," he groaned, "this kilt's gettin' blessed tonight."
Blushing, she threaded her fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers.
His hips bucked upward, grinding hard against her, and she cried out, the pleasure so sharp it ricocheted through her bones.
"Field Observation 23.0," she gasped, rocking again, chasing that edge, "Kilted contact may result in spontaneous disintegration of spine, reason, and maidenly restraint."
"Lass," Tavish groaned, "if ye come like this…"
"I may... For science, of course."
"Then may God bless academia."
The lantern flared. Somewhere outside, wind rattled the tent ropes in applause.
Tavish groaned—a sound that could have felled armies.
Then—crash!
A flaming torch burst through the tent flap, landing in a shower of sparks inches from Tavish's plaid.
They froze.
Then Wanton moved first. "Assassination attempt number four!" she shrieked, grabbing the nearest liquid—his whisky flask—and dumping it over the fire.
The result was instant. WHOOF!
Flames exploded upward with drunken enthusiasm.
