Tavish's hands slid lower.
Rough palms. Warm fingers. Kilt-lifting intent.
He cupped her thighs—bare—and froze.
For one magnificent instant, the storm outside was a mild atmospheric suggestion compared to the thunderbolt that cracked across his features. Wanton felt, with dreadful clarity, that she had become the thesis statement of his entire lineage.
He pulled back just far enough to verify what his palms had already reported.
No drawers.
None.
Not even a token lace ruffle.
His eyes widened—hunger, shock, and the unmistakable flare of ancestral vindication.
“Lass,” he breathed, voice going low enough to fog the bone marrow, “are ye tellin’ me ye wore my clan’s kilt… wi’ nothin’ beneath it?”
Wanton’s spine snapped straight in scholarly defense.
“I—I refused to disgrace the culture,” she blurted. “It’s a heritage-based ventilation system. A… a freedom-of-thighs principle. Very traditional.”
She cleared her throat.
“And… other parts benefitted from increased mobility as well.”
Good heavens. Had she just confessed that? Out loud?
He stared at her. “Ventilation,” he repeated, as if the word were both poetry and sin.
“Yes!” Wanton insisted. “Kinetic liberation! Anatomical airflow! To wear drawers beneath a kilt is to betray—well—physics.”
His jaw dropped.
“Sweet saints,” he murmured, leaning closer, “ye’ve spent all week hidin’ behind armored bloomers like a fortress under siege… and now ye’re bare under my kilt?”
Her blush ignited like faulty gunpowder. “It was a practical adaptation,” she said crisply. “One must sometimes surrender unnecessary… layers… in pursuit of scientific truth.”
His grin deepened until she felt positively compromised. “So yer drawers gave up the fight before ye did.”
She gasped—mortified, aroused, and treacherously honest.
“Well… scientifically speaking… yes.”
Laughing still, he lifted her bodily, set her on the edge of the table, and shoved the kilt up to her waist with reverent aggression.
Wanton squeaked.
“Field Observation 31.4,” she breathed, “cold air and anticipation cause preemptive trembling—Oh, heavens.”
His mouth pressed against the inside of her thigh, and she nearly levitated off the table.
“Ye want heritage, lass?” he growled, voice vibrating against her skin.
“I’ll give ye Highland history ye’ll never forget.”
His tongue slid over her, and she shattered like a theory disproven by sheer pleasure.
