The kilt stayed bunched around her waist. Her hair came down. Her dignity slipped out the door. For dear life, she gripped the edge of the table while he wrote his country history along the folds of her sex.
He studied her with every lick, every kiss, every groan swallowed into her flesh, as if memorizing her responses for future warfare. And she gave them freely—gasps caught in her throat, moans muffled by her hand, hips tilting forward like a sail catching wind. Pleasure coiled in her belly, tight and hot and ancient, until the world blurred around its center and she broke.
With a ragged breath, he pulled away from her and flipped her over the table. Her kilt was bunched at her waist, her thighs trembling, her skin flushed with heat and Highland humidity. “Good heavens,” she thought faintly. “I appear to be perpendicular to propriety.”
Field Observation 30.2: A Regency upbringing frowns upon the exposure of one’s posterior to the proverbial ceiling beams. Prolonged proximity to kilted stimuli appears to lower modesty thresholds by several alarming degrees.
The wood was cool beneath her flushed skin, her bare forearms braced beside scattered pages of notes now torn from their bindings like common petticoats. Somewhere in the periphery, the storm cracked against Glenravish tower—but it was nothing compared to the intensity behind her.
She lifted her head.
Tavish loomed behind her. His breath dragged through parted lips, chest rising hard, eyes black with purpose. With a feral sound, he palmed the small of her back, and flattened her hands over the table.
“Grip it, lass,” he rasped, his brogue thicker than sin, “just like ye did in the tug of war.”
She obeyed, wrapping her fingers around the edge of the table. Her legs shifted apart.
She remembered the rope in her hands. His chest at her back. The moment she realized the caber was not theoretical.
Slowly, he loosened his kilt. The plaid fell to the ground.
She looked back—over her shoulder, beneath her lashes—and caught a glimpse.
And what a glimpse it was.
His erection stood proud against his stomach, as if carved by rebellious Highland sculptors too horny for modesty. Heavy. Veined. And entirely unbothered by physics or decorum.
Wanton’s mouth opened—possibly to say something academic.
No sound came out.
Field Observation 36.0: Highland reproductive architecture confirms previously disputed data. Immediate fieldwork required.
His body pressed behind her, hard and thick and blisteringly ready.
"You will take this Highlander deep, won't ye?"
She nodded, biting her lip.
Tavish’s voice rumbled low against her ear. “That’s my good lass.”
She preened instinctively, spine arching, as though she’d just received top marks in an oral examination.
Then, mortified by her own enthusiasm, she blinked at the nearest candle flame.
Field Observation 31.1: Unexpected verbal commendation triggers disproportionate pleasure response. Further inquiry needed into why simple praise induces spinal fireworks.
Then—he entered her.
Her thoughts disbanded in shameful retreat.
His hands gripped her hips, anchoring her to the table as he eased deeper, thick and hot and utterly committed to academic annihilation. Her body drew him in like a vortex hungry for mass.
“Oh—God—Tavish—” she gasped, but whether it was a plea, a warning, or a hallelujah, she had no idea.
She braced against the table as her body reeled. The impact vibrated through her bones, through her spine, through history.
And still he moved deeper.
