At the sound of his name on her lips, something wild flickered behind his eyes: possession, awe, hunger sharpened to a blade’s edge.
He lifted his forehead to hers, panting, voice shaking with the effort it took not to lose himself entirely.
“Tell me tae stop,” he begged quietly—
Not because he wanted to.
But because if she didn’t…
Hewouldn’t.
Fiona bared her teeth in a wicked, breathless smile.
“Why thehellwould I do that?”
All permission, all challenge.
And Harris Mackenzie—finally, finally—let himself burn.
Fiona’s challenge hit him like a match to whisky.
Harris snarled, actually snarled, and his grip on her thighs tightened as he pushed her harder against the wall, his body pinning hers in a cage of muscle and heat and pure, unfiltered want.
“Christ above, lass…” he groaned, dragging his mouth along her throat, teeth grazing just hard enough to make her gasp.
“Call me by my name, Mackenzie,” she breathed, rolling her hips against him with deliberate, devastating precision.
“Christ, Fiona—”
With one rough, helpless sweep, he tore her wrists from the wall and spun them both—her back hitting the edge of the table with a thud that knocked a gasp out of her and a curse out of him.
She grabbed his collar and yanked him down into another kiss.
This was fire meeting fire.
War meeting war.
His hands roamed, mapping her waist, her ribs, her hips as if memorizing proof she was real.
Her fingers tugged his hair, her nails scraped his shoulders, drawing a groan so deep it vibrated through her bones.
“Harris—”
He lifted her onto the table in one swift, powerful motion, stepping between her knees before she’d fully realized he’d moved.
Her breath choked off.
He braced his hands on either side of her thighs, caging her in, gaze burning like a man who’d been starving for a decade.
“You’re no’ Flora,” he rasped.
“I should hope not,” she said, breathless.
“You’re no’ luck, or duty, or debt.”
She arched toward him. “No?”
“You’re trouble,” he whispered, as if surrendering a war he’d already lost.
