Page 60 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Without being foolish about it."

He turned his head slightly, catching her profile in the faint glow. "Ye're the one who made the rules, lass."

"I ken that fine." She rolled onto her back, staring upward. "But freezing tae death seems a poor way tae maintain them."

Despite everything, a laugh escaped him, sharp and unexpected. "Fair point."

The tension eased fractionally. He adjusted his position, no longer clinging to the very brink of the mattress. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she did the same.

"Better?" she asked.

"Getting there."

More time passed. The storm showed no sign of abating, and the temperature continued its descent. He became acutely conscious of the warmth radiating from her body, tantalizingly close yet still out of reach.

Then she moved closer.

It happened gradually, almost imperceptibly at first. A slight shift brought her nearer. Then another. Until her back pressed against his side, seeking heat.

Tavish went absolutely still.

"Dinnae read anything intae this," she murmured, voice muffled.

"Wouldnae dream of it."

But his heart hammered against his ribs as he carefully, slowly, slid his arm beneath her shoulders. She settled against him with a soft exhale, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as though it belonged there.

Sweet suffering saints.

Her hair tickled his chin, carrying the scent of heather and something uniquely her. He could feel every curve pressed along his side, the rise and fall of her breathing, the flutter of her pulse where his fingers rested against her shoulder.

"This is just fer warmth," she said, but uncertainty crept into her tone.

"Aye. Just warmth."

Neither of them believed it.

She tilted her face upward, and he made the mistake of looking down. Her eyes caught what little light remained, dark and wide and entirely too close. Her lips parted slightly, breath ghosting across his jaw.

Every coherent thought fled his mind.

"Tavish..." His name on her tongue sounded like prayer and damnation combined.

He should pull away. Should remind them both of the boundaries they'd established. Should do anything except what he did next.

He kissed her.

The contact sparked through him like lightning striking dry timber. Her mouth moved beneath his, tentative for only a heartbeat before she responded with equal hunger. His hand slid from her shoulder to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair.

She made a sound low in her throat that sent heat pooling in his gut. Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the wild thunder of his heartbeat, then slid upward to curl around his nape.

The kiss deepened, turned desperate. He rolled, bringing her beneath him without breaking contact, swallowing her gasp. Her thighs parted to accommodate his hips, and the feel of her soft and yielding against him nearly undid what remained of his control.

"Maighread," he breathed against her mouth, her name a prayer and a plea.

"Dinnae stop," she whispered, pulling him back down. "Please dinnae stop."

His hand found her waist, spanning the curve through layers of fabric. He traced upward slowly, mapping the dip and swell, feeling her arch into his touch. When his thumb brushed the underside of her breast, she broke the kiss with a sharp inhale.