Page 95 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Now that they were here, alone, he was oddly nervous. As though on the precipice of something grand and life changing. He wasn’t sure how to proceed.

She blinked and rubbed her eyes. “Is it morning?”

He shrugged. “Maybe four? The sun will be rising soon.”

“I fell asleep,” she said on a pout.

“No matter. The party just ended.” He cleared his throat. “Everyone has gone to bed.”

“Have they?” Was that excitement in her tone?

“I checked through the house. Not a creature is stirring. I even sent the servants to bed.”

“Are you no’ the industrious lad?”

“One would hope.” He smiled at her then, and she smiled back. It was a relief to see the same diffidence in her expression. It made him bold. “Come here, lass,” he commanded and was thrilled when she did. She shifted over into his arms and he held her for a moment, drawing in her scent, reveling in her sleepy warmth, the softness of her skin.

She’d changed from her kilt dress into something simple and light and lawn. He stroked her arm up to her shoulder, then cupped her cheek. “Alone at last,” he whispered. And then he kissed her.

It was a soft, tender offering, born of both his desire and his determination to gently woo her.

He should have known better. This was Isobel. His wild Scots lass who had, apparently, waited too long for this moment.

She deepened the kiss, cupping his nape and scraping her nails through his hair. Her passion inflamed his. “God, Isobel,” he groaned, tugging down her décolletage to kiss her collarbone, her shoulders, her chest. He eased his hand up her side, moving slowly so as not to alarm her, then cupped her breast. Ah. What a sweet weight.

When he thumbed her nipples she groaned and pushed him away.

He blinked and tried to rein in his rampant desire—and disappointment. But she only pushed him away so she could lift off her dress altogether.

And there she was. His Isobel. Bare and beautiful in the light of the moon.

So much magnificence, he hardly knew where to begin.

What nonsense.

Of course he did.

He lifted her breast to his mouth and kissed her gently, then drew in a nipple and suckled.

Ah. So sweet.

“Nick,” she gasped. Then she pulled him closer, so he couldn’t get away.

But he didn’t want to.

He feasted on her breasts, one after the other, and then, when the position became awkward, he took her dress and laid it out on the floor.

She took the hint and lay down, displaying herself before him. Her smile was both come-hither and innocent and he loved it. Loved her.

He came down beside her and began to explore her beauty with his hands, lips, and tongue. He kissed his way from her breasts down her ribs to her flat belly and lower.

She knew, now, what to expect, and she spread her legs with a sigh.

It delighted him that she was so responsive, so willing, so his.

He spread her lips with his thumbs and began to feast. Teasing and tormenting her hard nub and the sensitive flesh around it.

She was quick to come, as he expected, and when she did, he gently eased a finger inside her sheath.