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“You,” she whispers, and every careful, respectable part of her falls away, leaving only the wickedness she’s kept hidden underneath.

“Right here. Right now.”

The last of my restraint snaps. I tug the tartan loose from our wrists.

Her hands slide up the front of my shirt, fingers curling into the linen as if she means to anchor herself there. Then she gives a firm tug.

“I want you closer,” she murmurs.

I don’t resist as she pulls me down with her, guiding us both backward until the blanket beneath us rustles softly in the grass. Her other hand comes up behind my neck, steady and certain, drawing my mouth to hers again.

This kiss is nothing like the last.

She kisses me like she means to steal every decent thought from my head.

My hand slides to her waist as everything else falls away, leaving only the warmth of her beneath me and the quiet, breathless space we’ve made together.

Whatever comes next, she’s not afraid of it.

And neither am I.

CHAPTER TWENTY

JAMES

“My wife,” I whisper, the word tasting new and dangerous on my tongue.

“Touch me, James,” she breathes, husky, eyes locked on mine, desire laid bare.

Braced above her, I allow myself to take her in fully, until the sight of her nearly unmans me.

“I’ve dreamed of this too long to rush.”

I want to worship her. To show the depth of my devotion through every passing of my hands against her skin.

“Ye’re gonna need to be patient, mo ghràdh,” I breathe against her lips, my voice steady, even as my cock throbs in protest.

She whimpers, her hips shifting restlessly against me.

“James,” she purrs, “if you intend to keep me waitin’ much longer, I’ll start takin’ matters into my own hands.” Her words tumble out in a rush, fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me closer.

A soft laugh escapes me, the sound rough with affection and surprise. “Who would have thought the great Ellen Sinclair would beg me one day?” I tease gently, my thumb brushing a tear-streaked cheek, heart swelling at her vulnerability.

She drags me in for another kiss. When we break apart, gasping, she laughs a little, breathless and joyful, her fingers tracing my jaw. “I love hearin’ you say that. Say it again.”

“Ellen Sinclair… my wife,” I repeat, the words a vow renewed, and I claim her mouth once more, slower this time, savouring the taste of her surrender.

Her plea echoes in my mind, that husky whisper pulling at every thread of my restraint. I concede to her demands, my resolve crumbling under the weight of her need.

I break the kiss and move to the front of her bodice, deftly working the hooks and laces that hold it closed. The fabric parts with a soft sigh, revealing the swell of her breasts, pale and full, nipples already pebbled in the cool air.

I trail lazy kisses down her jaw and along the graceful line of her throat before slipping my hands beneath the loosened fabric of her chemise. Slowly, I draw it down, baring her fully to me, until I can press my mouth to the warm skin in the valley between her breasts.

“So bonnie,” I murmur, the words roughened by admiration as I cup the weight of her breast in my palm, my thumb brushing lightly over the tightened peak. She arches instinctively, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

I lower my head and kiss the sensitive bud, lavishing slow attention on it while my free hand glides over the curve of her waist and back again, learning her by touch as thoroughly as I have by heart. Her fingers slip into my hair, holding me close, and the breath she releases trembles against the quiet between us.

Switching to the other breast, I unleash the same devotion, alternating between gentle pulls and deeper suction while my hand kneads the first. I’m relentless as I pinch and suck, savouring every shiver I coax from her body. Her skin blooms pink beneath my touch as desire unravels her piece by piece beneath the slow patience of my worship.