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Another.
Until the backs of my legs hit the edge of the bed.
I catch the frame behind me, breath coming faster.
His eyes flick briefly toward the hearth.
“D’you want me to light a fire?” he asks quietly. “It’s cold in here.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “James Sinclair,” I say, shaking my head. “If you stop now to build a fire, I may very well kill you.”
His mouth tilts. “I only meant to—”
“I ken what you meant to do.”
My hands slide up his chest until my fingers reach the open collar of his shirt, smoothing there for a moment before curling into the fabric.
“But I’ve waited long enough,” I say, the words low enough to be dangerous.
His eyes sharpen on mine, the warmth in them turning molten.
“I want to be yers. In name… and in body.”
Want and stubborn restraint war across his face then.
Slowly—carefully—his hands move to the ties of my bodice. He loosens them one by one.
The fabric slips from my shoulders; the dress falls in a soft heap at my feet.
I draw a sharp breath, not from the chill alone, but from the way his gaze drags down my throat like his mouth wants to follow. When they drop to my undergarments, the hunger in his face is impossible to mistake.
His knuckles skim my collarbone so lightly that it’s almost a question.
“Saints above,” he murmurs.
My brow lifts.
“What?”
He shakes his head faintly, almost laughing at himself.
“I kent ye’d be beautiful,” he says quietly. “But I didnae ken it would be this bad.”
“Bad?” I repeat.
“For me.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “And ye’re not even trying. If this is what becomes of me when ye’re merely standing there, I dread to think what I’ll do when you decide to be cruel about it.”
He leans in and presses his mouth to the place his fingers just touched. It’s gentle and lingering, the kind of touch that makes my doubts go quiet without being asked.
Then his lips part, and the warm glide of his tongue follows the path of it—one languid, deliberate sweep that makes my breath hitch hard enough to hurt.
My head tips back on instinct, the moan tearing loose before pride can catch it, and his grip tightens, answering it, like he’s pleased to have pulled that sound from me.
His hand trails down my spine, finding the lacing at my back by feel, but he doesn’t rush it. He works each tie loose patiently, keeping me pressed to him all the while. His eyes keep finding mine, making certain I’m still here with him… still choosing this.
One soft pull, and the shift slips down and pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but stockings and garters, the sun cutting through the curtains in thin bright blades, catching the ribbon ties at my thighs like flashes of pale gold.
James’s gaze rakes over all that’s bared, slow and blatant, and I don’t flinch. I make myself hold. Make myself stand there—brazen as sin—while he looks his fill.
