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When his eyes meet mine again, I’m biting my lip hard enough to feel it sting.
His mouth finds my shoulder first, and I shudder at the simple warmth of it. Each brush of his lips feels like reverence made tangible. He drifts across my skin—throat, collarbone, the tender inside of my arm—never hurried, never careless, making a slow devotion to me.
I clutch at him without thinking, fingers fisting in his shirt as if I might float away.
“James…” My voice breaks on his name.
A low sound slips out of him—rough, restrained—and his lips keep travelling, like he’s afraid to leave anything exposed, untouched. Starved for the simple truth of my skin beneath his mouth.
Then, to my utter surprise, he sinks down onto his knees in front of me.
The air leaves my lungs.
A lairdling of the Highlands, kneeling on the floor of an old quarter house, as though I’m some goddess he’s come to worship.
My fingers slip into his hair without thinking.
Even there—kneeling—he’s still so tall that his head comes just under my breasts, and the realisation of his sheer size sends a dizzying spark through me.
Is all of him this big?
Naturally, that will become the only thing I can think about.
His hands slide to my back and my hips, steadying me, holding me as if letting go isn’t an option.
He presses a slow kiss on my exposed stomach.
“And ye’ve no intention of movin’ faster?” I ask, already near breathless from the unbearable patience of him.
“None whatsoever.”
He tips his face to me again, kissing down the line of my ribs, the hollow of my waist, the curve of my hip. Lower still, his mouth trailing reverent paths.
My whole body feels in tune with every action he’s taking.
And James—patient, unrelenting, worshipful—keeps kissing like he’s making certain I know these simple truths:
I’m wanted.
I’m cherished.
I’m his just as much as he’s mine.
His hands return to my hips. My body trembling now, and there’s no hiding it from him. His fingers find the first garter ribbon, brushing lightly against my thigh before he works the knot loose.
The bow gives beneath his touch, and the ribbon slips free in a soft glide against my skin. In the hush of the house, the faint whisper of fabric sounds unbearably loud.
His mouth follows his hands, kissing as he goes—soft presses along my skin, a lingering nip at my hip that makes my knees threaten to turn traitor. He does the other side the same way, like he has all the time in the world and intends to spend it on me.
“James…” I whisper yet again, helpless with it.
He draws one stocking down with the same maddening patience as the rest of his touches. When the fabric catches on my heel, I reach for him without thinking, both hands settling on his shoulders to steady myself as he lifts my leg.
His fingers work the rest free with a slow, careful pull, easing the stocking over the arch until it slips from my toes at last.
Then, absurdly, he tips his head and presses a kiss to the top of my bared foot, the same way he has kissed the rest of me, as though no part of me is too small to worship.
A startled giggle bursts out of me.
