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His eyes snap up, bright with something wicked and tender all at once, and he kisses my foot again, this time like he’s pleased to have stolen that sound from me, too.

“Oh,” I breathe, laughter shaky. “Ye’re mad as a wild beastie.”

“Aye,” he murmurs. “For you.”

He does the same with the other stocking, repeating the charade. He remains there on his knees, looking up at me as though I’m the only thing in this world worth kneeling for.

And then there’s nothing left between us.

My courage holds, but my body has gone soft in the most telling way, warmth gathering where I cannot hide it between my legs. Body telling me I want this man, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

It makes me even more aware that he is still fully clothed.

Broad shoulders. Dark cloth. All that restraint, all that coverage—while I stand there with nowhere to hide.

I swallow, throat tight, trying for bold and somehow finding it.

“It’s… terribly unfair, ye ken.”

He shifts closer on his knees, his hands moving up the backs of my thighs, skimming the curve of my rear before settling at my hips.

“Is it?” he murmurs, tone rough and teasing. “I thought ye’d like watchin’ me take my time.”

My pulse kicks, hard and traitorous.

“Dinnae fash yerself, mo chroí,” he adds, eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll be fair to you… when I’m ready.”

A small, breathy laugh slips out of me, more nerves than humour.

“No,” I say, firmer. “That’s no’ what I meant.”

Something sharp and reckless sparks in me as I lift my chin, standing bare before him with nowhere to put my hands.

“I’m stripped bare,” I murmur, “and I’ve not seen so much as a morsel of you.”

I thread my fingers through his hair and close my fist, firm enough to still him without cruelty. I keep him there, making him look at me properly.

“Ye’ve taken yer time with me.” I worry my lip between my teeth, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Now I think my husband belongs beneath my eyes for a while.”

A rough sort of wonder moves across his face, threaded through with unmistakable hunger, as though part of him still cannot believe he gets to have me like this.

“On yer feet,” I tell him. Soft and absolute. “Strip for me.”

His gaze lingers, as though he’s searching for the smallest hint of hesitation, but he’ll find none. When I finally loosen my grip on him, he rises slowly. Even once he’s standing, he keeps a hand on me the whole time, as if distance would be a kind of wrong.

“If that’s what ye want.”

“It is. I want to see all of you, Mr Sinclair. Every part ye’ve kept from me.”

The look he gives me is so bare it feels like being touched. As though he’d been bridled by sheer will, and my words tore the reins away.

“You could ask me for my very soul and I think I’d thank ye for takin’ it,” he says, looking at me as though surrendering it to me would be an honour.

He undoes himself far quicker than he did me. His coat goes first, dragged from his shoulders and tossed aside without a second thought. Then his hands are at his buttons, working them loose with brisk certainty, breath no longer rhythmic.

His hands drop to the fastening of his kilt. There, his movements turn sure and deliberate, hips shifting as he loosens it. The plaid slips free and falls away, and he steps clear of it with the same quiet control he’s shown all morning.

There’s nothing left for him to hide behind, either.