“Ye always draw the mountains or your sisters, but ye have nae drawn me since that drawing ye sent me,” Alasdair declared one evening, his voice low and teasing as they stood in the soft golden light of the studio he had gifted her.
Elizabeth’s pencil paused mid-stroke, eyes flicking up to meet his.
“Well, that may be true, but does that mean you must be in my studio without a shirt on?” Her voice betrayed a faint squeak, half amusement, half something more vulnerable.
He gave her a smirk, mischievous and dark. His hair was wild, tumbling over his shoulders like a storm just barely contained. His bare chest caught the last rays of sun, muscles defined and glistening faintly in the warmth.
“Are ye sayin’ ye’ve no self-control to sketch me like this?” he challenged, voice husky with something electric.
“You’re the one who has no self-control,” she shot back, cheeks flushing as she smoothed the page in her sketchbook. “You can’t sit still.”
“Aye, I can—at least during the day.” He lifted a brow, daring her to test him.
Elizabeth’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. “Then that means you’ll pose for me. A real pose. One you’ll hold for several minutes.”
“And I’ll do it nude for ye,” he said, steady and serious.
Her jaw slackened, eyes wide in a mix of shock and delight. Did he truly mean it? Her nervous laughter hinted she thought it possible.
“You jest, Alasdair!”
“Naw. I’m serious. I want to see how ye see me. Captured on paper,” he said softly, voice dropping an octave as he caught the heat blooming across her cheeks.
Without a word, he slid his trousers down, baring himself fully. He stood tall and unashamed, a vision of raw, unguarded masculinity. Elizabeth’s breath hitched as her eyes drank him in,tracing every curve and plane of muscle. Desire flickered boldly behind her lashes.
The Elizabeth of old, the timid, reserved girl, would never dare such a thing. But here, now, she bit her lower lip and blinked slowly, meeting his gaze with a boldness born of the fire between them.
She sighed, half in surrender, half in wonder, her eyes roaming his body with reverent curiosity. Alasdair caught the subtle shift and smiled.
“If you truly want this, recline on that chaise. Put your arms behind your head?—”
“Behind me head?” he asked, amusement clear in his voice as he obeyed.
“Yes. Exactly like that. And don’t move.”
“You’re gettin’ more bossy the better I get to ken ye,” he teased.
“Hush. You’re my subject. Quiet now. No distractions, or I stop.” Her tone was sharp, playful, and entirely in control.
He settled into the pose, fully committed. And as she watched him—her pencil moving swiftly, capturing the boldness, the strength, the intimate vulnerability—he watched her too.
“What do ye see?” he asked, voice soft.
“You,” she whispered, “every part of you… especially that arrogant smile.”
He flexed his stomach, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Arrogant?”
“Well, I’m looking at?—”
“Every hard plane of me body?” he interrupted, flexing once more.
She trembled, trying to steady her hand.
“Ye’re makin’ me all flushed, ma dear wife. Me eyes burn hotter, then?” His grin deepened. “Admittin’ ye’ve been watchin’ me with keen interest?”
“You’re my subject,” she breathed.
They held a quiet, charged moment. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows. Her gaze flicked down, widening as she saw the undeniable evidence of his desire, his need for her. He watched her too, captivated by the way she looked at him—not as a stranger, but as a wife.