“Elizabeth—” he groaned her name, voice thick with want.
“Alasdair,” she answered, breathless.
“Ye see what ye do to me.” His hand stroked his hardened length, already aching for her.
That was all the invitation she needed. She dropped her sketchpad, the image of him reclining on the chaise still fresh in her mind, the taut muscles, the proud pose.
He crossed the room, and their mouths met in a fierce, hungry kiss. It was impossible to be apart; their hands roamed eagerly, desperate to touch, to feel, to claim.
“We’ll take it to the chaise, love,” he whispered against her ear, lips trailing slow kisses down her neck.
“Yes,” she breathed, eyes heavy with desire.
When her knees weakened, he caught her effortlessly and carried her to the chaise. There, he unwrapped her like the most precious gift—slowly, reverently—until she lay bare beneath him, breasts rising and falling with need, hips restless and yearning.
“That’s right, my love,” he murmured, fingers tracing the slick heat between her thighs. “Ye drew me on this very chaise. I may nae have yer talent for paintin’, but I’ve the gift for worshippin’. And that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
She gasped, arching to meet the teasing touch, but there was no time for lingering tonight. She wanted him now, fiercely and urgently.
With one swift stroke, he entered her. She cried out, raw and breathless.
“Please,” she begged, voice trembling but eager.
“Yes, darlin’?” he asked, eyes locked on hers as he moved.
“Don’t be gentle this time. I can take it.”
He obeyed, thrusting deep and fast, each movement a rhythm of need and fire. Her breasts bounced with every stroke, and he reveled in the sight, praising her with every gasp and moan.
“Bonnie lass,” he groaned, feeling her tighten around him, pulling him over the edge.
His vision blurred; he spilled himself within her, then collapsed atop her, breath ragged but soul sated.
She wrapped her arms around him, fingers threading through his hair, sighing contentedly as sleep claimed them both.
“We’re going back to London,” Elizabeth declared softly, a hint of wistfulness threading through her voice as the carriage rolled steadily along the country road.
Alasdair squeezed her hand gently, his eyes steady on hers. “Are ye nae happy we’re goin’ back?” His Scottish brogue softened the question. “We had a bonnie two weeks here.”
She blushed, recalling every stolen moment, every tender touch, every secret smile exchanged in the privacy of Redmoor Hall. The thought still felt almost surreal. Married, yes, but passionately loved and cherished in ways she had never dared imagine.
“Of course, I am,” she said, voice warm but edged with longing. “I haven’t seen my sisters in weeks. They’ll want to know everything, every little thing I’ve been up to.”
“I hope ye daenae tell themeverything,” Alasdair teased, a roguish grin playing on his lips.
“Alasdair!” Elizabeth swatted his arm, laughing despite herself.
Back in London, the invitations came flooding in almost as quickly as the gossip. Elizabeth could hardly keep up.
“Another invitation!” she exclaimed, sliding an ornate envelope onto the desk with a flourish.
They sat together in the drawing room, the afternoon sun filtering through heavy curtains as they sipped lemonade, bracing themselves for the demands of the ton.
Alasdair chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought they’d be sendin’ us threats, not invitations.”
“Me too,” Elizabeth admitted, her fingers tightening slightly around the glass. “Lady Grisham made it clear I’d made the worst match possible. I half-expected society to shun me altogether.”
“Well, we have a busy season ahead,” Alasdair said, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly. “When will we have time for ourselves, do ye think?”