Page 72 of His Scottish Duchess

He paused in his movements, turning to look at her, a questioning look on his face. “Yes, Catherine?”

“It… it looks very cold down there,” she said, her gaze fixed on the thin blanket he was arranging. “The fire is dying down. Surely you would be more comfortable… here.”

Nervously, she patted the space beside her on the bed, her cheeks flushing slightly.

Her husband was quiet for a moment, then a slow smirk spread across his face, a familiar flash of his more teasing side filling her with a strange sense of relief.

He straightened, his eyes twinkling. “Are you inviting me to share your bed, Duchess?”

Catherine’s breath hitched as heat rose to her face. For a moment, she wanted to give in to her shyness, feeling a little out of her depth in the face of his unwavering boldness. But she remembered what she truly wanted and held his gaze, a newfound determination hardening her resolve.

“Yes, Sampson. I am.”

Almost as soon as the words left her lips, Sampson strode towards her. He moved with a fluid grace, shedding his boots and jacket before settling onto the edge of the bed, maintaining a careful distance.

But even that small space between them felt charged, the awareness of his nearness making it difficult for her to find a comfortable position as they both snuggled beneath the blanket. She shifted restlessly, the stiffness in her limbs somewhat heightened by the nervousness that hummed beneath her skin.

“You don’t look very comfortable, love,” Sampson murmured, his voice laced with amusement.

Catherine finally stilled with a sigh of frustration, slowly turning to face him, the flickering candlelight illuminating his handsome features in a way that made her heart race.

Unable to stifle the desire that had been steadily building within her for days, she blurted out, “Then perhaps you could help me become more comfortable.”

“Oh?” he hummed, moving closer but still keeping some space between them.

Frustrated, Catherine asked, “Why haven’t you… touched me, Sampson? Not properly, not since we left Scotland.”

“I did not know you had been thinking about it—not enough for it to bother you like this.”

She tried not to flinch and recoil, reminding herself that she had already come too far and there was nothing for her to lose.

“Why would I not? You’re my husband. We are married, and I have grown… accustomed to such practices.”

“Accustomed to such practices,” Sam echoed, deadpan.

She understood why he was annoyed by those words, so she sought to fix it quickly.

“I’ve grown to want you, Sampson. All… all the time.”

A shadow crossed his face, then his blue eyes softened as they locked onto hers. “You need to tell me what you want, Catherine. When you have such thoughts or urges. Tell me what you want me to do, no matter what it is. Otherwise… otherwise, I might think you don’t want me to.”

His voice was rough, a hint of the desire he had been holding in check finally breaking through his restraint.

Catherine hesitated for only a heartbeat, the memory of his touch, the exquisite pleasure he had shown her, overshadowing any lingering shyness.

“I want you to touch me, Sampson,” she admitted softly, her words a soft plea yet a direct expression of the longing that had been consuming her.

A slow, predatory smile spread across Sampson’s face, a familiar gleam returning to his eyes.

”It seems I have completely corrupted you, Duchess.” He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of her jaw, his touch sending a jolt of anticipation through her. “I confess, I expected you to last a little longer before you gave in.”

Catherine playfully swatted his arm, a small, breathless laugh escaping her lips. “You are insufferable.”

Sampson’s hand shot out, capturing her wrist, his grip firm but gentle. He tugged her closer, his lips crashing down on hers in a passionate kiss that stole her breath away.

The tenderness of their earlier moments was quickly replaced by a raw, urgent desire, a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with hers, his other hand finding the curve of her waist, pulling her closer until their bodies were pressed together. Catherine’s senses reeled, the weariness of the journey forgotten in the sudden intensity of his touch.

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