Page 43 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
Her name on his lips was its own kind of caress.
“I meant nothin’!” she snapped, flustered beyond bearing. “Ye are puttin’ words in me mouth.”
His gaze never left hers, but he closed the distance between them with deliberate slowness.
“And yet here we are,” he murmured, his voice like velvet. “With you, a curious wife, standing on the precipice of temptation.”
Her pulse raced, but she refused to back down. “Curiosity has nothin’ to do with it,” she retorted, lifting her chin slightly.
His fingers grazed the side of her neck, the touch light but intimate, sending a shiver through her.
“Nor temptation?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint.
The heat between them was palpable now. She stayed still, though her chest rose and fell with quickened breath.
“I am nae… I am nae tempted by ye, Yer Grace,” she retorted, yet the moment she did, she wanted to laugh at herself, at how breathy her voice was.
“Is that so, wife?” he asked.
Amazingly, she found the last piece of strength within her to find her voice and reply, “Ye are the one who speaks of temptation, husband. Perhaps it’syewho is tempted.”
His eyes went black, dark as a winter’s midnight.
For a moment, he simply stared at her, the air between them crackling like a struck flint. Then his mouth curved, slow and dangerous.
“You little minx,” he growled, his voice like gravel and velvet all at once. “You dare to provoke me, standing there with that sweet mouth and those defiant eyes?—”
He reached for her then, swift and sure, one hand sliding into her hair, the other anchoring low at her back, hauling her against him.
“—and you expect me to be made of stone?” he finished, right before his mouth crashed down onto hers.
The kiss was…
It was savage. Demanding.
He kissed her like he meant to claim every breath she had left, like he would not—could not—allow her a single thought that did not belong to him.
She kissed him back—slowly at first, as if testing the waters of something long denied. But then he deepened it, and she was lost. His lips teased hers in slow, deliberate strokes, tasting her, drawing out every shiver that passed through her.
His tongue swept into her mouth with a hunger that made her knees weaken, exploring her with maddening control—unhurried, yet unrelenting.
“Do you know how I have desired to touch you, Catriona? Ever since we met, you have carved yourself into my mind, my bodycontinually searching for yours…” he murmured as his hands moved over her body with reverence and restraint, as though committing her shape to memory.
He traced the swell of her hips, the curve of her waist, his fingers brushing along her sides until he gripped her firmly, possessively, and pulled her against him.
She gasped softly as her back met the cool wall, but the heat of his body overwhelmed the chill. She was trapped between the hardness of the stone and the hard, unyielding strength of him.
One large hand cradled the back of her head, holding her steady as he kissed her deeper still, while the other slid down to cup her behind and press her flush to him.
She felt him—felt every inch of his desire through the thin barrier of clothing between them. It was impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend it did not affect her. Her breath caught as he groaned low in his throat, a sound that made her pulse race.
He pulled away just enough to look at her, his chest rising with restrained intensity, his gaze dark and unflinching.
She looked up at him, her breath shallow, and realized that her mother had only offered the vaguest of instructions to her.
Lie down. Let him do what he must.
What on earth did that mean?
