He was naked underneath.
Naked and very aroused.
Reaching out, she ran her fingers over his smooth length, feeling her stomach tipping as his eyes narrowed.
‘I want you,’ he said hoarsely.
‘So take me,’ she whispered.
He lifted her up onto the dressing table and then dropped to his knees. Hooking his thumbs into her panties, he slid them down her legs and over the tops of her stockings, and she breathed out shakily as he ran his tongue between her thighs.
She gripped the dressing table, her nails scraping against the smooth wood. Her legs were trembling and his hands splayed over her skin, steadying her as she felt her body begin to lift free of its moorings.
Moaning softly, she began to move against his mouth, her pulse beating on his tongue. Soon he pulled away and flipped her round, his hand capturing her face, his mouth finding hers. And then he was pushing into her, his hand moving to her clitoris, the slow, measured sweep of his finger making her arch backwards.
His arm was around her waist and he was lifting her body against his as she let go, crying out as he thrust the blunt head of his erection up inside of her.
In the mirror, his darkened eyes locked with hers and her muscles clenched around him. And then he was crying out too, shuddering in pleasure, pressing his face against her shoulder, his heartbeat raging in time to hers.
He pulled away gently and scooped her into his arms, carried her over to the bed.
She lay there, her body quivering with the tiny aftershocks of her release. They were both breathing unsteadily, their skin warm and damp.
After a moment or two he pulled her closer and she nestled into him. She would never get tired of this. Of how it felt to have his arms around her. Of how his body felt inside her. The heat and the pressure and the rhythm.
Already she wanted him again—only at some point all this would have to stop and he would leave.
But she wasn’t ready for that to happen. She wasn’t sure she would ever be ready.
She thought back to what she’d told herself earlier. That tonight was about making good memories. But what if those memories weren’t enough?
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, and tipped her face up to his.
‘I was just thinking it was lucky I didn’t know you weren’t wearing anything under your kilt or we’d have had to have left earlier.’
‘You’d have done that for me?
Her heart was still beating fast and, looking up into his soft, green gaze, she felt it beat even faster.
She dropped a kiss on his chest. ‘Of course.’
His hand slid over the curve of her hip, his fingers grazing the top of her stockings. ‘Lord Airlie must be disappointed we left. I think he was hoping to dance with you again.’
She felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t thought about Andrew once. Every thought, every breath, every glance had been centred on Farlan.
‘Andrew is the host—he has lots of duty dances to perform.’
‘And is that what that was? A duty dance?’
Farlan had been aiming to keep his voice casual, but clearly he’d failed.
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. ‘What do you mean?’
He let his gaze float away to the window to where the hills met the Castle Kilvean estate.
‘Just something Molly said to me when I told her about the ball. She said Lord Airlie had everything he wanted…’ His eyes locked onto hers. ‘Except a wife.’
She shifted backwards against the pillow, her hair like honey in the soft light of the table lamp. Outside, he thought he could hear the distant sound of bagpipes.