“I am certain, my lord,” she said, reaching for the pins in her hair with trembling fingers, each one a small anchor of propriety she was willingly casting aside.
“Allow me,” he murmured, stepping behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, could inhale the subtle blend of sandalwood and bergamot that comprised his personal scent.
With gentle precision that spoke of considerable experience, he removed each pin, allowing her auburn tresses to cascade down her back in a waterfall of copper silk. His fingers combed through the heavy mass, occasionally grazing her scalp in a manner that sent shivers cascading down her spine. When he leaned forward to press his lips to the sensitive spot beneath her ear, she gasped, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet intimacy of the chamber.
“Turn around,” he commanded softly, and she obeyed, her body responding to his voice as if it were a physical caress.
His deft fingers made quick work of the fastenings of her gown, each brush of his knuckles against her skin igniting sparks of sensation that traveled through her nerves like lightning. The silk rustled as it slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric.
Ewan’s gaze traveled over her form, clad now only in her chemise and corset, the intricate lacework of the undergarments both concealing and revealing. The intensity of his regard made her feel both vulnerable and powerful—a paradox she had neverbefore experienced in the presence of a man. And one she had not once imagined she would enjoy.
But now, she was heady with it.
“You are exquisite,” he said, his voice rough with want, stripped of the polished elegance he presented to society.
“And you have too many clothes,” she replied, surprising herself with her audacity. It was as if another woman had momentarily inhabited her body—one unencumbered by the weight of propriety that had been her constant companion since girlhood.
A smile curved his lips. It was not the sardonic smirk she had grown accustomed to, but something warmer, almost tender, transforming his features into a portrait of genuine pleasure rather than practiced charm. “A situation easily remedied.”
He quickly divested himself of his coat and waistcoat with efficient movements that spoke of long practice, each garment carefully placed aside rather than carelessly discarded, then paused at his cravat, the white linen stark against the bronzed column of his throat. Samantha stepped forward hesitantly, drawn by an impulse she could neither name nor resist.
“May I?” The question was barely audible, a breath of sound rather than formed words.
“Please.” His consent was equally soft, willing.
She pulled at the already loose cravat, brushing occasionally against the warm skin of his throat, feeling the steady pulse that belied his outward calm. She freed him from the length of silk and let it fall beside her gown.
“Please… continue,” he encouraged, and she began to unbutton his shirt, each movement deliberate, a slow revelation of intimacy that felt more profound than mere physical exposure.
As each button surrendered to her inexperienced fingers, more of his chest was revealed—the same magnificent expanse she had glimpsed that night when she’d knocked on his door. Now, she allowed herself to admire it openly, to appreciate the sculpted perfection that had previously inspired only forbidden thoughts. The firelight played across his skin, highlighting the definition of muscle and sinew, casting shadows that emphasized the masculine strength of his form.
When his shirt joined the growing pile of discarded clothing, she placed her palm against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath her hand, the rhythm slightly accelerated; evidence that her touch affected him as profoundly as his affected her.
“Touch me,” she whispered, the words a supplication and a command interwoven.
He needed no further invitation. His hands moved to the laces of her corset, freeing her from its confines with practiced ease that might have inspired jealousy had she not been so consumed by the sensations he evoked. The chemise followed, and then shestood before him utterly bare, her skin flushed with equal parts desire and shyness, the dichotomy of a woman caught between society’s expectations and her own awakening passions.
“I have dreamed of this,” he confessed, tracing the curve of her waist with reverent fingers that left trails of fire in their wake. “Of having you like this. But the reality far surpasses the fantasy.”
His mouth claimed hers in a kiss that obliterated all coherent thought, consuming her awareness until there was nothing in her world but the taste of him, the press of his lips, the demanding caress of his tongue against hers. She melted into him, her arms encircling his neck as he swept her into his embrace, the contact of skin against skin a revelation of intimacy she had never imagined possible. He lifted her once more, carrying her to the large bed that dominated the room, its mahogany posts rising like sentinels toward the embroidered canopy above.
He lay her upon the counterpane with surprising gentleness, as if she were a precious artifact requiring the most careful handling, then stepped back to remove his remaining garments. Samantha watched, transfixed, as he revealed himself fully to her gaze, all pretense and social artifice stripped away along with his clothing.
“You’re staring, my tigress,” he said, amusement coloring his tone, though she detected a hint of vulnerability beneath the confident exterior.
“You’re worth staring at,” she replied honestly, abandoning the coy pretense that society demanded of ladies when confronted with masculine beauty.
And she saw the effect of her words on him immediately with the way his cheeks flushed with hard color.
When he joined her on the bed, she welcomed him with eager arms, her inhibitions dissolving in the heat of shared desire. His mouth found hers again, and she surrendered to the sensations he evoked—the warm press of his body against hers, the intoxicating scent of his skin, the skilled caress of his hands as they explored her curves with a thoroughness that left her breathless and aching for more.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmured against her throat, his breath a warm caress against skin now hypersensitive to his every touch. “What brings you pleasure.”
“I—I don’t know,” she admitted, suddenly acutely aware of her inexperience, the gap between his worldliness and her sheltered upbringing yawning wide as an uncrossable chasm.
He raised his head, his expression serious, all trace of teasing vanished from his countenance. “You’ve never …?”
“No.” The word was barely audible, a confession of innocence that felt somehow shameful despite knowing that she had nothing to be ashamed of. “Adam never… we only ever kissed.”
