He shrugged his coat off, then removed hers. ‘Dance with me again?’ he asked.
She nodded, and he found something slow and sweet on his phone before taking her back in his arms.
This time, when he kissed her, she didn’t have to worry about who might see and gossip about it. It was just the two of them in the low light of the single lamp he’d switched on.
This time, when he broke the kiss, his eyes held a challenge. ‘So where do we go from here?’
‘My room.’
‘Are you sure?’
Meaning that if she said no, he’d back off. He wouldn’t push her into anything she wasn’t ready to do. ‘Very sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve wanted this since the night you kissed me under the stars.’
He stroked her face. ‘I made a wish on a falling star.’
That this would happen? ‘Good.’ She reached up on tiptoe and kissed him again.
His pupils dilated a fraction further. ‘I want to turn caveman and carry you to bed,’ he said. ‘But a spiral staircase isn’t the best idea and I don’t want to drop you.’
‘I’ve got a better one,’ she said, and kicked off her shoes before taking his hand and leading him up the stairs.
At the doorway to her room, he kissed her again.
‘That dress. Since I first saw you in it, I wanted to do one of those flashy dance moves that makes your skirt twirl out, then spin you back into my arms.’ His breath caught. ‘And I want to take it off you.’
‘That kilt and that jacket,’ she said. ‘It makes you look hot.’ She felt her face grow warm. ‘And your wild hair.’
‘It’s wild because I can’t be bothered to visit the barber every month.’
She stroked his face. ‘It makes you look like a Scottish chieftain.’
‘I’ll run with that,’ he said. ‘Which means I get to do this.’ He slid his hand up her spine, making her arch her back, then slid the zip down very, very slowly. His gaze was intense as it held hers, and he pushed the material gently off her shoulders; her dress slid to the floor in a puddle. Colour slashed across his cheeks and he drew in a sharp breath. ‘Well, now, Dr Jones.’ He scooped her up in his arms, clearly with the intention of carrying her to her bed.
‘Not so fast,’ she said.
‘No?’ He went very still.
‘No. Because you’re wearing too much,’ she said. ‘We need to even that up first.’
Then he smiled. ‘What do you suggest, Dr Jones?’
‘There are two ways we can do this. The first,’ she said, ‘is that you set me back on my feet and let me undress you. The second is that you carry me to my bed and then strip for me.’
His smile grew more sensual. ‘And your preferred course?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I’m greedy. I kind of want both.’
‘Compromise, then.’ He set her back on her feet. ‘Do the jacket.’
The buttons on his jacket weren’t fastened, so it was easy to remove; but the matching buttons on the waistcoat were incredibly ornate and it took her a while to undo them. His bow tie was next—a proper one, she noticed, not a pre-tied one that clipped on. As she undid the buttons of his shirt, his breathing grew quicker and more shallow. She untucked the shirt from the waistband of his kilt, then slid the material over his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
Bare-chested, he was beautiful. There was a light sprinkling of hair on his chest, and his abdomen was flat. But there was no vanity in him: he simply looked after himself properly. ‘Perfect,’ she whispered.
This time, when he scooped her up into his arms, her skin slid against his, and desire flickered low in her belly.
He kissed her again, hard, and laid her down against the pillows.
‘So you wanted me to strip for you.’
‘Partly because I have no idea how a kilt fastens,’ she admitted.
He chuckled. ‘Buckles, Dr Jones. Buckles. And a kilt pin, to preserve your modesty when you sit down.’
Was he telling her that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath the kilt?
She went hot all over.
‘First, the sporran,’ he said.
‘What exactly is a sporran?’ she asked.
‘The word’s Gaelic for “pocket”,’ he said, ‘and that’s exactly what it is. It’s where I keep my keys and my wallet. Putting a pocket in a kilt would spoil the line.’
‘Uh-huh.’
He undid the buckle at the back before dropping it on the floor with his jacket.
‘Then the kilt pin.’
‘Give me a twirl,’ she said.
He grinned, and did so—meaning she got to see the perfect musculature in his back.
‘Then the buckles,’ he whispered. ‘Except I need to do some tidying first.’
‘Tidying?’ She couldn’t think straight. She was still trying to work out what he was wearing under that kilt.
‘Aye. Tidying.’ He picked up her dress and hung it neatly over the back of the chair, hanging his jacket, waistcoat and shirt over the top of it.
Now she understood.
Ryan McGregor was a man who took care of things.
Next, he took off his socks. ‘Because there’s an order to underwear,’ he added.
And a man wearing nothing but socks wasn’t sexy. ‘Excellent idea,’ she said.
He held her gaze, then, and undid first the lower buckle on his right hip and then the upper. He held it with his left hand, while he crossed his left hand over to his right hip to undo the final buckle.
‘And once the buckles are done,’ he said, his voice low and sexy, ‘you take the kilt off.’ He turned away from her, and removed the kilt...
...to reveal soft black jersey shorts that clung to him.
‘So a Scotsman does wear something under his kilt, then,’ she said, her voice shaky.
‘This one does, aye.’ He placed the kilt neatly on the other clothes on the back of the chair, and gave her the most scorching look. ‘But close your eyes and hold that thought.’
He was going shy on her, after looking at her
