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She gasped, her head tilting back instinctively to give him better access. His hand slid further up her thigh, fingertips teasing the lace edge of her thong, making her shiver.

“Please…” she murmured, her hands rubbing him through his jeans. Tugging at his waistband.

He stilled slightly, just enough to look at her. His blue eyes were dark and stormy, a question lingering there.

“Are you sure?” His voice was husky, his chest rising and falling with restraint.

“God, yes,” she whispered, dragging his mouth back to hers in a kiss that was all heat and hunger.

He kissed her again, slower this time, his hand slipping beneath her thong to cup her, his thumb brushing her slick heat with an agonisingly gentle stroke. She cried out softly, her hips jerking against his hand.

“Ìosa, you’re so ready for me…” he murmured, kissing along her jaw as his fingers began a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her toes curl.

Jenn clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in, her breath coming in ragged bursts. She couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel as the pleasure built inside her. He kissed his way down her neck and collarbone, over her stomach and along her thighs. Her dress was hiked high across her waist as he settled between her thighs, the fabric bunched and forgotten around her hips. Cool air hit her bare skin in sharp contrast to the molten heat already building low in her belly.

“Ruairidh…” She looked down at him, eyes half-lidded, her body shivering with anticipation. She was caught somewhere between daze and delirium.

“I’ve been fantasising about this for months…” he growled, the sound low, almost feral. The vibration of it against her skin made her stomach clench, her thighs trembling where he gripped them.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh, anchoring her open for him, holding her exactly where he wanted her. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and bent to her like a starving man.

There was no restraint, no teasing, no hesitation—only desire.

His mouth was hot and relentless, working her through the thin barrier of lace, sucking and biting as if the flimsy scrap of material wasn’t in the way at all. Her thong stayed on, which only made it worse—or better. Every swipe of his tongue soaked the fabric, every delicious press of his mouth ground the damp fabric harder against her clit. He circled and pressed his tongue against her entrance until the sensations became maddening. The wet heat of him contrasted with the rough friction of the cloth, driving her higher with every movement. Too much. Not enough. Both at once.

He groaned low into her, the sound guttural, vibrating through the fabric straight into her nerves. She felt it everywhere—deep, consuming—while his grip on her thighs tightened, holding her in place as she writhed helplessly against his mouth.

Her hands fisted in the cushions, then in his hair, tugging without control.

He only growled, moving his head against her in a devastating drag of tongue and fabric that made her cry out. The fact that they were both still half-dressed—her dress rucked up, his jeans shifting against the sofa—only sharpened the ache. He was devouring her like she was his only need, and it made her pulse hammer with want.

She rocked against him, riding his mouth like she needed it to breathe, chasing the unbearable pleasure he gave her. His shoulders strained beneath her gripping legs, every muscle in his arms taut as he held her down and feasted. All that intensity and focus directed on her. Her thighs quivered around his head, her heels digging into his back. The pressure built too quickly, too sharply.

“Ruairidh—”

His name tore from her lips, raw and desperate, her voice breaking apart as the peak seized her. Her climax hit like a lightning strike, violent and overwhelming, tearing through her in shuddering waves. Her spine curled off the sofa, a cry ripping out of her as she clenched helplessly, her whole body convulsing with pleasure.

But he didn’t relent.

He groaned into her, the sound ragged and ravenous, licking her through it, sucking and teasing her mercilessly even as she writhed and gasped, dragging every last aftershock from her until she was trembling, boneless, wrecked beneath him.

Her orgasm felt like it was going on for days.

Endless, rolling through her in relentless pulses until she collapsed back to the sofa, chest heaving, skin damp with sweat, every limb shaking. And still, he held her thighs pinned over his shoulders, his mouth wet against her, lifting his head just enough to look at her—eyes molten, lips glistening, breath ragged—as if he’d barely begun.

“Oh… God…”

Ruairidh shifted, lowering her legs as he moved up her body.

She opened her eyes to a very smug, very wicked, very male smile. Definitely nothing unreadable in that look.

She pulled him into a slow, deep, and grateful kiss, tasting herself on his mouth. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he chuckled darkly against her lips, and the sound shivered straight down her spine.

Her fingers fumbled with his belt, but he covered her hand with his own, undoing the buckle and sliding his jeans halfway down as if he’d been holding himself back too long. The faint rasp of denim and the sight of him—half-dressed, flushed, and utterly intent on her—made her pulse race. Her free hand stroked his length through his boxers, and he groaned into her neck, hips jerking involuntarily at the contact.

“Jenn—if you keep that up…” He laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking on another groan as she slipped her hand beneath the waistband and wrapped her hand around him properly, stroking him with a firm, teasing rhythm.