She reached for the scrap of fabric tying the end of her plaited hair. She pulled the knot loose and began to tease the strands of the braid apart, shaking her head gently to distribute them.
In this moment, she would do almost anything he asked. But she wasn’t doing any of it for him. Oh, no. This was all for herself. She loved the way he was looking at her right now. She never wanted it to end.
“Now this.”
He pushed the sleeve of her shift down her shoulder. She tensed.
“I just want to look, mo chridhe.” His voice was hoarse. “Let me have this much.”
He pushed the panel down to reveal her breast. With just the pad of his fingertip, he circled her pink areola. Her nipple tightened to an aching peak.
Maddie glanced up at him. The expression on his face was pure, unfiltered yearning. She never would have believed she could inspire that look in anyone, much less a man who’d been privy to her worst sins. He swallowed, and the hard bob of his Adam’s apple was the most sensual, arousing thing she’d ever seen.
Her whole life had been an exercise in avoiding attention. Observing, rather than being observed. She’d mastered the art of hiding in plain view. And for the first time, she never wanted this attention to end.
She slipped her arm from the loosened sleeve entirely. Then she undid a few more buttons of the shift, pulled her other arm free, and let the cloud of white linen settle about her waist.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
“Lie back on the bed.”
She followed his instruction, reclining against the bed. In an impulse of sheer wantonness, she pushed the wadded shift over her hips and peeled it down her legs. Leaving herself completely bare, from head to toe.
Her choice of position was instantly more fraught than she had anticipated. Should she lie on her back, or on her side? Bent legs or straight? And for heaven’s sake, what should she do with her arms? Stretch them overhead? At her sides? One of each?
Her sincerest impulse was to flail them about in indecision, but that wasn’t the erotic picture she hoped to present.
In the end, she lay on her side, crosswise on the bed. Legs together, bent gently at the knees. With one arm, she propped up her head. The other hand lay draped—- casually, she hoped—-on her thigh.
He stared at her.
He stared at her so long without speaking that she began to grow concerned.
“Maybe this was a bad id—-”
He shushed her. “Sketches don’t talk.”
She touched the backs of her fingers to her elongated neck, drawing them slowly downward. She waited for him to complain that sketches didn’t move, either.
He didn’t complain.
Unless a strangled groan counted as a complaint, and she didn’t think it did.
She let her fingertips drift lower, down into the hollow between her breasts. He muttered something Gaelic that she assumed to be the best kind of blasphemy.
With his eyes never leaving her body, he undid a fastening of some kind on the inside of his kilt. The heavy plaid fell to the floor, leaving him every bit as naked as she was.
Every bit as naked, perhaps, but considerably more tanned, muscled, and covered with hair.
More solid, too.
One particular bit of him was very, very hard.
Maddie worried it would be impolite or lewd to stare, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. She was fascinated. Not only as an artist but as a woman as well.
Good heavens. His male organ jutted out from its nest of dark hair, a thick, dusky curve of flesh that appeared, at first glance, quite alarming in size. As she stared at him, her mind was doing estimations, drawing diagrams.
How could . . . ? Why did . . . ?
Her brain could scarcely complete a question. She needed more observation.
Which meant she needed to give him something to watch, too.
With her fingertips, she traced the globe of her breast. Slowly circling her fingers round and round.
He gave a low groan. With one hand, he gripped the bedpost.
He wrapped his other hand around his staff.
The jolt of arousal was immediate. Electric. The moment his hand closed around his rigid staff, her own breeding parts went soft and quivering.
Perhaps she ought to have felt embarrassed—-and to be truthful, she did, a bit. But she couldn’t look away. The visible proof of his arousal, the strength of his grip, the tension in the sinews of his neck as he stroked up and down . . .
She’d caused that. All of it.
The surge of power was intoxicating.
Most thrilling of all was the way he looked at her, or rather looked through her. Inside her. Somewhere behind those eyes, he was making love to her in bold, passionate strokes.
And something told her it wasn’t the first time he’d been lost in that particular fantasy.
The idea was wildly arousing.
She let her fingertip circle one nipple, then the other. Then she drew that single fingertip down her belly. To her own most sensitive place.
He nodded. His eyes, heavy with desire, lifted to hers. “Go on.”