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Filthy, and tired, but satisfied.

She could look around the gleaming, cozy room, and know she did this. It was the same sense of fierce satisfaction when her roses bloomed, or she coaxed an ailing fern back to life, or a new variety reproduced.

Yes, her shoulders ached, her hair looked as if she’d been through a windstorm, and she had something unmentionably brown under her nails, but she’d accomplished quite a bit.

Thinking of her list of firsts, she had to grin. Yes, indeed you have.

With a sigh, Georgia began to remove the pins from her hair. The kerchief Mary had provided had luckily protected her braids from most of the dust, but it was still a relief to comb her fingers through the locks, and drape them over her shoulder.

She stretched, first one way, then the other, relishing the pull in her back. Sighing again—this time in satisfaction of a job well done—she bent over the basin and wet a cloth.

She was scrubbing the rose-scented soap across her neck when she heard a sound at the door. Without straightening, she glanced in the mirror…

Just in time to see the reflection of the door opening and Demon stepping through as if he owned the place.

And Georgia’s mind was shocked enough to whisper: He does own the place. And you.

She stood there—or rather, bent there—the water dripping down her neck and soaking the top of her chemise.

But it was the way he locked eyes with her in the mirror that made her nipples harden.

He kicked the door shut without turning and began a slow prowl toward her. She felt the moment he broke eye contact in order to sweep his hungry gaze down her body, clad only in her light underthings. Good heavens, with her rear end sticking out as if on presentation, this was eerily similar to her position down in the study.

Eerie? No, shocking. Stimulating. Arousing. Her heart had sped up in anticipation, and she was having trouble taking a full breath.

He stopped right behind her, his reflected gaze meeting hers once more.

Faint scents of horse and male sweat and hay reached her nose. It should have been disgusting.

It wasn’t.

Georgia’s pulse fluttered in her temple like a caged bird, and she realized she was holding her breath.

In the mirror, she watched the play of emotions across his face. He seemed to be at war with himself, torn between whatever had been on his mind when he’d stepped into her chamber, and whatever he’d realized when he’d seen her on display.

Then he seemed to come to some decision, his expression clearing into certainty as his gaze rested on the reflection of her breasts in the mirror.

The Demon reached for the front of his kilt. She saw him grab his hardness through the wool, saw him stroke himself lightly, and couldn’t stop the faint sound of need which emerged from her lips.

And he heard it, judging from the flash of arrogance in his eyes. His free hand closed around one of her buttocks, his large fingers warm through the linen of her chemise and bloomers.

Just like earlier.

“This is mine,” he growled.

She held his gaze, unable to look away, unable to deny the truth. Swallowing, she tried to nod.

“Say the words.”

Georgia’s eyes fluttered closed, more to protect her own pride than to hide from the feral strength in his expression. When his fingers dug into her flesh, she shuddered.

“Y-Yes,” she whispered, feeling her core heat with liquid desire. “Yes, this is yours.”

When he grunted, she opened her eyes in time to see him flip up his kilt and grab his cock. He was behind her, so it was impossible to judge in the mirror, but he seemed much larger than Roger.

Georgia braced her palms on the stand and locked her gaze on her own eyes in the mirror. Was she doing this? Was she really about to do this?

The cool air hit her arse as he pulled aside her underclothes, then he was nudging her legs apart. It was easier to watch herself than him, but Georgia felt a sort of disembodiment, as if viewing the scene from afar.