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But here she was, showing him how to pleasure her.

By pleasuring herself.

He stared at her, watching the way she stroked and plucked and rubbed. She pulled at first one nipple, then the other, stretching them until she whimpered.

Ye like it rough?

His bride liked it rough, and he didn’t know why that should enflame him so—was he not supposed to treat his wife with gentleness?—but good God Almighty, he was ready to spend across his own hand at the thought.

And then she gasped, her eyes flying open to meet his gaze directly.

Olivia pushed against the chair, straining upward, and sunk her fingers into her core, all the way to her palm. When she moaned and bucked against her hand, he knew she was coming.

That’s it, lass. That’s the way.

He wanted to croon it to her. He wanted to encourage her, encourage her boldness.

But all he could do was offer a silent moan and stroke himself faster.

She was so Goddamned alluring. Did she have any idea how perfect she looked, fooking her own hand like that? She moaned again and writhed, holding his gaze boldly while his strokes became more frantic.

Then, with another gasp, she slumped against the leather chair.

And a bolt of unexplained, unexpected disappointment flooded him. She was done, and he’d done nothing for her. He wanted to be the one to bring her to orgasm.

Desperately, achingly so.

Still holding his gaze, Olivia lifted her hand from her cunny—he could see the evidence of her desire spread across her fingers—and pulled it to her lips. Smirking slightly, she licked her own fingers, tasting herself.

It was beyond erotic, and Alistair couldn’t be expected to withstand something so sensual. Chest tightening with the groan he couldn’t allow to escape, he came across his hand, his cock jerking as it spurted thick white ropes of his seed.

Breathing heavily, he sagged, hand still around his cock, gaze still locked on hers. Had that really just happened? They hadn’t spoken, hadn’t touched…just watching her touching herself had been enough to make him explode with need.

Olivia’s fingers were idly stroking her breast, her expression thoughtful as she studied him.

And Alistair…even if he could speak, he wasn’t certain what one said after an experience like that.

Thank ye?

Please, let’s do that again sometime?

Now that I ken what ye like, I swear to Christ I’ll make it up to ye?

Or possibly, all of the above.

But…but she still hadn’t told him what she wanted from him.

Perhaps she just wanted to continue touching herself. Perhaps that’s what this was all about. Perhaps, after his failure on their wedding night, Olivia was telling him—showing him—that she didn’t need him.

And that thought made him ache as well, although he wasn’t certain why.

A bride wasn’t supposed to change his life. This marriage had been for his sake; he would add a wife into his household, a woman who would learn from his mother and giggle with his sisters and generally leave him alone until he needed her.

But his bride had marched into his room and shown him how to be a better man.

And Alistair was finding he wanted to know more about this daring wife of his.

Still wearing that small, secret smile, Olivia pushed herself to her feet. With no apparent self-consciousness, she padded naked to where that white dressing gown had fallen. When she stooped to pick it up, he got a nice view of that round arse of hers, and felt his cock twitch.