Page 115 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Home.”

The word struck her with all the force of a vow. Her fingers trembled as she fastened the chain around her neck. It sat high—just at the hollow of her throat. And Ramsay’s eyes dropped to it like he’d branded her.

She felt it. That slow, impossible ache that only he could summon. It started at the base of her spine and coiled upward, breathless, unspoken, until her skin burned.

“I love you, Eleanor,” the words hit her like waves.

A pause. The world held still.

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

She touched the front of his shirt, fingers brushing the torn edge of the lapel, still crusted with blood and dust. “Do you know what I thought when you threw that man to the ground?”

“That I’m a savage?” he said softly.

She smiled. “No. I thought you were mine.”

His breath hitched.

She pressed her hand to his chest. Felt the beat of his heart beneath it—uneven, wild. “Do you know what I thought when you kissed me after?”

His gaze burned. “Tell me.”

“I thought you’d never leave again.”

“I won’t,” he said.

Eleanor leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Prove it.”

He didn’t ask how. He didn’t need to. His hands came up like a prayer, one at her waist, the other curling into her hair. And then he was kissing her again.

But this time there was no violence behind it. No desperation. Only heat.

Her body swayed into his. He caught her easily, lifting her into his arms without breaking the kiss. She gasped against his mouth, clutching at the back of his neck.

He walked—stumbling once on the edge of the carpet but laughing, low and rough—and carried her to the bed. When her spine hit the mattress, her breath left her.

“Ramsay—” she began.

But he was already there, lowering over her, his fingers at her stays, his lips trailing fire down her throat.

“I want to feel you,” he said, voice ragged. “I’ve waited too damn long.”

She arched beneath him, eyes fluttering shut. “Then take me.”

He groaned—low, reverent. As if she were made of glass. As if he didn’t know whether to worship her or shatter.

The layers came away slowly. Her bodice first, loosened with trembling fingers. Then her petticoat, the ties shaking as he worked them loose. The soft linen shift clung to her hips like it didn’t want to leave her, and still he coaxed it down, inch by inch, baring her like a secret.

Eleanor lay back against the pillows, breath shallow, skin flushed. Not a single part of her was hidden from him. And not a single part of her wanted to be.

Ramsay hovered above her, hands braced on either side of her hips, his eyes devouring every inch of her skin like he was learning her, line by line, and committing the shape of her to memory.

He bent slowly, brushing his mouth across her shoulder. Her breath caught. The gentleness of it undid her. Lips grazed the slope of her neck. Then lower—along her collarbone, the top of her breast, the swell of it.

When his tongue flicked against the peak of her breast, Eleanor gasped, fingers flying to his hair.

He groaned against her. “You taste like sin.”