Page 116 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

She arched up, mouth parting. “Then keep sinning.”

That drew a soft laugh from him—low and hoarse. “You’ll ruin me.”

“Already have,” she whispered.

His hand slid down her waist, fingers skimming her ribs, the curve of her hip then further—down the length of her thigh and back up again. He touched her like she was something precious,something living and breathing and unrepeatable. Every stroke was deliberate. Every pause a question.

Eleanor’s legs parted instinctively, her skin already slick with heat, her hips restless beneath him.

He looked down at her, hair falling loose over his brow. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she said, without hesitation. “Every inch of you.”

He didn’t respond with words. He dipped his head again, trailing kisses down her sternum, her stomach, lower—until she cried out, twisting against the sheets. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady as his tongue circled her with maddening patience.

Eleanor had never felt anything like it.

She buried her hands in his hair, legs trembling. Every nerve in her body lit with fire. Her breath came in shallow pants, her head thrown back against the pillow, and still he didn’t stop—working her with his mouth until she was shaking, until she was desperate, until she was on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful all at once.

When she came, it was with his name on her lips, half a sob, half a prayer.

He moved back up her body, his mouth finding hers again. She tasted herself on his lips. She moaned into him, pulling him closer, wrapping her legs around his hips until there was nothing left between them but heat and want.

She opened her eyes once and caught him staring.

“What?” she whispered, breathless.

“You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, voice rough with awe. “And I’ve seen war.”

Her stomach clenched. Her pulse thundered.

She reached up, cupped his cheek, and pulled him down.

Then he slid inside her.

Her breath caught on a sob, his name a broken plea on her lips. He moved slowly, reverently, like a man terrified of waking from a dream. Her nails bit into his back. Her legs wrapped tight around his hips. They breathed the same air.

He touched her like he’d been blind for years and had finally been given sight.

He whispered her name. He pressed kisses to her shoulders, her collarbone, her lips.

And when she broke apart beneath him, he followed, groaning against her throat like it hurt to leave her body.

They lay tangled in silence.

The sunlight shifted through the curtains. Her chest rose and fell against his. Her hair stuck to his jaw.

She could feel his heart—still thundering. Still hers.

Eleanor turned her face and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I love you.”

Ramsay opened his eyes.

“I know,” he said with a smirk.

She smiled. “Cocky.”

“Yours,” he said.

She curled into him, the pendant warm at her throat, his arm wrapped tight around her. And for the first time in her life, she didn’t wonder what would come next.

Because whatever it was—this was her home now. And she would never walk away.

The End?