Page 60 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“Then you’ll also take this one seriously.”

“I—” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean I wouldn’t… eventually… it’s just?—”

“You’re stalling.”

His words landed like a strike, sharp and deliberate.

Eleanor straightened, heat flaring along her spine. “I’m explaining.”

His eyes didn’t waver. “You’re stalling.”

Her breath hitched. She hated how easily he could undo her. How close he stood now, how still, how sure of himself, as if he already knew how this conversation would end. As if she were the one catching up.

“I just—” she tried, but the words tangled. “What if I never want to?”

It came out sharper than intended. She hadn’t meant to challenge him. And yet she had. Fully. Stupidly. Her heart pounded in her throat.

His gaze darkened. Not with anger but something heavier. More dangerous. “You will.”

She blinked. “How can you be so certain?”

He took the final step. Just one. But it obliterated what little space remained between them.

Eleanor forgot how to breathe.

His body didn’t touch hers, but she could feel the heat rolling off him, warm and dizzying, making her skin tighten and her knees lock in self-defense. His breath was steady. Hers wasn’t. Her hands itched with tension, clenching so tightly at her sides, the knuckles blanched white.

He tilted his head, just slightly. His voice came low, a quiet rasp that seemed to skim her collarbone without needing to touch it. “Because you’re already halfway there, lass.”

The words melted into her.

She opened her mouth—to deny it, maybe. To tell him that he was wrong, so wrong, except her throat had closed up, and her lungs had forgotten how to work. All that escaped was a soft sound. A useless, broken breath that only betrayed her.

And then he leaned in.

Not to kiss her mouth. No, he bypassed that, almost cruelly. Almost like he knew it would undo her faster.

His lips found the curve of her neck, just beneath the ear. A single, searing kiss.

Her entire body lit up like a struck match.

He kissed her again. Lower this time, dragging heat down the slope of her neck. Slow. Measured. Possessive. As if he had every right. As if she’d already said yes without realizing.

Eleanor swayed.

Her hands had curled tighter, fingertips numb. She couldn’t lift her arms. Couldn’t lean forward. Couldn’t pull away. She felt drugged, stunned by sensation. Her knees quivered. Her thighs clenched. And she hated how much she needed to hold still.

He paused just beneath her jaw, and she could feel him exhale. Warm and heavy. His nose brushed the underside of her chin. His voice was velvet and iron.

“Tell me when.” The words slid into her skin.

She couldn’t speak. Her lips parted. Her tongue was dry. There were a thousand responses lined up in her head, and none of them made it to her mouth.

He stepped back. The space he left felt brutal. Cold.

But his eyes never moved from hers. And in them she saw everything he hadn’t touched: her wrists, her spine, her chest rising too fast. Every inch of her was caught in that stare.

“Until then…” he said softly, “you’ll think of this.”