Page 82 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

His mouth found hers with aching certainty.Slow and reverent.Like he wanted to remember her—how she tasted, how shegasped, how she melted the moment his hand curved at her waist.

Her fingers fumbled forward and caught his broad shoulders, and she held on—like she’d fall if she didn’t.

His mouth slanted over hers again, hungrier this time. Rougher. More certain.

He kissed like he fought—with all of himself. With fire. With fury. With an edge of desperation. And she matched it. She kissed him back like she’d been waiting her whole life to be ruined like this.

The wind stirred around them. Birds wheeled somewhere high above.

And somewhere deep inside her, the voice that kept her grounded—be good, be proper, be careful—went quiet.

She leaned into him. Chased the heat. Chased the ache. Until there was no space left to chase, only the feel of his hands moving down, strong and urgent, cupping her hips, tugging her against him.

He dipped his fingers further, circling slowly, teasing around the delicate folds. Eleanor’s breath caught, her body arching toward his touch.

“Please,” she whispered against his mouth, fingers threading into his coat, “don’t stop.”

His mouth claimed hers again, slower, harder — possessive. Tongue tracing her lips, pulling hers apart.

He caught her sudden gasp and without breaking the kiss, roughly pushed her back against the bark of a tree. The wood pressed into her spine, grounding her in the wildness of the moment.

With a quick, fierce tug, he yanked the dress upward—just enough to expose the tender skin of her inner thigh and the bare curve of her hip.

Eleanor’s breath hitched at the sudden cool air and the boldness of his touch. His rough fingers traced the exposed flesh, fingertips skating over the soft hollow between her legs, making her tremble.

He kept his mouth glued to hers, lips devouring every sound she made as he worked her dress higher, baring more of her to his hungry hands.

Ramsay’s hand moved faster, teasing her wetness, fingers stroking the tender, secret place that made her knees weaken.

“Do you feel that, lass?” His voice was rough, ragged, his brogue more pronounced. “That’s how badly I want ye.”

Eleanor’s hands tangled in his hair as he pulled her head back gently, lips trailing down her neck to the hollow just beneath her ear.

His fingers slipped inside her folds—slow, sure, exploring with an urgency that set her skin alight.

She moaned low, hips pressing up involuntarily. “Ramsay… please.”

His mouth crushed down on hers, lips swallowing her desperate cries, one hand tangling in her hair, pulling gently, holding her still even as his fingers moved faster—curling, pressing, demanding.

“Beg for me, Eleanor,” he growled between kisses, voice dark with need.

“Please, don’t stop. I need—” Her words broke on a shuddering gasp.

His fingers curled deeper, slipping and teasing inside her slick heat, the pressure exquisite and fierce.

She trembled, body tight with rising fire. “More… please.”

He didn’t hesitate. Fingers pushed further, filling her with hard, sure strokes while his mouth devoured hers, lips and tongue claiming her breath and voice.

Her heart pounded wild and loud, all thought gone but the desperate craving to feel him—completely.

“You drive me mad,” he rasped, lips brushing hers between fierce kisses, “and I’ll not stop ’til you scream my name.”

Eleanor clung to him, a wild surrender, the forest around them fading to nothing but the heat of his hands, the roughness of his mouth, and the ache building deep inside her.

“Ramsay—” and her knees gave out.

He caught her. Lifted her like she was nothing. And when he laid her down in the grass, Eleanor let go. Of lessons. Of rules. Of dignity. Of fear.