Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
God, she’s going to give me a run for my money, isn’t she?
“Is the dessert really that good?” Alana asks, glancing at my plate pointedly.
“I think it will be,” I say, smiling. “I don’t know what it will be like yet, but I’m guessing.”
And this time, she does catch the meaning of my words because a flush spreads over her cheeks, and she looks down at her plate shyly.
Or, so I think. Her knife and fork fall with a clatter and she clasps her hands together over the plate. Her gaze meets mine again with a somehow innocent and yet knowing smile.
“I think I’d better save room, too,” she says with a sassy tone and a wink.
I clear my throat and shift my chair back from the table.
“How about I tell Tom to let the dessert chill, so we can have it later?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Alana replies without a trace of hesitation.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Alana
I follow Finlay up the impressive staircase from the main hall, admiring the paintings, statues, and vases that line the walls as we go. Not for long, though, because Finlay can’t get up the stairs and along the corridor fast enough, leading me right to a large wooden door that looks just as old as the rest of the house.
He pauses for a moment, looking at me, and then draws my hand to his lips for a kiss. The gesture takes my breath, and before I can recover, he opens the door and pulls me inside, leading me right to the center of what must be the estate’s master bedroom.
It’s a large room, big enough to hold at least three of my bedrooms at home and decorated in an understated yet still somehow grand fashion. Everything is dark wood, from the dresser to the large four-poster bed to the writing desk in the corner, complete with dozens of different-sized drawers to the stand-alone wardrobe.
The bed, which my gaze can’t stop straying back to, is fitted out in what looks like fresh and clean satin sheets in a dark hue, edged with white piping for contrast.
Everything looks expensive, old, and stately. Even though I don’t really think of him that way, it suits Finlay perfectly.
He’s at home here – in his element.
He steps back for a moment, leaving me, and when he comes back, the stone fireplace holds the beginnings of a crackling fire. I feel its warmth wash over my skin, heating what might otherwise be a cold room.
Finlay joins me in the center of the room again. I haven’t moved, too busy looking around to think about moving.
He takes my arms in his hands and then steps back once, letting his fingers slide down my skin to entwine with my own, and looks me up and down as if appraising me. I squirm under the attention.
“You are truly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he says in a low voice, and all the awkwardness melts away.
At the back of the room is a large window, one that must have been added and enlarged in more modern times – there is nothing antique about the thick glass and the wide view, unobscured by an ornamental wooden window frame I might expect from the rest of the décor.
Finlay leads me over toward it, not quite to stand in front of the window but to look out. The view is of the glen around us, the isolated part of it where there are no other buildings or people in sight but only the magnificent hills and the descent down toward the loch.
It’s a stunning view.
Finlay moves behind me, allowing me to take in the view uninterrupted. I tremble when he pauses behind me, his hands on my shoulders and his breath in my ear.
“You know,” he says, his voice low and intimate, only for me. “I had to learn a lot about deer. They’re so graceful, don’t you think? So beautiful. They have these elegant bodies perfect for running, sleek and smooth. Those long, strong necks….”
He begins to nuzzle into my neck from behind, planting kisses along as he goes, bending my head to the side, opening me up for more.
Finally, he reaches down for the hem of my sweater and pulls it up over my head. He leaves me in my bra and jeans before the warmth of his hands settles on my shoulders.
“And they have these long, graceful front legs,” he says, lifting my left arm. He kisses me from my shoulder to my fingertips, making every inch of my skin tingle.
He moves to the other side and does the same with my right arm. The crackling fire fills the silence and makes it comfortable rather than awkward, the warmth of the flames playing along my bare skin.
“Their strength, of course,” he says, reaching around my waist from behind and finding the button and zipper of my jeans, “is only matched by those powerful hind legs.”