Page 60 of The Scot is Hers
“For every pawn that I take of yours, ye get to direct me in some...act. And the same for if I take a pawn of yours.” He handed her a cup of whisky.
“What sort of act?” Her heart thudded against her ribs as the smell of the spirits rose to greet her. She didn’t drink whisky—had sipped some once years before, but her mother found the drink to be very unladylike. Ladies were to stick to champagne, sherry, tea, lemonade. No spirits or ale—that was for men who wanted to have hair on their chests.
“Say a kiss on the hand...or the lips.”
“Oh.” All the air left her in a whoosh. A kiss. She licked her lips as she thought of his mouth on her own. This was a very naughty game, indeed. And she was entirely fascinated. “What if we are caught?” She glanced toward the door as if she suspected to find her mother barging through at any moment.
“Well, lass, there is a secret door on the second floor of this verra library. In case ye did no’ see it behind the hearth.”
The one door she’d wondered where it led. “I’ve seen it before.”
He wiggled his brows. “Ye’ll make your escape through there, and I’ll answer the door to say I’d no’ seen ye.”
“Will your mother suspect?”
“Aye, but even if she decided to divulge the information, what are they going to do, force us to wed? We’re already planning on it.”
“That is true.” And she really wanted to play.
“Game on, then. Cheers.” Alec clinked his glass to hers and brought it to his lips.
She followed, sipping slowly on the whisky, which burned the moment it hit her tongue. She sucked in a breath, feeling her lungs expand, and even the inhalation of the scent of the spirits made them feel a little as if they were burning too. Somehow, she forced herself not to cough but to swallow it as he had.
Alec settled in the seat across from where she was to sit. “Ladies move first.”
Giselle sat down, her belly warm and her skin feeling a little flushed. With her whisky cup settled beside the board, she stared down at her pieces. She couldn’t make up her mind, so she moved one of her pawns. Alec followed suit, moving one of his into the direct line of attack, forcing her to take it. He picked up his whisky and clicked her glass.
“Ye’ve made your first winning move,” he said.
Giselle sipped her whisky, too, the sensation of heat growing inside her.
“Now, my lady, what is your request?”
That was a loaded question. There was a lot she wanted from him. But perhaps she ought to take this slow. Giselle wriggled her gloved fingers over the chessboard.
“Remove my gloves, my lord.” If her mother were to see this, she would not think this was dawdling at all but a grave sin, which made Giselle all the more excited for it.
Alec grinned. “That is verra naughty, my lady. What will your mother think if she saw ye in my company without your gloves?”
Giselle laughed. “I daresay she’d lock me in my room.”
Alec danced his fingers up the length of her arm, past her elbow to where her glove began. He slipped his fingers beneath the edge, and gooseflesh rose on her skin. She bit her lip as he unhurriedly peeled away the layer of silk to reveal her naked flesh. The move was so sensual, so forbidden, that he could have been taking off her gown for all it mattered. Was it the whisky or the intensity of his green regard?
When he’d removed one, he moved to her other arm, repeating the undertaking, and by the end, her cheeks were aflame, and she hoped he didn’t notice her sudden need to breathe harder. All he was doing was taking off her gloves, for goodness’ sake. But she knew it was so much more than that. The way the pads of his fingers slid scandalously over the sensitive flesh of her inner elbow, down to her fingers and between them. Everything tickled and sent hot frissons of need coursing through her.
“All finished.” Her gloves were draped over his outstretched hand, and she snatched them back, trying to smile when she felt like sighing. “My turn.”
He moved another pawn forward, and she did the same without even considering another piece on the board—because of what happened next. He took her pawn and grinned at her as though he were a cat that had caught a mouse. Again, he lifted his whisky, and she mimicked him, taking a long, slow sip as she watched him over the rim of his glass.
“Ah, now I get to make a request.”
Giselle’s heart skittered somewhere up her throat as she waited on bated breath for what he’d say next.
“I should like to request a shoulder massage.”
She cocked her head to the side. “A shoulder massage?” She’d never given anyone a massage or received one either. How exactly did one go about that? Was she just supposed to rub his shoulders?
“Aye.” He shot her a wicked grin. “With your bare hands.”
