Page 60 of The Scot's Perfect Match
It was soft at first, tentative, an answer and a question all at once. But the instant Ava felt his sharp inhale against her lips, the moment his hand slid from her cheek to the curve of her jaw, something in her unraveled.
Gavan groaned, quiet, low, like he’d been holding it in for years, and closed the space between them entirely, his other arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her against him. The hard planes of his chest met the soft press of her bodice, and for a breathless second, Ava forgot where she was, who she was, only that she was in his arms, and it felt inevitable.
Her fingers, which had been clutching at her skirts like a lifeline, rose of their own accord, sliding over the broad span of his shoulders, curling into the thick fabric of his coat as if she could anchor herself there. He kissed her like a man starved, like a man who had been waiting for this moment as long as she had, his lips claiming hers with a heat that left her dizzy.
The world fell away, the cool night air, the distant hum of music from the house, the lantern glow flickering through the ivy. There was only the press of his mouth on hers, the intoxicating warmth of his body, the wild hammering of her heart as she gave in to something she had denied herself for far too long.
When he deepened the kiss, tilting her head just enough to claim her fully, she made a sound, soft and desperate, that betrayed every carefully crafted wall she’d ever built. His grip at her waist tightened and he drew her closer until there was no space left between them, save for their shared breath. There was a faint tremble in his fingers that matched the quiver in her body, as she matched his kiss with the urgency of one who’d been running from what they truly wanted for too many years.
And heaven help her; she didn’t want to run anymore.
But she also didn’t want more rumors to swirl. Aye, they were in the garden, but they could be discovered at any moment. Ava pressed her hands to his chest and gave a gently push. When they finally parted, it wasn’t because she wanted to. It was more that she was afraid of what might happen if she didn’t stop.
Her forehead rested against his, both of them breathing hard, the night heavy with all the things they hadn’t said, the intimate kiss that scorched.
“Ava,” he murmured, voice rough and unsteady, as if her name alone might undo him.
Her lips trembled, but her answer came in a whisper that was more plea than command, “Kiss me again.”
Her breath came in shallow, uneven pulls, lips tingling from the kiss, her body still pressed flush against his. She didn’t want to let go. Couldn’t.
The spell was shattered by distant laughter trailed from the path toward the garden, getting closer. A pair of guests, most likely seeking a quiet corner of their own.
Gavan tore himself away. Not roughly, but with the controlled urgency of a man who knew what discovery would mean for her, especially after already having done so in the light of the festival.
“Ava,” he said again, this time with steel beneath the softness.
Still bemused, still feeling the weight of his lips on hers, she blinked up at him. “I?—”
“Come. Before anyone sees.” He caught her hand, threading his fingers through hers as if to steady them both.
Her legs were heavy, moving slow in protest, but she let him guide her, skirts whispering against the stone as they slipped down the shadowed garden path toward the side terrace. They moved quickly, silently, the glow of the ballroom growing closer until they were once again at the edge of the gilded, laughing world that had no idea what had just passed between them.
Before they reached the terrace door, he paused, pulling her into the shelter of the shadows. His chest rose and fell like a man who’d just fought a war. And perhaps, in a way, he had.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his voice so low she had to lean in to hear. “About standing between ye and the rest of the world.”
The intensity of Gavan's words stunned her, nearly taking her breath. She swallowed, unable to summon words. Against her ribs, her heart thundered, wild and unrepentant, as Gavan opened the door and ushered her inside, his hand disappeared from the small of her back, leaving a cold spot she wanted warmed.
And just like that, she was the hostess again, silk and poise and practiced smiles, while behind her, Gavan melted back into the crowd, the secret of what had passed between them lingering like heat on her skin. The tingle in her lips.
But as she stepped back into the glittering crush of music and laughter, one truth rang clear as the notes of the waltz spilling from the musicians: her heart no longer belonged to her.
The moment the warmth and chatter of the ballroom swallowed her, Ava felt as though she’d stepped into another life. A brighter, louder one where nothing at all had happened in the shadowed garden.
But her body wouldn’t let her forget a single thing.
Her pulse galloped like she'd danced a hundred waltzes in a row, and her skin still tingled where his hands had gripped her waist. The memory of his touch, his kiss, clung to her, making the bright light and smiling faces seem dreamlike and distant. She forced herself not to search for him in the crowd. To pretend that her entire world hadn’t just shifted on its perfectly aligned axis.
With trembling fingers, she reached for a glass of punch from a passing footman, more for something to hold, and hopefully steady her, than to drink.
“Are ye quite well?” Freya’s voice slid in, casual but probing, as she appeared at Ava’s elbow.
Ava forced an airy, unbothered laugh. “A bit warm. Too much dancing.”
Freya’s eyes flicked to the terrace door as if she’d spied Gavan and Ava in the garden. “Mm. I imagine so.”
Before Ava could summon a retort, or a denial, Freya’s husband whisked her away for a dance. Ava exhaled, grateful for the reprieve. She watched the dancers, spying Moira gliding across in the arms of Asher, her cheeks flushed and her laughter bubbling up like champagne. They looked utterly at ease with one another and smiling in a way that made the whole room feel warmer.
