Page 104 of The Highland Game

And then he shifts his attention to the side, teasing the bristles over the curve of my hip. My breath falters as the brush skims over my most sensitive places in a delicate caress. It glides down the tender skin of my inner thigh, following the length of my leg until it comes to rest at my knee.

By now I’m a quivering mess, every inch of me attuned to him. He swaps sides then, starting at my other hip and repeating the torturously delicious path down my other leg.

And then . . . then he drags the brush in slow circles that bring him closer and closer back to where I’m aching for him most.

He lets out a low, wicked chuckle. “This might just be my favourite bit.”

The bristles graze the delicate skin between my thighs—soft at first, then firmer with calculated strokes that send sparks shooting straight through me. He spends longer there than anywhere else, stroking, swirling, and driving me absolutely mad.

“Jamie!” I whisper, my voice barely more than a gasp.

“Aye, lass?” he says with a grin in his voice. “I can’t rush perfection. You’ll just have to be patient.”

It’s a ridiculously small patch of skin for Jamie to fuss over with such precision—but, let’s be honest, painting probably isn’t what’s on his mind anymore. Not that I’m complaining. If this is his idea of art, he can take all bloody day to finish.

Finally the brush stills, and my whole body trembles with the loss.

“Well?” I murmur, my voice tight with equal parts need and curiosity. “How does it look?”

“Hmm . . .” He pauses like he’s truly considering the question. “It’s a masterpiece. But only because I had such a beautiful canvas to start with.”

He undoes my restraints, followed by the blindfold. I blink, adjusting to the light, then get up to inspect myself in the mirror. Across my skin, in loops and swirls, are Celtic patterns. I’d half expected Jamie to slap on a smiley face or something equally daft, but this is actually pretty good. It’s not far off how the actors looked in that famous scene in Highland Legacy, the one I may or may not have paused and stared at for far too long.

And then I notice what he’s done on my chest. Right over my heart are the initials lnl and sl—LochNLoad and SassyLassie—woven into a braided heart. Something warm blooms inside me, unfurling like the first petals of a flower in spring.

“Jamie,” I whisper, “It’s perfect.”

I turn to him. He’s still in his boxers, although they’re doing a piss-poor job of hiding just how . . . enthusiastic he got during our little art session. My lips twitch into a grin.

“Someone’s keen,” I remark, letting my gaze linger meaningfully.

“That,” Jamie says with a cheeky raise of his brows, “is entirely your fault.”

“Oh?” I step closer and run a finger lightly along his waistband. “Well, guess what? It’s your turn now.” I push him back onto the bed.

His eyes gleaming with anticipation, he stretches his arms lazily above his head, ready for what’s coming.

“Blindfold first,” I say.

He smirks but doesn’t protest as I slide it over his eyes.

“And now for this.” I reach for the scarf he used on me and loop it around his wrists, tying them to the headboard just as securely as he tied me earlier.

I lean down to press a kiss to his jawline. Then, with one smooth motion, I pull down his boxers and toss them aside, leaving Jamie completely bare beneath me. I take a moment to survey my canvas: broad, sculpted shoulders; lean muscles that ripple ever so slightly as he adjusts beneath me; and taut abs leading down to . . . well, yes.

“See anything you like?” Jamie quips from beneath his blindfold.

“Aye, though you’ll look even better once I’m finished with you.”

Picking up a fresh brush, I decide to have a bit of fun before starting properly. Without warning, I trail the bristles ever so lightly across a very sensitive spot: his balls. It’s more of a tickle than anything else—scarcely there at all—but the effect is immediate and hilarious.

Jamie lets out the most undignified squawk I’ve ever heard—which sends me into fits of giggles—and jerks against his restraints, hips twitching away from the offending brush.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

“What?” I ask innocently. “You painted me down there.”

“Aye, but that was different!” he protests, squirming when I flick the brush against him again for good measure. “There are rules! You can’t start there! That’s cheating!”