Page 59 of The Highland Game

I gasp and take yet another step forwards. Which is a mistake as suddenly I’m achingly aware of everything about him: his folded strong forearms just inches from my chest; the woodsy-spicy scent of his aftershave; the almost imperceptible way his throat bobs.

“It does too!” Okay, so not exactly a winning comeback, but it’s hard to think straight when my brain is too busy cataloguing the little flecks of gold at the centre of Jamie’s irises.

For a moment he doesn’t say anything. His gaze locks on mine, steady and unreadable, before it dips—slowly, deliberately—to my lips. My stupid heart thunders in response, hammering so loudly I’m certain he can hear it. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough. “You’re awfully close, Maisie.”

He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t even blink. The words hang heavy in the sliver of air between us until his eyes drag back up to mine. “Sure you’re just here to argue?”

“What else would I be here for?” My words come out steadier than I feel—a small personal victory.

Jamie’s mouth curves into something wicked and impossibly sexy. “I can think of a few things . . .” His voice drops even lower, then his hand finds my waist, his thumb brushing over the bare skin where my top rides up ever so slightly.

A spark ignites beneath his touch, hot and consuming, and suddenly I’m clutching at his shirt—not to push him away but to pull him closer. There’s no distance left between us now. Just warmth—so much warmth radiating from him it’s ridiculous—and his aftershave messing with what little focus I have left.

God help me.

“I hate you,” I whisper hoarsely. I really do—or at least I did. But right now? Right now my body is determined to betray every shred of logic screaming at me to step away.

“No,” Jamie murmurs with maddening certainty, dipping his head, his breath a whisper against my lips. “You don’t.”

The moment stretches unbearably taut between us until finally—finally—it snaps.

I’m not sure who moves first, but the next thing I know, our mouths are crashing together like every sharp word and buried feeling has finally burst free in a collision of heat and frustration. His lips are firm against mine, carrying the faint taste of smoky whisky and something deeper, something intoxicatingly elusive that leaves my thoughts spinning.

My fingers twist tighter into the fabric of his shirt while his hand curls possessively around my waist, holding me against him like he has no intention of letting go.

Whatever clarity or common sense I had left dissolves into nothingness as the kiss deepens, blotting out everything else: time, place, even reason itself. I barely register that I’m moving until my back meets the rough, unyielding surface of the garage wall. The jarring contrast—the cold bite of concrete and the blistering warmth of his body—sends a shiver through me.

The scrape of his stubble against my skin . . . the way his lips move over mine like he’s determined to leave no part unexplored . . . his chest pressed close to me, every shallow breath I take matched by his deeper ones . . .

For a brief, blessed moment, all I can think about is how good this feels—and then I feel it. Him. That unmistakable press of arousal, firm and insistent against my stomach. A flush spreads through me—hot and heady—curling low in my belly like steam building under pressure.

Laughter carries from the garden, mingling with the strains of music, but it seems so far removed from this moment that it could be happening in another world entirely.

I slide my fingers over the hard planes of his shoulders, mapping every muscle beneath that crisp shirt, then bury them in his hair. It’s even softer than I expected, but I don’t linger on that thought. Instead I give it a firm tug, and the sound that rumbles out of him—a low, guttural groan—vibrates straight through me.

Jamie leans back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes wild now, gold flecks burning bright amidst the hazel. “Maisie.” That’s all he says—my name—but he says it in such a deep, gravelly tone, and with such desire, that it steals away what little breath I have left.

A faint voice of reason stirs somewhere in the fog of want, warning me to stop—to remember all the reasons this shouldn’t happen—but Jamie doesn’t leave room for coherent thought. He slides his hands down to grip my thighs then lifts me off the ground and pins me to the wall. For half a second, something flickers inside me—logic clawing at its final chance—then the hard ridge of his cock presses exactly where I need it, and any hesitation crumbles. Instinct overtakes me before I can stop it, and my legs lock around his waist, drawing him closer.

Jamie moves with purpose now, grinding against me in slow, deliberate rolls that have me biting back a moan. Our mouths collide again, but there’s no finesse left in either of us—just heat and need and almost frantic desperation. He kisses me like he’s trying to devour me whole, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with unrestrained hunger even as one hand slides beneath my T-shirt to skim along bare skin. The calluses on his fingers heighten every sensation, exploring upwards until they reach the edge of my bra.

I should stop this—I know I should—but it’s impossible when everything about him sets fire to my senses: the taste of whisky lingering on his lips; the woodsy scent clinging to him; the way he growls low in his throat when I arch against him. My nails scrape along the nape of his neck lightly at first but then harder. Then he shifts just right and oh⁠—

My head drops back against the wall with a barely contained whimper.

“Fuck,” Jamie mutters, burying his face against my neck as though trying to steady himself—though judging by how tightly he’s gripping me, steady isn’t really an option for either of us anymore.

His hips move again, and dear God, if this keeps up much longer . . .

This is madness. Pure insanity.

And then⁠—

“Jamie! Where are you, mate?” A sharp male voice cuts through the haze like a bucket of icy water.

Jamie freezes instantly, and suddenly we’re both holding our breath as if staying perfectly still will somehow make whoever it is bugger off and leave us alone. We exchange wide-eyed glances, the heat between us still thrumming even though neither one of us dares move another inch.

“Shit,” Jamie murmurs, a mix of frustration and regret lacing the word. His shirt is rumpled where my fist gripped it, his hair sticking up wildly thanks to my wandering fingers. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, and his lips, swollen from our kiss, part slightly as if ready to say something but unsure what. I can’t ignore how he feels against me either: solid, warm, and . . . damn it, still hard. The heat of him lingers between us, radiating like a fire that refuses to die down.