Sinclair’s already awakened need jumped higher as he slid off his greatcoat and let Bertie help him out of his frock coat. His windblown cravat easily unwound under Bertie’s fingers. She popped the stud holding his collar and released the restricting band from Sinclair’s throat. Sinclair drew a relieved breath and returned to unbuttoning her bodice.

Joy raced back into Sinclair’s world as they undressed each other, fumbling at clasps, ties, and buttons, excitement making them clumsy. Not long later, Bertie sat on the bed in her combinations, while Sinclair was in nothing but his kilt.

He stood up and removed that, liking how Bertie’s gaze riveted to him as he unpinned and unwound the plaid.

“Blimey,” she said softly.

Sinclair spread the kilt on the bed with unsteady hands. Bertie didn’t take her gaze from him. The compartment’s lamplight hid nothing of his body, showing all his scars, the burn mark on his arm, and the fact that his c**k was hard and lifting high.

The lamplight let him see Bertie as well, as he stripped off her combinations. She leaned back on the bunk, her br**sts touched by the golden light, her ni**les dark. Bertie’s hair, mussed by their playful undressing, trickled across her plump skin.

She was a pleasure to look at. Her belly was a little soft, her h*ps curving from her waist, the sweet curls between her legs as dark as the hair on her head.

A fine woman, bare for him, in this train rushing into the night. They might as well be entirely alone, he thought, at the same time they were surrounded by so many. Up and down the passage, the compartments were shut, hiding the secrets of those hurrying north for a Scottish Christmas.

Sinclair’s fanciful thoughts dissolved to nothing when Bertie reached up and closed her fingers around the tip of his cock.

Bertie liked the feel of his arousal, warm and soft, and at the same time, hard under her fingers.

How could Sinclair have thought anything in this compartment more interesting and wonderful than himself? He’d encouraged Bertie to sing the praises of the woodwork while he was in front of her, smelling of the night and his own intoxicating scent. The hunger in Sinclair’s eyes had nearly undone her.

As she squeezed his hardness, Sinclair’s large hands bunched into fists. He didn’t have the soft hands of a gentleman—he’d fought with these hands, sunburned them, worked them raw. Bertie contrasted that with the skin of his cock, which was hot and smooth, that part of him always hidden from the world.

Beautiful man—he was allowing her to see it, to stroke it. Sinclair didn’t touch Bertie, only let her explore him all the way up his shaft to the fascinating balls that fit into the cup of her hand.

People through the ages had come up with many terms for what she was touching. Funny ones, like John Thomas or fishing rod, but those crude phrases didn’t do Sinclair justice. His beautiful organ stretched toward her, the blunt tip bumping Bertie’s hand as she completed another stroke.

He let her touch a little longer before Sinclair pushed her questing fingers aside and dropped to his knees. He looked her over, his face softening, his voice going low. “How did I stumble upon something as beautiful as you?”

Bertie thrilled to be called so by him, but she only grinned. “I ran into you.” She ran her hand through his warm hair, burnished gold by the lamplight. “Remember?”

He smiled. Bertie loved his smiles and his laughter—she loved him.

And it will be the end of me, a voice inside her said. Too late, much too late to stop now.

“I remember,” Sinclair said. “From then on, every bit of control I had in my life was gone.”

He bent to her and licked between her br**sts, his close-cropped hair tickling her skin. He moved to her nipple, teeth brushing it before he drew it into his mouth.

Bertie’s breath caught as the tiny pain washed fire through her. Sinclair closed his eyes and began to suckle her, the same way he’d suckled her fingers in the darkness of his house. The heat inside her shot higher, as she wondered whether, when Sinclair had done that, he’d been imagining doing this. She shivered, giddy.

“Harder,” she whispered. Why did she want that? “Harder.”

Sinclair curled his tongue around her nipple, his lips tightening. His hands went to her waist, a beautiful man doing a beautiful thing. Bertie pressed him closer, wanting his mouth harder on her, needing it. Don’t let me go.

Sinclair suckled a little longer then pulled away, a sinful glint in his eyes. Bertie’s breast felt raw, cold where the air touched the moisture left by his mouth.

Sinclair moved his hands to her knees and pushed them apart. Then he gently pressed her back into the cushions, hooked his hands around her thighs, and lowered himself between her legs. He licked over her opening once then fastened his mouth to it and began to suckle.

Bertie couldn’t stop her cry. Wild, hot sensations poured through her, the bright friction of his tongue on the most intimate part of her sending her deeper into the cushions. Bertie’s h*ps moved with his mouth’s working, her body instinctively responding.

The train curved hard to the right, the wheels squealing against the tracks. Sinclair put out his strong hand and steadied them both, then, without warning, he thrust his tongue deep into her.

The shrill peal of the train’s whistle drowned out Bertie’s scream. Sinclair raised his head, his eyes full of laughter. “The train wants to challenge us.”

Did it? Bertie pushed her hair from her eyes, her mind muzzy.

“We won’t let it win,” Sinclair said.