The wit. He had to give it to her, it was a feature he loved in his women. He never wanted someone who was delicate and shallow, everything in his dreams had made him recognize that. A woman with depth and cunning, like most Scottish women, that was what he liked to see.
A nervousness continued to creep through his veins at her touch as much as he craved it. Something in the depths of his mind shouted silent warnings, yet he could not stop himself either. It was all too real. She was too real- the perfect replica of the woman from his dreams. The feel of her fingers in his and all he could think was what they could do to him (not even in an entirely sexual way.)
"Aye, but I could make it warmer," he retorted. "And I work on a yacht, so I could show you around one."