Hot Scots Christmas

by Donna Alam

  Thirty-Four

  Fin

  Sometime during the night, nature calls, and as I swing my legs from the warm cocoon of the bedding, a strong arm appears around my waist.

  ‘Don’t go.’ Rory’s voice is thick with sleep and something else; something I find hard to place.

  ‘I need to go,’ I reply, whispering in the darkness, though for whose benefit I’m not sure.

  ‘Go?’ His grip on my waist tightens.

  ‘Nature calls.’

  ‘You’re coming back?’ A crack in his composure; those three words stripping him bare. I don’t need his further clarification; don’t need my eyes to adjust to the darkness to see his expression, though I’m thankful he can’t see mine. ‘I don’t want to wake up and find you gone.’

  My stomach twists and my eyes burn as I take his wrist from my waist and bring it to my lips, placing a kiss against the solid underside. ‘I promise,’ I say, laying it against the mattress as I slide from the bed, turning back to look at him as I open the door. Lying on his side, eyes closed, Rory’s mouth is a soft pout, almost resembling a kiss. He looks almost sweet, like sleep has washed the man out of him leaving behind only the boy. I wish the sight of him didn’t make my heart feel so . . . full.

  I wish I didn’t want him like I do.

  His lips. His hands. His heart. All of him.

  I turn away, swallowing the lump burning my throat.

  When I come back to the room, he’s sprawled out on his back, his sheer size taking up most of the bed. I pull back the covers, slipping into a bed that smells distinctly of him, of shampoo and spice; of something earthy and very male. Of sex.

  The mattress dips a little with the weight of my body, Rory’s arm reaching for me and folding me closer, my head finding a pillow in the hollow between his shoulder and chest. Curled into him, I slide my palm lower from where it rests against the kaleidoscope of colourful ink, down past the line of hair dissecting the hard planes of his stomach, where I halt, suddenly aware of where my hand is going. Doubly so as his muscles tense under my hand.

  ‘Don’t stop.’ Rory’s words are husk and need, his hand covering my own and drawing it further down his body. ‘Please.’ Eyes still closed, his chest rises with a deep inhale as he tilts his head backward, pushing his hardness into both our hands, hissing out an expletive as he tightens my fingers over his silken head.

  I push myself up onto my elbow, his soft breaths now feathering my skin.

  ‘Yeah, like that,’ he says, directing the tempo, my hand still in his.

  Sometimes you want something so badly, you almost try to forget all the hard stuff. The thoughts crowding your brain; the why’s and wherefores. The reasons you’re holding back and protecting your heart from further hurt.

  And other times you just want to suck cock.

  Right now I’m not sure which of these apply as I slide myself down his body.

  Rory’s hand falls away as I position myself over him, kneeling between the power centre of his hips. Bending forward, I skim my tongue down his length, my body coming alive with his gasp—the sweet shock of it tightens my nipples, sensation taut between my legs.

  ‘Fin.’ My name is a whispered plea, his hands bunching and then opening against the bed in an effort of restraint. ‘Take me in your mouth,’ he whispers hoarsely, following it up with a more desperate, and even sweeter to my ears, ‘Please .’

  Rory releases a groan settled somewhere between torture and delight as I push my lips over the smooth head. His hips lift and his body twists as though almost pained as I take my lips almost to the base of him. I work him slowly, my technique all tight lips and sloppy tongue. I push my mouth down over the slick hardness of him, again and again, using my hand to grip his base as I lick, swirl, and lap.

  As I fuck him with my mouth .

  Increasing my rhythm, his movements become more erratic as he grates out a harsh sounding curse.

  ‘Fuck.’ It’s more statement than swear word. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m so fucked.’

  I’m so turned on that I can affect him this way, that the intimacy of having him in my mouth strips him so bare. Hips flexing, he finally pushes his hands into my hair and, without warning or apology, comes thickly in my mouth.

  ‘Christ almighty, I think my heart almost burst.’ Palms flat against his corded thighs, I start to giggle and the next thing I know my chest is flush with his. ‘I’m serious,’ he says, his gaze not serious at all. Chest to chest, his words vibrate through us both. ‘I think my heart might’ve stopped.’

  ‘Good job I know CPR.’

  ‘You kissed the life right out of me.’

  I giggle again, ducking my head against his and snuggling in. There’s a lot to be said for snuggling. And that’s pretty much the last thought I have.

  A pale sun shines in through the open drapes; the bed is warm, but the air around us frosty. My nose feels a little like an icicle as I burrow further under the quilt.

  ‘Mornin’, titch.’ Rory’s mouth is at my shoulder, his lips pressing small kisses there as his hand tightens on my breast, the other around my waist, pulling my ass into the cushion of him. ‘Seems the heater went off.’

  ‘Yeah, it does that sometimes.’

  ‘Are you ever gonna tell me why you’ve been staying here?’

  Tilting my head over my shoulder, I look at him. ‘I told you. I got caught by the tides. It was just easier to stay here a couple times.’

  ‘A couple times?’ His eyebrow quirks like a question mark. ‘There are an awful lot of clothes in that bag at the front door for someone who’s stayed here occasionally.’

  ‘I’m a girl. We don’t travel light.’ I let my head fall back to the pillow. ‘Creeper.’

  ‘Nah, that would’ve been me last week when you stood me up. Quite a collection of smalls you’ve got.’ Though I’m not looking at him, the smile in his teasing is more than evident. ‘Though I’m no’ sure the word small covers some of the stuff I found. Some of those scraps of lace wouldn’t cover much of anything.’

  ‘Double creeper.’ I scoff. ‘I just shoved some stuff in a bag. I have no idea what was in there.’

  ‘That’s disappointing,’ he replies, mockingly contrite. ‘Fancy knickers,’ he murmurs, rolling the r lavishly against the sensitive skin of my neck. ‘And none of them for me.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I reply, shivering. And not because of the arctic temperature in the room. ‘I’ve been trying to avoid you, not encourage you.’

  And there it is; the truth we’ve ignored each time we’ve rolled into bed.

  ‘Aye. But sometimes there’s no use fighting the tides.’ His voice is warm and tender and without a trace of mischief. Well, apart from his tongue flicking out, licking a wet trail across my neck. And kissing. Oh, kissing . ‘And this is far too deep a topic for such a—’ He leans his head over my shoulder, straining to see out the window to where the sun has just disappeared behind a bunch of ominous looking clouds ‘—I was gonna say beautiful morning, but at least it’s not raining.’ Propped now on his elbow, Rory looks down at me, his eyes almost tender. ‘No, it’s still a beautiful morning.’

  ‘It is? Hey!’ I’m suddenly cold and naked, the covers pulled from me, exposing my nakedness. ‘Gimme that back!’

  ‘Shower time,’ he says laughing and drawing the quilt between his legs.

  ‘Dickwad, give me the quilt back!’ I yell, grabbing for them, all of a sudden concerned for the state of my hair. Not that I need to, Rory’s gaze unmoving from my breasts, my nipples like hard points between us.

  ‘I was being a gentleman.’ The way he looks at me is anything but . ‘Just giving you first dibs on the hot water.’

  I halt in my complaining, because here’s the thing; this place is almost impossible to heat and definitely uncomfortable to bathe in, given that the ancient immersion heater provides around half a gallon of hot water per day.

  ‘But if you don’t mind braving the cold water, I’ll go shower first,
no bother.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ I say, scooting over, my feet hitting the bare floorboards in my haste. ‘The North Sea is probably warmer!’

  ‘I call this meeting to order.’ Rory taps the side of an empty cup with a teaspoon, startling the waitress serving at a nearby table.

  ‘So this is what? A breakfast meeting? And here I was thinking you’d just taken me out for sustenance.’

  ‘It’s your own fault,’ he answers, casting a glance around the less than salubrious establishment; the yellow floral wallpaper peeling with age and the matching wipe down plastic tablecloths. ‘We’d have gotten to know each other better and I woulda fed you somewhere a bit more flash on Saturday, if you’d turned up.’

  ‘This meeting’s not strictly business, then?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ He smiles as he answers, reaching across the table for my hand. ‘I’m all about up close and personal today.’

  ‘That’s nothing new.’

  ‘And that’s why we’re here now.’

  ‘Really? I thought we were here for breakfast.’

  ‘Yeah, but if it wasn’t for this—’ with his index finger, he taps the plastic covered table between us ‘—it wouldn’t be breakfast I’d be enjoying.’ I feel my brow furrow. ‘Because it’d be you.’

  If I said his current expression didn’t make me a little hot in the crotch, I’d be lying. Holy smoulder!

  ‘So,’ he continues, counting the points out on his hand. ‘So, we have a table, a breakfast, and a talk.’

  ‘Seems unwise,’ I counter.

  ‘But necessary.’ He runs a hand through his thick hair, pushing it from where it’d fallen over one brow. ‘And the table’s important. We’ll need something to lay our cards on.’

  ‘Cards,’ I repeat, my gaze sliding away. Serious is a new look on him.

  ‘I like you. Really like you and I can’t remember feeling like this in a long while.’ The rasp of fingers against his chin is audible before his hand falls to the table, tapping it quickly like a drum. ‘A really long while.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Enthusiasm,’ he says dryly. ‘Dial it down, would you?’

  My expression twists; I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I know how I feel, which is opposite to how I was supposed to be reining it all in.

  ‘You’re not foolin’ me, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to.’ My answer is quick—as quick as the colour rising to my chest and cheeks, because I’m a liar and I’m the fool.

  ‘So, onto the first item on the getting to know you better agenda—’

  ‘I—I didn’t agree to any of this.’

  ‘No, because it’s my agenda. My meeting, y’ken? Chime in when you’re ready,’ he says, tilting his head to flash the approaching waitress a charming and very white smile.

  ‘A pot o’ tea and two full Scottish,’ she says, the dishes rattling on the tray as she sets it down.

  ‘Oh, actually, could I have a coffee, please?’

  ‘Aye,’ she says, almost dropping my plate in front of me, though from her expression, you’d think I’d asked if she had on clean underwear. She produces a pencil from the nest of a steel coloured perm. ‘Will ye be wantin’ one cup or two?’

  A quick glance to Rory confirms. ‘One. An espresso, please.’

  ‘You’ll be havin’ a Nescafé or you’ll be doin’ wi’out.’

  ‘Oh, okay. Thank you,’ I reply, a little stunned.

  Folding the tray under her arm, she tromps away. It’s then I realise Rory’s shoulders are shaking.

  ‘That was pure brilliance. Jesus, you’re enough to keep around just for the sheer entertainment value.’

  ‘I say again . . . dickwad.’ I duck my reddening cheeks, peering at the contents of my plate. Bacon, a square sausage patty, fried egg, mushrooms, baked beans—I’ll never understand why these are an acceptable breakfast side— the dreaded black or blood pudding, and a very Scottish potato scone.

  Oh, and a rack of thickly buttered of toast.

  ‘Am I supposed to eat or climb it?’ I mumble, picking up my fork and purposely ignoring the large Viking opposite as he sandwiches a slice of bacon between two triangles of toast before proceeding to inhale it. ‘I’ll never finish this—and I might have been a vegetarian.’ He didn’t ask, just ordered. Good job I was digging the alpha male this morning.

  Still munching, Rory’s gaze passes over me contemplatively. ‘But you’re not.’

  ‘No, but I might’ve wanted something else.’

  ‘Does this look like the sort of place you’d get eggs and thrice smoked Scottish salmon, drizzled with a Benedictine emulsion and sprinkled with organic dill?’

  ‘I’m not even sure that’s a thing.’

  ‘It was this or porridge. Be a good girl and eat your carbs. You’ll need them after last night.’ I shoot him a glare, scornful words and egg yolk on the tip of my tongue, when he adds, ‘After all that running.’

  ‘I have nothing against carbs. It’s the heart attack I fear.’ Picking up my fork again, I narrowly avoid a collision with my newly arrived two-pint mug of instant coffee, served with a side of suspicious glare.

  ‘ ‘Round here, they’ve hung women as witches for less.’

  ‘Not true,’ I counter. ‘There were never any witch trials in this part of Scotland.’

  ‘So you’re a history buff?’

  I offer a flippant shrug in response, adding words when it becomes clear the gesture isn’t going to cut it. ‘I grew up here.’ I could literally bite off my tongue. ‘For a while.’

  ‘I remember,’ he says, eyes sparkling as he dusts toast crumbs from his fingertips. ‘The Scottish mum.’

  I feel my expression twist before recalling snippets of conversation we’d had at the pub. ‘Well remembered.’

  ‘I’m good at that sort of shit.’

  I’m not sure I’ve schooled my expression entirely appropriately—after all, he seems to not recall quite a bit about me. Say, oh, I don’t know . . . taking my virginity?

  I also don’t manage to swallow my dismissive snort.

  ‘What did I say?’

  I slide a forkful of mushrooms into my mouth, managing to mumble. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So . . .’ Rory reaches for the silver coloured tea pot sitting between us, the kind of vessel you don’t see anywhere else these days. He gestures to the spare mug once his own is filled, though I shake my head. ‘Hmm. Not very Scottish then.’

  ‘I think we established some time ago I’ve a little Scots in me.’

  ‘And sometimes a little bit more.’ I feel myself blush under his attention, rather than his juvenile and teasing tone. Yeah, he’s demolishing his breakfast at a pretty swift rate, but while he does so, he looks at me as though he’s contemplating pushing away the plate and eating me instead. ‘What else?’

  ‘I’m not really comfortable talking about myself.’

  ‘Let the minutes duly reflect that. And?’

  ‘And . . . and I don’t want to.’

  ‘Eat some toast,’ he says, pushing the silver rack in front of me. I take a piece of the cooling bread, picking off the corner. ‘How long since you’ve been . . .’ He pauses as though searching for a kinder address.

  ‘Alone?’ I ask hastily. ‘About four months.’

  ‘Hmm. Makes sense.’

  ‘That would be you, paying attention to stuff?’ My response is heavy on sarcasm.

  ‘You’re prickly this morning. Like a wee hedgehog.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Are you staying with your mum?’

  ‘You tell me,’ I reply, folding my arms.

  His own fork mid-air, Rory pauses, eyes roaming over my face as though he’d be able to discern the answer from my expression. ‘It’d explain why you’re hiding out in a tiny house with no heating.’

  ‘It has heating, just not much,’ I answer, adding a shrug.

  ‘But?’

  ‘You’re not big on social clues, huh
?’

  ‘Tatty bit o’ string,’ he says, smiling widely.

  ‘What?’

  ‘ ‘Frayed knot. You know, afraid not .’

  ‘Oh my God, that was so bad,’ I say, dropping the toast to my plate. ‘Pun fail, Rory. And I’m staying with a friend. You’re like a dog with a hard-on, you know that?’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise I’ve turned into a less eloquent version of Ivy.

  ‘While I’m certainly enjoying my breakfast, I wouldn’t say I’m that enthusiastic.’

  ‘I meant a dog with a bone!’

  ‘Sure you did, but I still don’t know where you’re staying.’

  ‘With a friend.’ Mostly. Picking up my fork, I slice off the corner of potato scone, popping it into my mouth.

  ‘The blonde wi’ the rack or the drunk one?’ The corner of his mouth turns up, his expression turning a touch cynical. ‘Tell me it’s not the meat headed one.’

  ‘Meat headed?’

  ‘Aye, the one from the gym that has issues getting his hands in his trouser pockets because of the size of his biceps. He needs to knock off the juice.’

  ‘Juice? Oh, you mean steroids. Doubtful, Mac has always been big.’ Big, but nowhere as imposing as the man sitting across the table. Not satisfied with my answer, Rory raises one sardonic brow. ‘That’s like the kettle calling the pot—’

  ‘Grimy arse?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I like to stay in shape,’ he says. ‘I also like my dick to be accessible.’

  ‘What?’ I ask laughingly.

  ‘He looks like a cartoon. Is it him?’

  ‘Him? Oh, who I’m staying with?’ Rory doesn’t answer, though his expression is less than calm. ‘You know, if the wind changes, you’ll stay looking like that.’

  ‘You’d still be hot for me.’

  ‘Wow. You are so full of yourself.’ I grasp my napkin, hiding my smile while ostensibly dabbing my mouth.

  ‘Aye.’ The way he watches me borders on carnivorous. ‘And you’re full of me, too, after last night. I like it.’