by Melissa Blue
Callan added pressure with each tease. She held her breath again. The action brought a smile to his lips, but his focus never left what his hand was doing. And what he was doing took all his focus.
He licked his lips, wanting to taste her, but not yet. “Do you swear you don't have any kinks?”
She made a noise between a moan and a whimper, shifting her hips as he continued his caress. “Just make me come.”
He could. Slow didn't mean without intensity either. Callan could play with her clit and pussy lips at leisure and she'd come, eventually. But they had fought this, argued over it and danced around each other. He wanted one truth, one mystery confirmed and maybe he could sleep easy tonight. Everyone had kinks. They may not be whips, dungeons and gags, but they had them in big or small ways. She had them. He had to find them, because Victoria had to lose some of her intrigue. He had to strip her down. Maybe that made him less of a man, and a bit sadistic to need that validation, but he wouldn't deny her pleasure.
He used his free hand to let his fingers feather over her neck. “Breath play, my lass. Remember that.”
He kissed her and reached for the condom. Her “yes” was muffled by his mouth, and then she touched him, her fingers a light whisper over his skin. He deepened the kiss, much more than he intended but some of the pressure building in his chest needed a release. Wanting her like this wasn't normal. Not for him. He didn't deny himself or his lovers pleasure.
Yet Victoria made him feel like he had never known the softness of a woman's body and her touch. Ten feet separated them from his bed, a fucking mile as far as he was concerned. It did more than turn him on to know, later, he could close his eyes and imagine her spread on his dresser—her beautiful, sleek brown legs open wide, her pussy lips glistening from her come, her tits tight and full and bouncing to the rhythm of his dick.
He sheathed himself and dragged her to the edge with all the finesse of a virgin. Callan could be himself again after he knew what she felt like wrapped around his cock. The fist around his heart would loosen. It had to, because if he felt this way every time she was near him, he'd go mad.
He gripped his cock in one hand and pressed into her. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Fuck. He entered slowly to savor the first stroke, the way his spine tingled and how his balls drew tight like he would come. It was a moment of reverence to watch and feel his cock sink into her pussy.
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. He thrust inside her again. It was enough to snap him out of his reverence. He clasped her left leg and let it hang over his shoulder. “Grip the dresser tighter.”
“Tighter?”
She muttered a foul curse that made him grin. “Aye.”
He spread his feet to get a better position. She gasped another curse. When he started to move, her legs trembled in his hands. He placed a kiss on her knee and began to fuck her.
Some part of him knew he should have taken it back to slow and gentle, but what he needed had taken over. He had to feel his balls slap against her arse. Let her cum and sweat dampen his skin. Make this raw and nasty so whenever he saw her, she'd always be the woman who had let him fuck her on his dresser.
His nails practically dug into her skin as he slammed into her, hit that spot inside that turned her low pants into something primal. He couldn't call this submission, not while he pounded into her. She had to take his dick, an inch or all of it. Whatever he gave her.
He had all the control but felt none of it, because there was no way he'd ever fuck her out of his system. She was perfection gliding up and down his dick, squeezing him tighter and tighter.
Victoria let go of the dresser to put a hand on the wall and the other between her legs. Her titties bounced to his hard tempo. That image seared into his brain. He growled at the erotic sight and leaned forward to take her mouth and fuck her the way she needed.
He wasn't going to last much longer. She pulsed too hard around him. He dragged her down more until her arse hung over the lip of the dresser and rolled his hips, pushing as deep as he could go to create a better friction for her hand to work against her clit.
“Callan,” she purred his name.
She gripped him, and he simply couldn’t move for a second. Heat flashed up his spine. He groaned into her mouth, grinding against her. She shuddered then clenched again, harder. Her body tensed as she held her breath.
“Ah. There, lass.” He wrapped his fingers around her neck. Not tight at all but as a weighty reminder that he could close his fist and cut off her air. Just when the orgasm forced her back into an arch, he could see her eyes widen. Fear skated across her gaze and then arousal shaded her brown irises.
“There is your kink, lass.”
Erotic asphyxiation was not her confessed kink and still that was the third time she'd held her breath. Something she'd probably done for years and had never thought about it heightening her full sexual experience. His hand could do the same or a scarf. The taboo connection, so very light and innocent, made her come harder. She put her hand over his and shuddered when he tightened his grip gently.
“So obscene,” Callan accused in a whisper. “The thoughts you come to.”
She reached up and put her hand against his mouth probably to shut him up as though that could stop him from pointing out any other kink she might have had.
He groaned, catching her true scent. He sucked her fingers. The potent taste of her slid over his tongue. In the next thrust, his orgasm slammed into him. There was fuck else he could do but let the heat climb up from his balls. He kept stroking inside her, the pace jerky and uneven. Each time his come spurted out, he shook until he was spent.
For a moment all he could hear and feel was the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. He wrapped his tongue around her fingers and licked up until her hand fell away.
Victoria shifted back into focus. “You held your breath, too,” she said. “How kinky.”
He couldn't catch enough breath to laugh so instead he licked into her mouth until she squirmed, needing more of his bite. He could barely feel his legs, and he wanted to give her more.
The longer he stood between her thighs the wider her eyes got. There was the fear again. He’d made his point but at the cost of her vulnerability. She put a hand up to her throat. Callan brushed her mouth with his thumb. “Lass, it’s okay.” He paused and added, “If I can admit I like my ears to be nipped then what’s breath play?”
She shook her head. “You’re so full of shit.”
He laughed and finally pulled back. “I promised you the bed.”
She drew him closer and nipped his lobe again. There was more than a stir from his cock, though he knew she was trying to wrest back the control. Well…that was until she whispered what she'd do if and when they made it to the bed.
He met her gaze not surprised at the naughty threat. “Aye. Consider this an I.O.U.”
“What do you owe me?” Her voice was full of mischief.
“Every answer is crude.”
She chuckled, but the fear was still there in her gaze. “We'll make it to the floor.”
He started to reassure her, to beat back that emotion, but she bit him hard just where he liked it. Safe to say the sentiment got lost in a haze of lust.
And fuck if she wasn't right about them making it to the floor.
CHAPTER NINE
“Bottom's up, lassie.” The Baird grinned devilishly.
Victoria swallowed an exasperated sigh. Mist snaked through the balcony and gave a nice little haze to the otherwise pristine pub. She could plop food down on his hardwood floors and eat off it.
Apparently he spent all his time making his pub tip-top and left none of that give-a-damn for his flat. And it wasn't just the main room. He'd given her a tour of the entire place. She'd swear he had OCD if she hadn't just helped him toss away two-tons worth of trash in his flat.
It was like dealing with split personalities, even down to the décor. He favored worn and comfy in his flat. Here, there was nothin
g but metal and wood, making the pub look bare but artful. The mirrored ceiling in his pub was the only item that connected the two personalities. He had a huge dresser mirror in his bedroom.
So...how had she ended up half-drunk in the Baird's pub?
The third round of sex with Callan involved him tying her to his bedpost and fucking her until she saw double. That was four days ago. Soon after, when the realization of what they’d done settled in, she started her avoid-him-at-all-costs campaign.
When an itch started up between her shoulder blades with Callan's name on it, she booked it to the Baird's, convinced that cleaning the older man's flat would clear her mind. It would also help her avoid direct contact with Callan at least one more day. Best of all, bossing the Baird around would remind her she did have self-control. She, in fact, was not the type of woman who practically melted at the idea of a man finding another kink. Well, kink-lite.
The last was so important. She'd had raunchy sex before, and what she’d done with Callan wasn’t extreme. It was…It was like she’d been shown who she really was, what she really wanted. She never would have suspected she'd like someone to have their hand on her throat, a nice steady weight as she came. He'd seen the connection and truth of it, of her as though he could see past all her walls—get past all her walls.
So...she'd avoided Callan as best as she could. No need to have that experience again if it bothered her so damn much. Though, he'd watched her every morning for her run. Watching her with that insatiable hunger in his gaze. Scared or not, she wanted to satisfy it, him. So, yeah, Victoria was running in more than one way.
Brushing those thoughts aside, she took in the empty pub for a moment and then placed the shot glass between her palms and rolled it. The light amber liquid listed. “I think I've had enough.” Barely six in the afternoon and her head felt full of cotton, not yet drunk but well on her way if she kept at it. “You talked me into helping you prep and to try your new whiskey before you served it.”
“Just one drink and you're throwing in the towel. I had higher expectations for you. It won't hurt you,” the Baird urged.
“Won't help me either.” She smacked her lips because the homemade whiskey had a strong but lovely aftertaste. “When do you open? I guess I'm supposed to help you with that too.”
“Don't know why. I don't need a caregiver.” He poured himself a second glass.
She splayed her hands in front of her. “I agree. Figured that out five minutes after meeting you, but I have a deal with Callan.”
“The boy worries for no good reason.” He drained the whiskey in one gulp.
Maybe Callan did have a need to worry. The older man could belt his liquor and that meant he probably drank often. They could probably just throw the Baird's liver in a jar since it was already pickled.
“He loves you,” she said instead.
The bottles lined up on the shelf behind him gleamed. They were situated in these shiny metal contraptions. They all had knobs to make it easy to pour liquor. The whole set up soaked in the light and reflected it back in a soft glow. She could understand why he took such pride in his pub. It had a subtle beauty.
Victoria blinked, slowly. “I'm thinking you must have roofied me. It was just one drink and I'm in love with this place.”
His blue plaid shirt stretched as he leaned on the bartop. “No drugs. My whiskey is strong and my place is wonderful.” He paused, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Now...why didn't Callan come with you?”
He could probably read the truth on her face. She looked down before answering. “He had work to do.” She swirled the liquor in the glass. “He came down the first time just to settle me in.”
“Oh, lassie, I didn't know.”
Her senses were dulled, but she picked up on something in his voice. “He told you I was your caregiver,” she said carefully, still not pinpointing the man's tone.
“But when you showed up today you looked so troubled.”
Gooseflesh prickled her skin, because that sounded like trouble. “What did you do?”
“Auch.” He placed a hand on his chest as though flustered. “Look at the time. Baird's Drunken Barrel always opens at 6:30 sharp. In thirty years I've never been late.”
The man was spry. By the time she had a proper retort, he had those big oak doors open and half of Glasgow wandered in. Slowly the pub came to life.
It was a pretty shell before since it had lovely detailing on the wooden tables. And those pretty tables were surrounded by sturdy chairs with red cushions. How could she forget the framed tartans decorating the walls? No matter the colors, they all seemed to compliment the gleaming bartop.
But now there was something almost sacred to the echo of the voices filling the pub. Even the ceiling mirror didn't seem so gaudy. It was just a different perspective of the same scene.
More than half the people had to be regulars. They took to the seats as though they had their names on it. She watched it all and fell a little bit in love with Douglass too. He'd made a place that people stood outside the doors, impatient to enter.
Once Baird greeted more than his share of patrons, he manned the draft. Maybe five minutes later a black-haired beauty slipped behind the counter, kissed him on the cheek and then threw on a dark blue apron. Victoria caught a flash of forest green eyes as the woman greeted her own fair share of patrons.
Envy gripped her heart. Victoria wished she understood what the people around her were saying just so she could join in, but it was like being in the Bayou. She knew they were speaking English—their own kind that was filled with shorthand and slang.
Victoria didn't mind being the fish out of water, because eventually, no matter where she was, her location would start to feel like home. She considered the booze again on the bartop. Oh. Yeah. She would probably regret her actions in a few hours, but she slammed back her drink. Soon she'd mingle. She sighed and the sound was full of contentment.
Someone grabbed her from behind, yanking her out of the moment. A yelp squeaked out her throat and she was rudely turned around within the next breath. The sharp and fierce words she started to throw at the stranger clogged in her throat.
Callan's hair was a finger-combed mess. Dampness clung to his thick black coat, and he looked pissed. At her. He gripped her chin with his thumb and forefinger and glared.
“Daft.” His voice barely rose above a whisper as though anger had stolen any higher octave. “Fucking daft.”
“Excuse me?”
He made a sound of disgust and pulled the glass out of her fist. “How many did you have?”
She tried to push back the solid wall of him, but Callan was immovable. He'd left little room between them. His legs bracketing hers felt too damn good despite the unspent anger vibrating through him. He smelled of rain and sandalwood.
“I only had two.”
His dark brows lowered. “You do not drink anything Baird gives you unless you recognize the name.”
She pursed her lips. They really, really felt tingly now. “The bottle had Baird Whiskey on it.”
“Whiskey?” From his tone Callan might as well have said anthrax. “More like moonshine. I hope you called your family and told them you loved them.”
“Pfft.” And, oh, she sounded a bit drunk. “I talked to my mother yesterday, matter of fact, and I did tell her I loved her. I miss her,” she added, a bit surprised at the sudden sweep of melancholy.
“Baird,” Callan barked at his uncle without moving his angry gaze from her.
“Laddie!” Baird greeted his nephew, sounding so pleased. “You made it.”
She glared over her shoulder at the man. That's what he'd done. Victoria tried to remember if she'd seen him on the phone and couldn't recall. He must have sent a missive to Callan when she'd straightened up his room. He'd been out of earshot for at least ten minutes before she ordered him to help.
Defeat lowered her shoulders. “What did he tell you? And why did you come?”
“He told me you were hel
ping him in the pub today.” Callan hesitated. “And that you looked sad.”
Had she? Every so often when she was making a mental to-do list for work. Callan had slipped into her thoughts. Her mind would fixate on his touch and how she could almost feel it, miss it. Shit.
She never had much of a poker face, but she tried now anyway. “Well, he lied. Move back. I can't breathe with you so close.”
He gripped her chin again. “Are you sure you only had two?”
She pushed out an irritated sigh. “I can count.”
Appearing satisfied with her answer, he nodded. “When was your last drink?”
“Right before you came in here to manhandle me.” Despite the cold outside, he was warm. She stiffened her back to keep from leaning into him.
“I'll drive you back.” He shoved his free hand through his hair, tousling it more. “You're in no condition and won't be. Takes another twenty minutes to feel the full brunt.”
The slightly tipsy part of her was pleased he had come to her rescue, but she hadn't drunk that much. “You called me stupid. I take offense.”
“You drank Baird’s moonshine. I was being honest,” he reminded her.
She hated that. He was often right. The bastard. “I think you'd die, right on the spot, if you ever apologized for being rude.”
“Do you know what happens to people who drink his moonshine?” He pointed to a man who sat at the other end of the counter. He looked in his late forties. Dark brown hair, furrowed brows and he was nursing a Coke. “He did once. Let's go ask him about the time he married his third cousin.”
She tried to stay angry, but her laugh undermined her. “You're so dramatic. You should have a drink.”
He didn't smile back. “Come on. We're taking you upstairs before he talks you into another. I'll put some food in you.”
She swatted his hands away. “I'm fine. I've never been to a pub before. I think the people are nice. Though they could lend a hand. Do you rough up women often? Is that why they aren't bothered by it now?”