Kiltless

by Melissa Blue

His demeanor changed in slow degrees. That, too, was his own fault, she guessed. It wasn't like she'd ever thought she ate in a sexual way, but the man had a mouth fetish. She'd been kissed more in the last two weeks than she'd been her entire life.

  He flexed his shoulders, drawing her eye to his tat and then his chest. The familiar craving for him curled in her stomach. He'd cooked for her, cared for her in other small thoughtless ways, and now they needed to head back to being lovers. Every time they'd stepped out of those agreed upon boundaries, he'd drag them back over. With his mouth, with his hands. There was no reason to fight the inevitable. She wanted him too, wanted those boundaries, but a part of her fought anyway.

  His gaze shuttered. “Are you satisfied?”

  With him “never” seemed to be the most honest answer. “The meal was delicious.”

  His expression didn't need an interpretation. It plainly said something along the lines of he'd tie her up again if she didn't answer his real question.

  Since the craving had turned into an ache, she murmured, “Sex sounds like a good dessert.”

  “Better answer.”

  He reached for her and she pulled back. His brow rose higher. She wanted him, there was no question of that, but she wanted something different than before.

  “Don't I get a turn?” she asked. “You know, to find out your kink.”

  “Ah.” He leaned back on the edge of the couch again, spreading his hands. “And what do you think gets me off?”

  She thought of their experiences so far. Maybe that explained the niggle of dissatisfaction—Victoria didn't know for sure. “Making me come.” She frowned. “It's not just you want me to enjoy sex with you. You thrive on it. I'm not sure what that is.”

  He didn't really move or make a sound, but she could sense his awareness heightening. It was the way his gaze suddenly turned her skin into nothing but heat and gooseflesh.

  “And?” His voice had lowered.

  She pushed her plate to the side and tried to think of something he might have never done, which narrowed the possibilities considerably. He probably never felt out of his comfort zone since he guarded it with an iron fist. She knew his history partly due to Douglass and that she could be as stubborn as Callan when she wanted the truth. There was a lot about him she didn’t know. What would make Callan wild?

  And then she smiled.

  His eyes narrowed. “I'm suddenly nervous.”

  She moved to him and bit his ear lobe. He groaned deeply. She knew if she put her hand in his lap, he'd be rock hard. Victoria stifled a laugh. To look at Callan one would never think his ears were so sensitive. They were and she used that knowledge ruthlessly.

  Eventually, she pulled back to inspect his face and whispered, “Let me watch you.”

  His chin went up. “What?”

  Curious, she put a hand to his chest. His heart pounded wildly. He'd heard her and for some reason her request made him anxious. Instead of answering his question, she slid her hand down to his and moved it to his cock. She leaned in again, nipping at his lobe and guided his hand up and down his dick.

  Victoria murmured, “Show me how you like to be touched.”

  She removed her hand and waited for his next move. The subdued light in the living room couldn't hide the sudden rush of color in his face. Teasing him or pointing it out seemed callous. The risqué nature of the act didn't negate the truth—he trusted her. Callan was showing a side to himself that no one else had the privilege of witnessing. Victoria knew that vulnerability and wouldn't take the trust lightly.

  She pressed her lips to his cheek, the gesture meant to soothe. “It's okay, if you don't want to.”

  “You like to be watched and vice versa?”

  Her face heated. Before embarrassment could really settle in, he turned his head, his mouth seeking hers. Embarrassment, concern melded into passion until nothing else but this kiss filled her thoughts. That was until he shifted, tugging at his boxers. He grasped her fingers with his free hand and broke the kiss.

  A haze of desire filled his gaze. He brought his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Suck me to get it wet.”

  She shivered at the gruff request and brushed her thumb over his lips. “You're definitely a Scot with that dirty mouth of yours.”

  He nipped at her thumb, her palm and then wrist. Every inch of her started to tingle. He could probably blow out a candle across the room and she'd feel the punch of it to her very core. It's why she didn't argue with his kinky antics. He took the acts beyond the titillation and taboo and made them damn good.

  And this, what he was asking for, was something she wanted to do. She wet the tip of her forefinger and swirled it around the tip of his cock. The tight, smooth skin was hot under her finger. His head fell back and he groaned. Victoria put her finger in her mouth again and could almost taste him. She scooted back to give herself some room to do just that.

  His dick was too big and heavy to stand fully upright. With her moist fingertip, she traced the underside down and back up, making sure to caress the slit and sensitive skin along the head. His skin was darker here, flushed now and straining because he was so hard.

  She gripped the base and then took him into her mouth. His hips lifted a fraction. She listened to the silent direction and sucked him deeper, faster until his hips matched her pace. If she let herself, Victoria could get lost in the smooth glide, the hard ridges and the musky taste of him in her mouth. She wanted to keep going until his hips jerked in a frantic pace and then he'd come. A moan vibrated in her throat and he stilled.

  “Wetter,” he groaned.

  She took him deeper and held still, letting him pulse in her throat. Her body would do the work of slicking him fully. He tugged her up by her hair, his chest falling up and down rapidly. His lips had pulled tight.

  “More?” She teased him with a sensual lip lick and knew she probably shouldn't. Not while something wild and primal danced in his eyes.

  Callan closed his fist in her hair. “Watch.”

  He pushed out a breath and gripped his cock with his free hand. Victoria had expected something fast and a bit rough, but he stroked himself tight and slow from base to tip. His stomach muscle tensed and jerked like he'd lost control of them to the pleasure he was giving himself. Up and down and squeeze. It looked torturous and divine. Just the way he liked it.

  A few minutes in, he stopped moving his hand and guided her head down to his cock. No directions were needed. She wet him with her mouth until he used the grip on her hair to pull her head back up. This time, he started to use his thumb to lightly caress the tip with each upstroke. His choppy breathing changed into soft groans.

  She'd asked for this, but her nipples had beaded and started to ache. That feeling had long since worked its way down. She squirmed so her shorts could brush against her clit. Something, anything had to soothe the discomfort of not being touched, of watching him and not having the permission to intrude or help.

  When he reached down to cup his balls, she took his earlobe between her lips and sucked.

  He gasped and stopped. “Want some?”

  She glanced down and knew if she said no he'd come with his hand and then... “Yes.”

  He didn't wait for her to change her mind or even to tease him, but helped her pull down her shorts, dragged her astride his lap and slammed into her.

  “Yes.” Her legs shook as she brought her ass back up and down, riding him rough and fast.

  He growled his reply. She didn't need to hear the words to know they were profane and likely would have made her come because of it. He let her set the pace while he kissed and licked all the parts of her he could reach without interrupting their frenzied lovemaking. She'd teased them both and driven them to this. The heat of this exchange burned away the softness he had shared. His nails scraped down her ass, forcing her back down onto his dick.

  His cock reached so deep, so hard her breath came out in pants. She fisted her hands in his hair and tried to hold back, but she was trembl
ing and whenever she did moan, the noise sounded like a half-sob. In no small part, the underbelly of this exchange was his trust in her. That turned her on more than she liked to admit and made it okay to ride him with the single intent to make them both come, hard and fast.

  “Come for me, lass,” he begged, his voice hoarse. “I can't...”

  Maybe it was the shock of his plea, but her back bowed and she shuddered as the first throes of an orgasm gripped her. He took over the rest, bringing her hips down into his until he let out a low hiss and curse. As he stroked into her slowly now, his mouth dropped open and he closed his eyes. The blissful expression almost did her in again. She clenched around him, unable to stop the trembling from her intense orgasm as he came.

  Minutes ticked by and finally he said, “You're shivering, sweetheart.” He opened his eyes, a lazy concern furrowed his brows.

  “A little cold.”

  “When I can feel my legs, I'll tuck you in on the couch. I don't think I could go much farther than that.”

  She thought about moving at all and groaned. “Here's fine.” She lifted enough to reach the throw over the couch and pulled it around them. “There.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted as his eyes drifted back down. “You're tucking me in after fucking me like that? Cute but obscene. I was right.”

  She cuddled into the crook of his neck. He sighed and wrapped his hands around her waist under the covers. Her heart did a stupid, pointless little jump. “You fed me so technically you started it.”

  He made an eh sound. “If that's the case then what do you want for breakfast?”

  She hushed him, closed her eyes but knew she wouldn't be able to go to sleep. Her mind would go over what they'd done. And just when she thought she could slumber, her mind would worry at the mistake she'd made with her work. With Callan, a man who didn't want to mar the memory of his wife by caring for someone else.

  And what was she?

  A woman who couldn't trust him to ever do that. Victoria pulled him closer into her embrace and worried.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sweat soaked his brow as he helped put the last of the three main pieces of furniture into his trailer. It had been raining for almost two weeks straight without a break. Mud covered his Land Rover. He'd been making treks every other day to pick up one piece or another to work on. His insane schedule wouldn't let up until he finished these three. The rest would be a breeze though also time consuming.

  He closed the door, shook the servant's hand before leaning against the cool metal of the trailer. In a few months he could take a deep breath. Fuck, maybe even get some real down time. All his debts wouldn't be paid off but close enough so he could finally get a proper headstone for Diana. It was all on him to get it done with both of her parents dead. She had been an only child with a handful of cousins scattered to the four winds. So all she'd had most of her life was him.

  The ache he could never truly forget wrapped tighter around his heart. Some part of him was just bone-weary to all of it. He didn't crave happiness, but it would be nice not to drown in a sea of grief whenever he thought of his wife.

  As though that quiet wish had conjured a solution, Callan glanced up the castle steps. Victoria glided down, a smile creasing the dimple in her cheek. She wore a jumper with a hood, thick sweats and boots. Didn't matter to him. He could still see every curve and dip of her lush form as though she wore nothing.

  The understated sensuality in her walk made him straighten from the trailer. All the things he wanted to do to her flitted through his mind in a fraction of a second. He'd stolen precious time to eat with her, lick her, laugh with her and none of it seemed wasted. His guilty pleasure had turned into a full-blown obsession.

  Callan took a step to go to her, sweep her in his arms and kiss her until she made a little noise that lived between a laugh and a moan, but his mobile rang.

  “Baird.” His stomach dropped when “St. Jude's Hospital” was spoken. He rubbed a hand down his face and began to walk. It was instinctual to get far away from Victoria, because this was not a conversation he wanted her to overhear, ever.

  He let his feet lead him to anywhere but near the castle. By the time he stood at the cliffs, near the part of the castle that had been left in ruins, he regretted the location. His bank hadn't honored the last three large payments. They considered it an unusual account activity and took it upon themselves to not clear the checks.

  And that meant fees and a lot of other things he ignored while he glared at the jagged rocks at the bottom near the water. He wasn't melodramatic enough to want to jump, but he imagined a bank employee or two he wanted to shove off the edge.

  Repeating in his head, “it wasn't the hospital's fault,” got him through that call. He didn't save any of that forgiving nature for the call to the bank. He paced back and forth by the ledge and let everyone who answered have it. Four holds later, he had the manager. He didn't bother to repeat the problem.

  “I'm going to say this once.” Though his voice was low, the threat rang loudly in the moment of silence. “Clear the checks. It's to pay for my wife's medical bills.” The man on the other line began to give him the same tap and dance. Callan cut him off. “I don't care what you have to do. Honor the checks. I'm letting you know now, don't let the next transaction in the next two weeks have the same problem. It's to pay for her headstone. If I have to give you money for a fee, for her headstone, we are going to have a very serious fucking problem.”

  The manager stopped his apologetic tirade. “I'm sorry. We'll straighten this out. You won't have to come in.”

  The bottled up rage had nowhere to go and he kind of wished the man had kept toeing the party line. “Good.”

  He ended the call, stuffed his mobile in his pocket so he wouldn't throw it into the sea.

  The details. The fucking details were the things no one told you about when someone you loved died. Unbearable grief was mentioned. The unending loss. But paperwork? No. Barely mentioned. You're going to need to sign here to pull the plug. Please pick an outfit you wish for her to be buried in. Granite or marble headstone? What flowers, hymns do you want to have at the funeral? Where to put her things since she'd no longer had any use for them?

  And it all boiled down to honoring a memory. You'd never again talk to them, kiss them, hold them. Diana was now medical bills, debt and a headstone. That was all he had left to show she was loved when she was here. He pressed a hand to his eyes, because they had started to burn. He sucked in an angry breath.

  In that short quiet moment, he felt her. Not Diana, but Victoria. He'd been so focused on not screaming into his mobile, that he hadn't noticed. Turning around, acknowledging her, would make it real, would make him feel that much more exposed. Dealing with these calls kept dragging him back. Not to a time when his wife was alive, laughing, but to her confined to a hospital bed. To the moment when the doctors and nurses used soft tones to talk about comforting measures.

  Amazing how life could change in a heartbeat. One second he hadn't wanted to wake her from her rest, she'd needed it to get better. And the next he needed her to wake.

  Fuck. He hated this. It's why he locked it away and never let himself linger on thoughts of the unfairness of it all.

  “Why'd you follow me?” he asked without turning around, his voice soft.

  “The look on your face,” she whispered. “I'm sorry. I should leave.”

  A minute passed by and he knew she hadn't. Callan closed his eyes and let out a mirthless laugh. “Just start with the questions. I don't think I can survive the quiet.”

  The grass rustled behind him and then her arms were around his waist. “Do you need me to ask them? Will that make you feel better?”

  “No, but you want the answers anyway.” He hated the way his insides stopped knotting at her warmth and soothing touch. Hated that some part of him needed it right at that moment. Affection wouldn't change the past. Sympathy wouldn't ease the reality.

  She pressed her face into h
is back and then shifted again. “What was her name?”

  “Diana.”

  A second or two passed before she asked, “How did she die?”

  His scoff dripped with bitterness. “She fell and bumped her head. We thought nothing of it and didn't take her to the doctor. A few days later, I come home from work and she couldn’t form a sentence. An untreated concussion turns into a brain bleed that turns into a coma.” His eyes and throat burned and he had to stop. He inhaled through his nose and went on. “They told me she was gone. I didn't believe them then. I kept her on life support for a long while. Miracles are supposed to happen just when you've given up hope.”

  She was quiet for a long time, but her arms tightened around his stomach. Victoria was shaking and it wasn't from the cold. “Tell me more about Scotland.”

  “What?” He almost turned then to see if she'd lost her mind.

  “I could say I'm sorry. I could say what happened was shitty. I could rail against the bank and the hospital on your behalf. I could pay you any kind of lip service and it wouldn't matter. The sentiment counts but it can't change the fact you'd trade it all for her.” Her voice broke before she cleared her throat. “So tell me about something you love that will never die.”

  He had to run his hand down his face again. There were no words. He tugged her hand until she stood in front of him. He pointed out to the sea. Ian would send pictures every now and again to Douglass to show him America or whatever corner of the world he was in. But here the rocks looked sharp and unforgiving. So did the sea. Mist had started to creep up the cliff. It was a dramatic view, a conflicting one. Such starkness shouldn't have been beautiful, but it was.

  “No one sane stays here,” he said. “Look at this. You could choose the Caribbean if you want to live by the water. Russia and its vodka if you want the cold. Scotland is not for the faint of heart. You have to be certifiable to love this place.”

  “'But to see her was to love her.'”

  He didn't think he could laugh, not while every emotion he pushed down was right there pressing against his chest, but he did. “Oh, lass, you've been reading Robert Burns. You must have been bored.”