The Play

by Karina Halle

  I kick the door shut, throwing off my jacket, sweater, pants, undressing as if my clothes are on fire and I’m on her in seconds, my fingers fumbling along her every inch, frantically trying to get as close as possible. I want the heat of her hips pressed against mine, that silken feel of her skin, the way she perfectly holds me when I’m deep inside her, as if we were made purely to fuck each other, to love each other.

  She’s shucking off her clothes too and grabbing me with frenzied hands, our mouths meeting hot and wet and so fucking desperate. I am wild to touch and she is burning under my hands, and I’m lighting her fires like an arsonist.

  “Kayla, Kayla, Kayla,” I moan into her neck, tasting her. I sound so damn hungry for her it both scares me and thrills me to the bone.

  We fall onto the bed and I’m climbing on top of her, pinning her between my thighs, wishing I could go slow and absorb every single carnal second, but there is no time. There will be – tomorrow. In a few hours from now, even. But right now, in this moment, where I have my love back, time is a precious thing and if I can’t have her now, I fear I never will.

  She wraps her legs around me, one hand ghosting over my neck and into my hair, the other skimming down my back and we kiss again, deep and savage, our tongues sliding over each other in a wild war.

  “I can’t wait,” she whispers to me and I pull back, lost in her eyes, knowing she feels just as delirious as I do. “Please, come inside me.”

  I close my eyes, resting my forehead against hers and position myself between her legs, my cock thick and throbbing and hard as concrete. I push into her, slipping slick and rough until all the air leaves my lungs and it’s almost too much.

  I am purified, sanctified, inside her.

  “Fuck,” I growl, nipping at her neck now as I thrust in again, this time my arms are starting to shake, my body overloaded. I’m the greedy one, craving every part of her, and it’s my soul that’s just as hungry as the rest of me.

  “Harder,” she pleads, her nails digging into the back of my head as I’m biting along her breasts, flicking her nipple with a stiff and merciless tongue. I roughly grab her hips and shift her up, my cock sinking in hard and deep and I’m grunting with exertion as I drive myself in again and again.

  “Harder,” she cries out again, meeting my eyes, telling me she needs to feel everything.

  I give her all of me.

  A savage growl rips from my throat and I’m fucking, fucking, fucking her like I might die if I don’t. I’m a relentless machine, pounding her over and over and over again, then I’m leaning back down over her, my chest pressed against hers, slick with sweat, our hearts beating against each other in a rabid race, wanting so much I don’t know what to do with myself.

  I bite at her collarbone, her shoulders, her chest, her nipples and she’s crying out softly, wanting more, wanting all of me. My fingers are clamped onto to her hips, a vice, and I fear I might just break her right in two.

  Then it all starts to swirl together. I slip my hand along her clit, rubbing in frenzied circles that make her eyes roll back and the sounds out of her delicate throat are among the most erotic, primal ones I have ever heard.

  She undoes me.

  She always will.

  Bloody hell.

  So I go and go and until I can’t, until my savagery snaps and with one rough, final push I’m pouring into her, my hoarse shouts filling the room. We succumb to our pleasure at the same time, riding the current together, our bodies and hearts hopelessly intertwined. I empty into her and yet I’ve never felt so full.

  I collapse on her with nearly my full weight, breathing so hard that the bed is still shaking and she’s gripping my back with all her might, like I’m a raft and she’ll drown if she lets go.

  But I’ve got her. I do.

  We hold onto each other like this for seconds, moments, minutes. We hold onto each other because we didn’t hold onto each other tight enough before. This time, this time, I know neither of us will let go.

  “You know it hasn’t been proven yet,” I say, my voice thick and lazy as I brush her damp hair off her face. “But I believe I can exist on you alone. No food, no water. Just Kayla. Care you test this theory out over the next few days?”

  She grins up at me and my heart beats something fierce for her. “I would love to help you with this experiment,” she says, her eyes vivid, so beautifully full of life again. “Give me another few minutes and we can try again.”

  “I have a feeling this experiment might last a very long time,” I warn, smiling.

  “Good,” she says, running her thumb over my lips. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  And this time I know it’s true.

  This time she’s here to stay.

  EPILOGUE

  Nine Months Later

  Kayla

  Lachlan is a sweating, grunting, tireless machine. The way his limbs move in all the right ways, his muscles tightening as he dips, and lunges and plows his way through. He’s a beautiful beast to watch, the kind of effortless skill that takes your breath away. And hell, does it ever turn me on.

  I can’t be the only one that thinks this. I look all around me, at the stadium of screaming spectators waving their red and black scarves and I know that at least most of the women are thinking what I’m thinking, and maybe some of the men.

  It goes without saying, Lachlan McGregor is a force to be reckoned with. And boy, do I ever know it. Now more than ever. And I mean that in the best possible way.

  Moving to Scotland was the best decision I’d ever made. Nine months ago I had no idea what would happen with my life, all I knew is that there was a man I loved and a man who loved me and I needed to be with him. It didn’t matter that he was wrought with demons and I was stumbling in grief and aimless except for him. I didn’t care that I was risking it all for something that might not work out. I’d risked it all before and it worked out the only way it could.

  My mom once told me that my life is on the track it’s mean to be on. I think she’s completely right. My old track led me to Edinburgh with Lachlan where I fell madly in love. But life has other plans, plans that we may never understand and the track changed. It took me a moment to reroute it. It took some time to figure out what exactly I needed.

  It was Lachlan all along.

  A lot has changed in nine months. Lachlan has remained sober the whole time, though it’s something neither of us take for granted. I know it’s something that will never leave him completely. He has good days and bad days and on the bad days we go for long walks and I make him talk to me until we can figure out a way through it. We’re in this together now and I make sure he knows that he doesn’t have to face any of it alone.

  His psychologist has helped a lot, so has his healthy lifestyle. He’s doing extremely well in boxing, still just for fun, for a form of exercise that has nothing to do with his career and it’s something to get his anger out better than any medication or booze.

  I like to think that it’s because of all this that he’s gotten better at rugby. When I first met him, he was so worried about his career and age, thinking he couldn’t possibly last any longer. That doesn’t seem to be the case. Not only is he performing at his best, but he’s the longest-standing member of the team and going into this new season, the team captain.

  He handles his new responsibility beautifully.

  As for me, we’ll I’m still struggling but it’s a fun struggle.

  I never did get the job at Twenty-Four Hours, but I did get a job writing for an online Scottish fashion and lifestyle magazine. I get paid per article, which supplements the income I get from working part-time with Amara at Ruff Love. The two of us are currently trying to put our heads together and come up with a PR position at the organization. Maybe she’ll take it, maybe I will, but if it comes to light, it will really help Lachlan get all the love, funding and attention he needs for the dogs.

  Speaking of dogs, Lionel and Emily are still around, still licking us to death an
d sniffing everything in sight. Unfortunately, Jo died a few months ago. Cancer. There was nothing we could do and once Lachlan saw she was suffering, he put her down. It hurt like hell, to be honest, to see that beautiful, sweet dog so fearful on that table at the vet’s office. But at the last minute she looked up at Lachlan and he smiled tearfully at her and she seemed to smile at him. She calmed down. The vet gave the shot and Jo died peacefully.

  Naturally it brought up every fresh, painful memory of my mother’s death. That’s something that will never go away. Ever. I wish it could. I wish it would. But in some ways it feels wrong because someone like my mom should always be in the forefront of your thoughts. To feel that loss, that pain, is just a testament to the kind of person that she was.

  Though sometimes it really is hard to just get out of bed. Sometimes you wake up with dreams of that person and there’s that blissful moment between sleep and reality where you think everything is as it always was. And then it sinks in how much everything has changed. I realize she’s gone and my chest is filled with stones.

  On those mornings I reach for Lachlan and he’s always there. Because he’s my rock. He’s my love and my everything. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him and nothing he wouldn’t do for me and god, it’s scary to have that kind of love, it really is, but I would never trade it for anything.

  I know I used to think that the kind of love that my mother had for my father was the kind that would ruin you. So big and bold and powerful, it would take over your life. And it’s true. Because the love I have for Lachlan is like that. It’s bigger than the both of us. It has the power to collapse us, like the darkest star imploding on itself, too great for its own good. But what a beautiful thing to have, a love so deep that it can bring people to their very knees. A love that can rise from the ashes, greater and stronger than ever before.

  Amara elbows me in my side, bringing my focus back to the rugby game at hand. I’m sitting with her in the lower stands, though I know that Jessica, Donald and Brigs are up in the box seats.

  “One more try and they have it,” Amara squeals, clutching onto her beer even though there’s nothing left of it since she’s been chugging them down like a mad woman, along with the rest of the stadium.

  I’ve pretty much stopped drinking in support of Lachlan. Maybe I’ll have some wine when it’s a girl’s night with Amara at her place, but when I’m with Lachlan I’m as sober as a jaybird. It doesn’t really have an effect on my life, it’s just something I need to do for him and I do it without him asking. Because I want to. Because he would do anything for me.

  Amara has become a good friend though. She’s actually a lot like me, totally opinionated and speaking her mind, even though her love life is a bit lackluster. Still, Lachlan and I are always trying to set her up with some rugby player of the moment and I don’t think she can complain too much about that. Naturally, she still does.

  Of course I talk to Nicola and Steph all the time, so I don’t feel like I’ve lost them at all. They both want to come out and visit with Linden and Bram but…well, there’s a complication now.

  Stephanie is pregnant.

  I know, I’m sad about it in a totally selfish way because it means that she’s moving onto a part of her life that I can’t relate to and I’m afraid that our relationship will change. But at the same time, it’s Steph. She’s always going to have my back, no matter what, and I know I can always be real with her. And really, she’s just so happy that she and Linden are going to be parents that her excitement is contagious. It’s enough that I’m buying every Scottish baby item I can find, including the tiniest little kilt in the MacGregor tartan. I figure girl, or boy, it’s wearable.

  Either way, Stephanie is going to be an excellent mom and I can’t wait to see what kind of terribly attractive human being she’s going to pop out. I think I’ll have to fly back to San Francisco just for that.

  I’m also in constant contact with my all of my brothers. In fact, I’m far closer with them than I ever was before and I think that wherever my mother is hanging out with my father that they’re probably happy that we’ve all finally found each other.

  The people beside us start chanting something in favor of Edinburgh as the teams come together in the field. We watch as the scrum takes place, Edinburgh pushing Munster back until Thierry gets the ball at the back of the players and quickly tosses it under to another guy who then tosses it to Lachlan who is waiting in the wings.

  Lachlan makes a run for it, the ball under his arm, even though the other team has players going for him, watching his every move. They’re always on him like a hawk.

  But they never have his speed.

  Watching him run is as impressive to me now as the first time I ever saw him on the field. He moves with such passion that you can’t help but compare him to a wild stallion or a feral bull, galloping toward freedom, moving like he was born to move.

  I hold my breath as goes. So does everyone.

  A player goes to tackle but Lachlan makes a move to sidestep before changing his mind and then plows through them. The guy goes down and Lachlan keeps running, legs and arms pumping, carrying him along so fast you think he’s going to break the sound barrier. He’s a hot blur of ink and muscle.

  Someone else moves in front, blocking him, but Lachlan only bounces off and keeps going. He punts the ball down the field, side steps someone else, then keeps running until he meets up with the ball again.

  By now we’re all screaming, on our feet, waving everything we can wave because he’s feet from making a try and winning the game.

  And Lachlan just picks up that ball like it was always there waiting for him and runs across the line, making a dramatic dive onto the grass and sliding on his stomach. I know that was just for show but the crowd fucking loves it.

  I fucking love it.

  It’s rare to see him showboat so I know he’s got to be feeling good right now.

  So am I. I’m screaming my head off, jumping up and down with Amara.

  Lachlan gets to his feet, tossing the ball on the ground, smiling so big that happy fucking tears are winding down my face. The rest of his team runs out to hug him, jumping around, celebrating their win during the first game of the season.

  He’s so getting laid tonight.

  But then he does something funny. He runs away from his mates, away from the opposing team who is ready to shake hands, and heads toward the camera men on the sidelines. His coach Alan follows him, quickly passing something off into Lachlan’s hands before he runs back to the team. Lachlan then talks to one of the camera men until a reporter comes over, seeing an opportunity for an interview.

  Lachlan smiles at her, whispers something in her ear.

  He takes the microphone.

  Suddenly the giant screens in the stadium fill with the sight of Lachlan’s handsome face. He smiles broadly at the screen, something that makes him look so much younger, softer, dare I say goofy. He brings the microphone to his lips and speaks into it but no sound comes out.

  He tries again but nothing. His lips are moving, he’s smiling, his eyes crinkling joyfully, but that’s all we in the stands can know.

  “What is he doing?” I ask Amara.

  She shakes her head. “I haven’t a bloody clue.”

  Finally he waves at someone and they come out with a clipboard and a pen. He takes the pen, is about to write something down, and then he pauses and looks up at me. Right at me in the stands.

  I can feel Amara’s eyes on me too, as well as the people below us as they all crane their necks to look at what the hell Lachlan McGregor, savior of the game, is staring at.

  It’s me.

  Always me for him.

  Always him for me.

  Our eyes are locked together.

  Then he writes something down.

  He looks back at me while he displays the paper and clipboard in front of the camera. I know that the screens are showing a message because people are gasping, but I can’t take my eyes off of
him. His gaze always holds me, as strong as his hands.

  “Kayla,” Amara whispers, grabbing my arm. “Oh my god.”

  I finally look at the screens. At the shot of the paper Lachlan is holding, still smiling, albeit a bit nervously now. It’s shaking.

  It reads: Kayla Moore will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?

  Signed: Lachlan McGregor.

  Then the clipboard drops away, the camera focus on the grass.

  My head swivels back to him but he’s gone, running forward, across the field.

  Up the stairs.

  Down the row.

  Stopping right in front of me.

  I’m still sitting down. I haven’t moved. I haven’t really formed one coherent thought.

  I honestly can’t figure out what’s going on. Is this really my Lachlan, my reserved, subdued Lachlan? Am I caught in the middle of a play or something?

  He gets down on one knee so that he’s at my level. His damp hair clings to his sweaty brow, his eyes clear green, piercing through me.

  “What are you doing?’ I ask him, so stunned.

  He holds out one of his hands and held between his fingers is a ring. A gorgeous, beautiful emerald and silver ring.

  “Oh my god,” I think I say, maybe I just breathe it.

  “I thought it would be some grand romantic gesture,” he says. “But it didn’t really work out that way. Technical difficulties.” He has a way of staring at me that makes the rest of the world disappear, like I have blinders on. I’m hanging onto his every word, tunnel vision of his face. “They say you should always do something that scares you, pushes your comfort zone. You did that a lot with me. Every time you came here to Scotland, you gave up the life you knew behind. You were brave. You took a risk. Many risks. Now, I know the surest thing I could ever do is ask you to marry me. Because I know I’m supposed to be with you and you know you’re supposed to be with me. I knew it from the moment I asked you here, I just didn’t know how to deal with it. But now I do. Now I know. And so I’m doing this like this, because it’s bloody frightening.”