Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  ‘And I thought you were’nae gonna eat where you shit anymore?’

  ‘Ah, Kit.’

  ‘It’s your fault. If you had’nae shagged the lassie.’

  ‘Listen, don’t look now, but your accent’s showing.’

  Kit swears colourfully down the line; you can take the boy out of Scotland . . . not that he’d appreciate the sentiment. He hates being pegged as anything but genteel Scots, his accent usually ironed pretty well flat after years of living in London. Both of us love Scotland, but in small doses, you understand.

  ‘Just get this mess sorted,’ comes his final irate demand.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You know, your hearing is impeccable. You’re right, I said no. Not on your life.’ As he inhales, I plough on. ‘She’s a couple biscuits short of a full pack, and you don’t even want to know what fucked up things she’s done in the last month. You can’t make somebody love you, no matter how many naked selfies they send.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you,’ he says deadpan. ‘It’s pumping pure purple piss right now.’

  ‘Selfies aren’t the half of it. How about the tracking device she had on my phone?’

  ‘Now you’re talkin’ pure pish.’

  ‘What a coinky-dink ,’ I pitch my voice higher, attempting to simper down the line. It’s a pretty fair impersonation of the woman herself the third time I’d bumped into her after drawing a line under things. ‘We’re so similar, Rory, can’t you see? Even our down times are in tune. Three times,’ I say, in my own tone now. ‘Three different pubs across the country, Kit. Not just London—at a sports store while I was buying new Nikes. Then, at the new fucking gym I’d joined to avoid bumping into her. I nearly fell off the treadmill that time.’

  Kit tries not to laugh. And fails.

  ‘Yeah, real funny,’ I agree. ‘I almost thought so, too, when I found the tracking app on my phone.’ Kit’s laughter buzzes down the line still. ‘It was almost as funny as when I found that she’d not only installed, but also set up a profile for me on pounder. You know, the gay hook up app?’

  ‘I know what it is,’ he says, serious now.

  ‘I’m sure you do, but it gets worse, bromeo. She loaded a, let’s say, very intimate photo as my profile picture.’

  ‘No way,’ he says, sounding as scandalised as our Granny when she caught me flashing my arse out of my bedroom window. I was twelve. She’s still bringing it up to this day.

  ‘Aye. The D. You must see I can’t call her. The only way to satisfy the woman is to hand over a bouquet containing my balls, as well.’

  ‘All right.’ Kit concedes with a quiet sigh. ‘Leave it with me. You’re away to the Highlands aren’t you? How many properties have you to see?’

  ‘Two more, way up past Aberdeen.’

  ‘And where are you staying now?’

  ‘At the cottage.’

  Kit is quiet for a beat, no doubt processing. ‘You’re staying at the house our no good father left us—’

  ‘I prefer sperm donor.’

  ‘—the one you said you’d never set foot in again.’

  I sniff. ‘I happen to be standing in the house I said I’d never step foot in, actually. The one he left to charity. And to be fair, it was stay in the cottage or the local B & B.’ It’s not like I can sleep here; the place is a tip.

  I can almost hear his shudder at the mention of his least favourite acronym. I’m not exactly a fan myself.

  We talk about business then, each of us more than eager to step away from the past. Holidays for others is business for us; we come from a long line of hoteliers, right back to our great grandfather’s day, though Kit and I are currently working on something of our own. Exclusive boutique hotels; country homes turned into hotels with a difference with decors and facilities to rival anywhere. Getaways for an elite clientele.

  By now I’ve made my way up the once grand staircase of our current project and into one of the rooms supposedly earmarked for an executive suite. A copper bath, covered in blue protective wrap, stands in the large bay window. There’s a hole cut into the floorboards, presumably where the tap will stand. Luxury getaways? Right now, I doubt we could get vagrants to stay in this place with much success.

  ‘We should’ve left that place well alone.’ Kit’s ominous words bring my feet to a sudden halt. This isn’t something we discuss ever, having tactically decided to leave the past where it belongs. ‘If he’d wanted us to own the place he’d have left it to us in his will. The auld bastard’s probably had it cursed.’

  ‘You might’ve mentioned your thoughts before the auction.’ Not that it matters. I might’ve said I didn’t care that our DNA donor didn’t love us enough to leave us the house I’m standing in. But as his oldest son, I was hurt. I wanted it, as my auld granny would say, by hook or by crook. That’s my granny of the good grand-parenting side, unlike the old twat who died, leaving this house to an aged greyhound’s charity. ‘Anyway,’ I force my tone to lighten above my thoughts. ‘The only bastards around are us.’

  ‘Like that’s ever bothered either of us. Just do me a favour and stay out of town for a while. Let me see what I can do about Beth.’

  ‘Sure ,’ I say laughing, because he really has no idea. I can stay out of London for a while, but the woman is certifiable. He’ll get no sense out of her.

  ‘I’m not interested in your sloppy seconds,’ he says, mistaking my tone.

  ‘On account of her not havin’ a beard, I imagine. Either way, it’s your funeral.’

  ‘And it’ll be yours if I can’t get her to play nice.’

  I hate leaving him to sort out my shit. ‘We’re not at school now.’ God knows he spent enough time dragging me out of trouble back then. And it was usually over girls.

  ‘It’s not just your problem though, is it? Not when it’s threatening our timeline.’

  I let out a defeated breath. ‘I was upfront with her, man. She agreed—we weren’t even a thing.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. With women, there’s always a thing.’

  Five

  Fin

  Saturday morning and I’m up and dressed to face the hair demanding hoard super early, though not quite prepared, thanks to the bottle of red I finished off after Ivy had turned in last night. Still feeling the effects of my cheese and wine party for one, minus the cheese, I’m returning from topping up my second cup of coffee with its pint of water chaser, when I pause by the bookshelf, picking up a black framed photograph. Ivy has a number of them displayed, mostly images of her family over the years, though strangely none of her travels. This photograph is of just the two of us; we must be about sixteen or seventeen at a barbeque, all badly applied make-up and questionable hair, with glasses of cider in hand. Underage drinking, but with parental consent.

  It’s strange how tastes change, and I don’t just mean hair. It’s been years since cider was my tipple of choice. I’m definitely more a wine or an occasional cocktail girl these days. Probably because back when I was at college, it was the cheapest way to a buzz. In fact, I think the last time I ever ordered a pint of cider was the night I lost my virginity.

  And in a blink, my mind wanders back there . . .

  ‘Leave your drink, baby blue. I can’t wait to get you alone.’

  In the pub, the school bitches stared open-mouthed as he’d tugged on my hand. Surprised, or maybe kiss-drunk, my mind was purely vacant, staring up into the face of my knight in dark jeans and converse. I was having a hard time believing this hot yet random guy had glued his face to mine—had kissed the hell out of me, heating and melting me in places he had no business to be.

  My hand hesitated from grabbing the pint I’d just paid for. ‘Y-yeah. Okay.’

  ‘Say goodbye to your friends, ‘cos we’ve got plans.’

  Yeah, because that hadn’t sounded sexual. And a pulse hadn’t begun hammering between my legs. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have strung together a sentence at that point; I’d just waved weakly to th
ose bitches’ dumbstruck and drooling faces as he’d led me out the door.

  In the cool evening air, Rory had laughed. Leaning one shoulder against the pub wall, he’d folded his arms. Even with my limited experience, I could tell this was a kind of deliberate stance; one that made him look all kinds of hot. I tried not to glance at the way his t-shirt stretched over his shoulders and arms. Tried and failed.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind, back there.’ He tipped his head towards the pub door.

  ‘Kiss—kissing, you mean?’ My words were soft; almost as soft as my lips I discovered, suddenly finding my fingers there. His gaze followed the motion and my heart literally stopped as I thought of him kissing me again. When he didn’t move, it became apparent he was waiting for me to answer. In the absence of words, I’d shaken my head.

  ‘I fucking hate bullies.’ His hand stretched out, cupping the side of my face, and either his hand was scorching or I’d turned beet red. In truth, I was burning all over, and right at that moment I’d wanted him to continue touching me. For his hand to touch me everywhere.

  As experiences go, this one was both wonderful and terrifying.

  ‘Do you want to go somewhere? With me, I mean?’

  ‘Where?’

  My response was barely a whisper. Hot for the guy or not—my would-be rescuer—this still gave me pause. I’d always been a good girl. A sensible one. Cautious to the point of bordering on tediousness. Wasn’t I looking to ditch that version of me? I was going travelling and it looked, right then, as though my adventure had already begun.

  As though sensing my internal dialogue, he answered, ‘Din’nae fash . You’ll be fine.’

  ‘Wow,’ I’d replied, laughing at his reassurance. The prospect of being alone with him didn’t seem so frightening. ‘You’re laying that on real thick.’

  ‘What, the accent?’ he’d asked with faux surprise. ‘It usually does it for all the foreign lassies.’

  ‘Away an’ boil y’ heed!’ I might not have been raised purely in Scotland, but he wasn’t the only one familiar with the tongue.

  Tongue. It was like he could read my thoughts, because as he laughed, his was suddenly visible, pink and wet. And sporting a silver piercing. I’d be lying if I said that thought didn’t still cause me a little tickle between my thighs.

  It wasn’t much longer before we’d found ourselves running through the gate of a nearby cottage, the sudden inclement weather catching us by surprise. Summer evenings the sun is late to set in Scotland, and as we’d strolled through the darkening village exchanging names and small talk, the heavens had opened, rain suddenly lashing down. Wet and laughing, Rory had pulled me to his chest under the old tiled porch. The garden was fragrant with the smell of summer flowers, and though shivering, I was content to stay there, pondering that tongue piercing and wondering if he’d kiss me again. Content, that is, until he pulled out a key.

  ‘You can trust me.’ His eyes were solemn under wet, spiked lashes.

  ‘But trust you to do what?’ I’d whispered, unable to look away.

  ‘Whatever you want.’

  And whatever I want turned out to be more than I’d bargained for.

  ‘There’s no one home.’ Grabbing my hand, he’d led me inside and down a dim hallway that smelled of beeswax polish and into a country-style kitchen. Looking back, I’ve often wondered if the cottage had been his intended destination all along.

  ‘Here, dry off.’ He’d handed me a towel pulled from the dryer. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  ‘You’re not from around here.’ I ran the towel down my bare forearms, cold not the only reason for my shivering.

  His brow furrowed briefly and he shook his head. ‘On holiday.’

  We were still both drying our hair when, with a start, I’d noticed his eyes were glued to my chest and I glanced down to where my nipples stood like stiff points behind the wet fabric of my dress. I pulled the edges of the towel closer across my chest, suffering a flash of discomfort, though not from his looking, rather the lack there to show.

  ‘Don’t do that.’ I opened my mouth to answer but no sound came out. ‘Don’t hide yourself.’ His voice was soft, though it wasn’t kindness he was offering, if the pulse jumping in his throat was any sign.

  For a moment, I didn’t move—I didn’t dare to. All I’d known was I needed him to touch me or I’d burst. Over twenty years old and I’d never known yearning until that point. That tickle between my legs when someone cute flirted with me? Sure. But this? This was more like a deluge.

  Inhaling deeply, I’d folded the towel over my forearm before dropping it onto a kitchen chair, his voice turning rougher as he’d said, ‘Come here.’

  Wholly unoriginal, but finding the courage to move was like taking a step from a cliff, not knowing what I’d find over the edge. But he didn’t leave me pin wheeling; no, pressing me flush against him, he pushed me over that edge. Kissing and touching—I was so turned on by his silverware—and, within moments, he had me backed against the countertops, his hand slipping into the waistband of my panties. I was like a cat in heat, rubbing my slick self against him. I thought I’d pass out when he lowered himself to his haunches, trailing his fingers across my hips. Shaking and delirious with longing, I’d exhaled a long breath as he’d slid the plain white cotton down my legs.

  ‘Not blue.’

  Though his eyes were levelled between my thighs, the smile was evident in his words, and as his gaze slowly tracked up my body, I could see the wicked glint there.

  His soft lips parted, blowing warm breath against my damp curls, heat coursing through my veins like the path of wildfire through dry grass. I burned like never before. God, I ached for him to touch me again, and as he slid his fingers inside me, my ragged gasp sounded like an expletive in the room. I gripped the edge of the countertop, suddenly fearing for the stability of my knees as his fingers worked me slowly, building into a teasing rhythm, his free hand bunching the fabric of my dress tight at my hip.

  I was freefalling; the reality of the kitchen slipping away as my hips jerked, delirious and desperate.

  ‘You’re so wet.’ His voice was just a whisper, but still my head jolted me back to the moment, my body stiffening. Was that normal? No one, and by that I meant neither of the two boys whose fingers were familiar with that particular region of my body had ever mentioned anything like that.

  ‘What—’ My teeth clamped against my lip before I tried again. ‘I’ve never. I haven’t—’

  I sucked in a breath as his fingers slipped wetly from between my legs.

  ‘You’ve never what?’ he asked, sitting back, his hand still holding my bunched dress. I felt myself shrugging in response, only answering when it became clear those fingers weren’t going anyplace I wanted them to.

  ‘I’ve never gone any further. Than this.’

  ‘You’ve never had sex before?’ His brows pulled together. Was he confused? Annoyed? It was hard to tell.

  ‘Well, technically, no. But I want to. Now. W-with you, I mean.’ And I think we both heard the mixture of panic and desperation right then.

  In an almost fluid motion, Rory stood, taking my hand. Tears pricked against my eyes and all I could think was he’s making me leave and my panties are still in his kitchen; I have a wet, bare assed and teary walk home ahead of me.

  But then we paused at a door in the hallway where his hands found my face.

  ‘You want to do this?’

  I nodded, my face still in his hands. Fingers I could smell myself on. ‘I want you, but I need to hear you’re sure. That you want this. That you want me, too.’

  I swallowed deeply and nodded again. ‘Yes, please.’

  The bed was unmade and clothes hung over the back of a chair. Dark blue soft furnishings and a swirling black rug. The rain beat heavily against the window as he led me to the bed, my hand shaking in his as he peeled back the wrinkled covers while apologising for the mess.

  Perched on the edge of the mattress, I’d kicked off
my ballet flats, placing my hands primly against my knees and watched from under my lashes as Rory slid a hand to the back of his neck to pull off his damp t-shirt. It was such a masculine movement, yet a simple one, and very effective as far as my libido was concerned.

  His body was all hard angles and slopes and my heart began to beat like runaway hooves as he stepped closer, popping the button on his dark jeans.

  ‘Take off your dress.’

  Was it wrong to feel a little thrill at his throaty direction, especially as his eyes were so avidly watching me?

  I began loosening the buttons of my light summer dress, while considering leaving on the cropped top I wore in place of a bra. Bravery won over ridiculousness, though the urge to cover myself was hard fought.

  ‘I want you to touch me.’ He stepped closer, the husky tone of his voice sending shivers across my skin.

  Without speaking, I reached out, trailing my hands down his smooth chest and the flat planes of his stomach, past the trail of downy hair to where it grew a little more wiry. Rory gasped softly as I took his cock in my hand. Explored him. Not the first I’d ever held, but easily the most beautiful. It was difficult to know where to look; his face and its sweet mixture of agony and relief, or the vulgar gorgeousness I held in my hand.

  He groaned as my grasp tightened, exhaling a whispered fuck, silently urging me with his body, his hand on my shoulder as the other moved to my breast. His thumb slid electrically across my nipple causing me to jerk with the unexpected sensation, drawing my nerve endings in tight knots. In my hand, Rory’s movements became hot and urgent, fierce breath and whispered curses expelled from his mouth. Then, sliding my hand away by the wrist, he’d knelt in front of me.

  My heart was wild in my chest, my hands unable to hold me up as his fingers trailed up the sensitive insides of my thighs, gently pressing them outward, spreading them wide enough to settle himself there.

  ‘You’re sure?’ His voice was low and rough, like it’d taken some control to ask. The thought made me smile, though not for long as his fingers parted me, his thumb lightly brushing my clit. Everything became blurry as his fingers worked me, his next words little more than background noise. ‘It might hurt a little bit.’