Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  Thirty-Two

  Fin

  Eyes open, I’m suddenly awake. No nightmarish choking, no limbo. I’ve just opened my eyes and . . . I’m here. But that’s not to say I don’t feel like shit because crying will do that to a girl. So will falling off a treadmill, a treadmill I had no business being on in the first place, even for an anxiety run.

  After Mac had left, it had taken me an hour or so to tidy up the admin ends and I’d made my way to the stables to collect Ivy’s bike for the cold trek home. As I’d looked up at the darkening clouds it became obvious it was to be a wet trek, too, as rain drops started to fall pretty heavily. Rory’s truck wasn’t parked, so I’d ran for the shelter of the cottage thinking I’d take the chance to wait out the weather while packing up my stuff. I no longer have any reason to stay. Ivy’s absence has given me more space than I need, plus I’d said I’d keep an eye on both the salon and flat. And the truth is, there’s probably every reason not to stay over while Rory’s around.

  It had taken longer than I’d realised to pack my stuff into a holdall, which I’d stowed next to the front door. The rain had slowed to that miserable drizzle that Scotland seems to be famous for before I’d realised it was too late to peddle over the causeway: The tide was partially in.

  So I’d paced. And I’d fretted. Worried that I wouldn’t be able to leave before he returned. And that thought freaked me the fuck out.

  I’m not frightened of Rory, though he was in a strange mood earlier for sure. No, I was more worried about my reaction to him. Lord knows he only has to breathe in my direction and my panties seem to develop a life of their own. As a distraction from those thoughts, I’d dug out my running gear from the bag I’d just packed and headed over to the shiny, new gym. Flight wasn’t an option until the tide went out so I’d just have to fight off this anxiety, starting with a run. Probably not a great idea in retrospect, especially as I’d a bike ride, too. Or so I’d thought.

  But a run had helped, at least, until that stupid song came on. Worse still, Rory had witnessed my melt down. But, God, I needed him in the moment. Needed those strong arms and gentle words. But now . . . actually, I think I’m too exhausted to feel anything at all. Though I’m sure shame will slink along later, along with her teammate embarrassment.

  So I’m awake in this bed, the bed that Rory no doubt carried me to. And covered me. More kindness. Why can’t he always be an asshole? I haven’t stirred so I doubt he’s realised I’m awake, or that I’m watching him through swollen and gritty eyes. Legs splayed, he sits in an armchair at the other side of the room, angled to face the bed. He holds a low ball glass in the palm of his hand as he stares into the inch of amber liquid like the secrets of the universe are lurking there.

  If he knows I’m awake, he hasn’t acknowledged it, not that I blame him because as well as feeling like shit, I know I’ll resemble it, too. Crying makes me look like an amphibian.

  ‘Are you thinking about drinking it, or are you just staring it down?’ Though I wasn’t going to break the silence, but find myself doing it anyway. My voice sounds croaky. Like I haven’t used it in years.

  He doesn’t move; not his head, not his gaze, not the glass in his hand. Though he does answer. ‘Good whisky deserves appreciation.’

  I spy the bottle propped on the slim set dresser behind him and though I can’t vouch for the bottle being full when he started, something tells me it may well have been.

  ‘So you’re just . . . looking at it?’

  ‘I’m appreciating, like I would a good woman.’ The words roll from his tongue like the drink itself, all smooth and smoky. Rory turns the drink in his hand, the light from the table lamp shining amber highlights through the glass. ‘Look first, then taste.’

  ‘Is that your rule for whisky or women?’

  I duck my head wishing I hadn’t spoken when his head raises, his gaze burning as vividly as the liquid.

  ‘Titch, I’ve been watching you for hours.’ As though making his point, his gaze slowly traces the length of me, my body reacting almost as though he’d caressed me with his hand. ‘Watching. Waiting. Wishing.’

  ‘But for what?’

  Thirty-Three

  Rory

  ‘But for what?’ Her voice is soft and hesitant, though her body betrays her mental state. Not that it matters, because I shouldn’t answer. I don’t want her to hurt anymore today. There’s no way I could bring myself to tell her I’ve spent the past two hours watching her sleep, all the while wishing I could bring myself to leave.

  ‘That would be telling.’ My eventual answer earns me a quiver of her lips that’s not quite a smile.

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ she says, more hesitant still.

  ‘About your tragic taste in music? So you should be.’

  This time, her smile is quick to grow and just as quick to fall. I curl my fingers tighter around my glass, resisting the urge to reach out and smooth her furrowing brow. It’s harder still as she tucks her hands between her thighs, prayer-like.

  ‘That song, it’s one of my mom’s favourites. I’d heard it plenty, but never really listened to it, you know?’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it? About what happened?’ My relief is acute as she shakes her head—I’m in no frame of mind right now to hear about her ex—though I try not to show it. Instead, I raise my glass, closing my eyes and swallowing, silently relishing the burn as some kind of distraction for the longing twisting my insides. This desperate ache for just once more; one more kiss, one more fuck, never to be repeated again. It’s almost like nostalgia, or a sense of what could have been. Could’ve been but for me.

  And yet it still hurts.

  The longing for impossible things.

  Regret of what could’ve been.

  It’s the same with this house. I should’ve listened to Kit and left well alone, instead of vowing this house would be mine, despite my birth.

  ‘Was it worth the wait?’

  The burn deepens as my throat constricts. How could she know? A beat later I realise she’s talking about the drink.

  ‘Ask me that again in a couple of hours.’ I set the glass down as I stand, and as I straighten, our eyes lock. I can’t quite make sense of her expression. Surprise? Shock? I study her face for further clues, observing, almost, as her pupils dilate.

  That dark ring of lust is like a hit direct to the vein.

  Just once more.

  We all tell lies, but the worst of those are what we tell ourselves.

  I move towards the bed and Fin uncurls from her almost foetal position, pushing herself onto her back. She doesn’t speak, at least, not with words, her breath catching as I lean over, bracing my hands either side of her head. Her lips part in soft invitation, but I don’t kiss her. Not yet.

  ‘Don’t tease.’

  Her whispered admonishment brushes my cheek and I glance down at her lips at the exact same moment as she licks the pink flesh. Electricity surges through my whole body, the sensation as heady as though she’d licked not her lip, but the head of my dick. Jesus , I can almost see it—almost feel it—my arms trembling as I lower my mouth to hers.

  ‘Titch, I’m not teasing. I’m appreciating.’ My words are barely a whisper. ‘Feast with the eyes, then with the tongue.’

  Our lips meet, and if intentions could be measured in kisses, this one seeks to possess. I can’t get close enough as I feed her my tongue again and again—feed her the taste of five hundred quid whisky, tainted by longing and need. Fear of this strength of feeling makes me tear my mouth from hers, my body heaving as I stare down. Bubble-gum pink lips in a face so pale.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ Fin whispers, curling her fingers in my shirt and leaving me under no illusion of the transparency of my expression.

  I pause, but not for long, leaning on one hand as I use the other to grasp the shirt at my back, pulling it off. It’s like I’ve just handed her Christmas the way she trails her hands down my front.

  ‘These, too,’ she says, her
fingers tugging my belt. ‘Hurry, Rory.’

  ‘Ladies first.’

  Moments later, we’ve worked together to strip her of her leggings and sports bra and, in our haste, I can’t tell whether her own legs are helping or hindering in pushing my jeans from my legs. My belt clinks as they hit the floor and I climb over her, bracketing her thighs, a sudden jolt of pleasure coursing through my veins at the sight of her nakedness, the colour of her hardened nipples matching the flush of arousal across her chest.

  ‘Just look at you.’ My words are punctuated by nipping kisses as she shudders beneath me and I absolutely struggle to control myself. I trail my lips across her jaw—licking, sucking. Caressing her neck. ‘How did you get to be so fucking perfect?’

  Fin huffs out some semblance of a laugh, her rueful words barely a breath. ‘If only you knew.’

  My mind snags on her tone, though I don’t realise I’m sucking on her neck until my teeth tighten and she moans. It’s fucked up, but her answer boils my insides—takes me back to the kitchen, scrolling through my phone.

  ‘Don’t.’ I push up onto my knees, sliding her thighs wide, my fingers gripping them hard enough to mark. ‘Just fucking don’t . If I pay you a compliment I want only your thank you. Spoken or demonstrated—either works.’

  Angry, hard and confused, I tighten my fingers, staring down at the ribbon of pink and swollen flesh. The sight is so fucking tempting that I reach out and lay the heel of my palm there, lightly rotating my wrist. My eyes track their way up her body, expecting to see some sign of shock or anger.

  What I don’t expect to be greeted by are eyes so dark they appear black.

  What I don’t anticipate is her body rocking up into my hand.

  What I don’t imagine are her breathless, teasing sounds.

  ‘That’s better.’ I slide my palm downwards, trailing two fingers down her slick lips. ‘That’s what I want,’ I add gruffly, sliding them inside and hooking them forward once I’m knuckle deep.

  Her reaction is electric; like she’s been struck by a live line. Her whimpers turn to moans, her sounds a little more desperate. She looks gorgeous as she brings her hands up to the pillow either side of her head; so different from the angry Fin of yesterday, or the hesitant Fin from before.

  And the placement of her hands? Any man worth his pussy knows what that means.

  She wants to be restrained, though can’t bring herself to say.

  Without moving my fingers, I lean over her and tell her to put her hands over her head, my next words a harsh rasp.

  ‘You like that, don’t you, titch?’

  As I grasp her wrists in my free hand, I don’t need to hear her affirmative whimper, her body clutching my fingers tightly as I trail my tongue down her neck. Licking. Sucking. Marking. ‘Ever been restrained before?’

  ‘A little,’ she whispers hesitantly.

  Something twists in the pit of my fucking gut, her body stilling under my arctic tone. ‘With him?’

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I rest my forehead against her shoulder as I breathe deeply, trying to get a grip, to make sense of my reaction. Of how this makes me feel. Of why the hell I asked. Around about the same time I realise my fingers, though still inside her, have also stilled.

  ‘J—just once. It was just one time.’ Her words, though meant to pacify, create other questions.

  ‘Once?’

  ‘We—he wasn’t interested in anything like that.’

  What a fucking loser. To the victor go the spoils, pal.

  ‘What else didn’t he do?’ I try to bite back my sneer, ghosting my mouth over her lips and chin, keeping it just out of her reach. And, rather than returning to fingering, rest my thumb on her clit. ‘Didn’t spank you?’ I taunt, circling it. ‘Didn’t tie you up. What kind of pussy was he?’

  That was a rhetorical question, by the way.

  ‘Rory.’

  My name sounds more like a sigh, something I long to catch between my lips. Something I long to bite . I press my thumb a little firmer, her tits rubbing my chest, her nipples hard, lickable points. There are so many places I could take this, but the feel of her squirming against me means I’m not really paying attention to what’s coming out of my mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever been as hard as I am right now .

  ‘Come on, titch. What else didn’t he do? You can tell me.’

  ‘H—he never licked me like you. Licked me with a tongue piercing.’

  Like a tongue piercing? I used to have a piercing; a bar through my tongue. Not that Fin would know; it was purely a teenage thing. Distracted. Fucking horny. Not listening. Brain on delay. Those things and more blur my focus. If I don’t get inside her soon, I’ll be manic enough to chew through the fucking bedpost.

  ‘And you like that, do you.’ My eyes track up her body to the desire glazing her eyes. ‘You’d like me to lick you from arse to clit.’

  ‘Oh, God, yes!’

  ‘Poor, pretty titch. She had a husband who couldn’t eat her out properly.’ I might be smiling, but I’m pretty sure this falls under the parameters of piss-poor sexual politics. ‘I could’ve given him a few pointers.’

  ‘You . . .’ she says panting and squirming, probably something to do with the way my thumb is petting and teasing. Pressure to a whisper. Firm to a bare caress. ‘You could teach a class and—and get rich from it.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere, though not tonight. I’m too desperate. I need to be inside.’

  And, apparently, this I said out loud, judging by the way Fin tightens her legs around me, hissing, ‘Fuck, yesss !’

  Moving over her, I take my cock in my free hand, sliding it through her slick heat. My legs jerk, my abs tightening and it’s all I can do to not slam into her right then. But I just want this. Want to feel her against me without any barriers. Want to push myself just that little bit further. And then, as she wiggles her wrist free from my hand, she reaches down to grasp my cock . . .

  . . . and slides me home.

  I hiss an expletive and her name—holy fuck, Fin— as molten lava barrels down my spine—through my veins. This is unchartered territory—bareback. It’s dangerous and against everything I’ve ever stood for or believed, but I can’t bring my body or mind in line. Especially as Fin tips her pelvis, her fingers still between us, slippery and wet.

  I’m instinct—pure, rutting need. There’s nothing sophisticated or practised about this. I’m lusty and greedy, my hips rocking and pivoting. My mouth growing messy in my effort to touch, kiss and fuck.

  And we absolutely are fucking.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Fin pants, her mouth a pink and lewd o . She draws her hand upwards over the ridges of my abs, pulling the muscles tight. ‘I love how hard you feel.’

  I laugh raspily, given that this could be taken a few differing ways. Especially as she’s just had her fingers wrapped around my cock. How’s this for hard? I dig my knees into the mattress, the added leverage sending the headboard slamming into the wall.

  Fin giggles, low and sultry, the first time the bed hits the wall, but just moments later we’re back to being serious. Serious in the pursuit of pleasure . She mewls, the moment changing again, my rhythm becoming erratic as her pussy starts pulsing around me, her back arching as she meets me thrust for thrust. My name on her lips is more roar than Rory , her fingers tight on my arse as she calls out.

  The woman is beautiful at all times of the day, but this . . . this transcends everything.

  I grind against her—grind into her, my mind not completely sentient. I desire this woman. Want to own and possess her. Her aftershocks killing me, kissing me, pull from me my own climax.

  Draw my balls tight. I want to fill her.

  ‘Oh, fuck, that feels—’

  Like nothing else ever could.

  ‘Fuck me, Fin. Oh, fuck me .’

  Just fuck me now and forever. Let me fill you with my—

  ‘Christ!’ I pull away with a jerk, the almost electrified kind.

 
‘What is it?’ Her voice is soft and hoarse as she pushes up on her elbows, her fingers reaching out to touch my arm. My cock bobs between us and I’m sure I must look like a mad man.

  ‘I nearly came.’ I hear myself hiss as I pinch the head of my cock. ‘We’re not—I didn’t grab a condom.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she says. Curling her knees sideways, she pushes up, matching my stance.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. I never, and I mean never fuck without something on.’

  She cocks one brow, a look I’d ordinarily call adorable. But not now.

  ‘Socks? I had sex with a bra on once. I could loan you something like that if you like.’

  Jerking back from her hand, I bite my lip to hold back my thoughts; this isn’t all right and it isn’t fun. Unwanted pregnancies are the bane of everyone. I should know, and fucking her like this makes me a hypocrite.

  ‘Hey,’ she tries again, her hand reaching for my cheek this time. ‘We’re fine, I promise. I’ve had the shot. It’s still in my system, at least, for a little while yet.

  Her expression is so transparent, her words so sincere. Why do I feel sliced open wide?

  ‘Let me,’ she whispers, her breath soft against my face. ‘Let yourself.’

  Her hands on my shoulder, it’s like I’m having an out of body experience as I allow her to push me back against the bed. Slipping her legs over my hips, she pushes all breath from my chest as she slides my cock home for a second time.

  ‘Oh, Rory.’ My name is a sigh as she begins to undulate softly, the ache in my stomach released as my hands find her hips. ‘When will it go away?’

  ‘Titch?’ My answer is a rasp, my lips dry and my throat hoarse.

  ‘This. Us.’

  Her words, light and pondering, lick at my heart rate. My jaw clenches tight even though I’ve no answer to give, because I want this; now and forever, whatever that means.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say as she closes her eyes. ‘Keep them open, watch me. Please.’

  And she does, her hands against my chest, our bodies colliding in flesh and need. Above me, Fin throws her head back, my name on her lips part moan, part battle cry as she falls apart and I realise in that moment, that very moment, this woman is something I’ve never wanted and everything I need.