by Virna DePaul
And at the end, as they’d lain together, she’d heard his heart beating in his chest and known it was the real him. His real heart.
They’d dressed slowly. Every time Callum managed to retie his kilt, Molly would hastily take off her bra again and leap into his waiting arms. Naked skin against naked skin was all she wanted. She’d be content never owning another shirt again. As the light started to fade between the trees, she’d finally zipped up her skirt. But there was Callum’s cock pressing against her ass, his kilt dropped suggestively in front of her still-exposed tits, his callused fingers undoing her zipper yet again.
“Wait, wait,” he’d said as a last ray of the setting sun filtered through the shifting clouds. He moved in front of her and held her still by the shoulders. “I haven’t seen your breasts in this light yet.” So he’d seen them, and then he’d devoured them.
Walking out of the forest took them ten times longer than walking into the forest, because every few steps they couldn’t stop themselves from drawing each other into a kiss or touching each other’s neck, waist, or cheek or studying each other’s eyes to make sure they hadn’t forgotten what they looked like. They met Mack outside and tried to keep to themselves in the back seat of the sedan on the way back to Floors Castle, but failed in every possible way. Flirtatious giggles weren’t muted. Quick kisses intended for only the brief moments before Mack looked in his rearview mirror went on and on. Callum couldn’t even wait until they were alone before sneaking his hand under Molly’s skirt and pinching her ass.
“Did you sleep well, Miss Rose?”
Shaken from her dreamy memories of the night before, Molly nervously glanced up from the canvas she’d been working on.
Isla, Callum’s mother, was staring at her.
“I’m sorry,” she smiled. “I was concentrating. What did you say?”
“Your sleep, Miss. Was it restful?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered politely, refusing to look at Callum as he sat in his normal spot across from her in the ballroom.
If his mother’s question elicited even the smallest smirk from him, Molly would blush immediately. A brief flash in his extraordinary green eyes would certainly make her ears burn bright red. If she didn’t want to give away her dirty thoughts about Isla’s son, she couldn’t even get a glimpse of his broad shoulders or his large hands held innocently in his lap.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Isla responded. “The hailstorm was quite loud in my bedroom. And oh, how the winds howled.”
“Those winds can be positively screaming, Mother dear,” Callum said casually, with a mischievous grin toward Molly.
His words made her cough and hide her crimson cheeks in her arm. She knew exactly what he was talking about.
In front of the fireplace in his room, stripped down naked with her hands bound in front of her, he’d commanded her to close her eyes. Moments later she’d screamed when he circled an ice cube around each peaked nipple. Laying her down on the warm stone hearth, he’d covered every inch of her exposed body in glistening drops of water.
“I suppose I should clean up my mess,” he’d growled, then lapped up every cold drop with his hot tongue, leaving her quivering.
“The winds didn’t bother me,” Molly somehow managed to choke out.
“Really? But perhaps the cold is getting to you. You sound as if you might be catching something, Miss Rose. I’ll have someone fetch us tea,” Isla said. “Tea will soothe the throat.”
“She does sound a tad hoarse,” Callum added. “Something in her throat, no doubt.”
Oh yes, she knew exactly what he was referring to. Last night, she’d bobbed her head on his huge cock until he came straight down her throat. She’d licked her lips greedily before he pushed her back onto the bed and buried his face between her legs.
Around the side of the canvas, Molly shot him a warning glare. He blew her a kiss when his mother wasn’t looking.
“Carla?” Isla called. She walked to the door of the ballroom and leaned out. “Carla?”
No answer. Grumbling, Isla threw her hands into the air in frustration.
“I suppose I shall have to go run after the tea myself,” she announced as she marched out into the hall.
“Nothing wrong with getting things done yourself, Mother,” Callum called after her before turning to Molly. “Isn’t that right, Miss Rose? You definitely got things done for yourself last night.”
She most certainly had. Covered in a sheen of sweat, basking in the heat of post-sex ecstasy and crackling flames, the two of them lay across from one another and pleasured themselves with the sight of each other still so exposed and still so hungry. He’d stroked his dick slowly while staring at the red bite marks on her tits. She’d stared into his hazy green eyes and pulsed her fingers over her clit. They’d said nothing, but they’d felt everything.
Now, half-hidden by the easel, Molly squirmed. Her panties were wet from just the memory of his body, his touch, his passion. Impatiently, she glanced over her shoulder at the empty doorway as sharp-heeled footsteps echoed from down the hallway. Waiting until they faded, she ran on her tiptoes to Callum and leaped onto his lap.
He grabbed the back of her head and lowered her lips to his as if they contained the last drop of water on earth. She covered her mouth to stifle her moan, while he tilted her neck to prey on the skin just below her ear. Her fingers clung to his shoulders, her knuckles white.
“I can’t stand this,” she whispered, breathing in his intoxicating cologne. “Let’s go.”
He peeled back her shirt collar to suck along her collarbone.
“Where will we go?” he asked, alternating between sweet kisses and tiny nips.
“Anywhere.”
She leaned back to hold his face between her hands. He growled, her body then too far away to reach with his tongue, but he clearly didn’t realize his eyes made her just as wet as his hot mouth. He looked up at her and seemed to see nothing but her. She brushed his cheek with her thumb.
“We could go anywhere,” she whispered.
He tucked her curls behind her ears and seemed to study every freckle on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Then he twirled a curl on his finger, his eyes blazing and delighted, as if he had spun strands of pure gold.
“Together,” he whispered back.
Molly smiled as his eyes again met hers. “Together.”
She kissed him, his hands flat against her back were like hot brands. She was his. The real world no longer existed. She was a girl kissing a boy and she wanted nothing more than for his hands to press her tighter and closer.
But an echo snuck into the ballroom. They each froze.
“Shit, she’s coming back,” Callum warned, eyes excited as he nipped at her bottom lip once more. He grinned. “Anywhere,” he reminded her.
Molly kissed his forehead. “Together.”
Climbing off of his lap while he hastily smoothed his hair, Molly stood next to him and held her chin as she studied him with a professional gaze. Isla returned to the ballroom, followed by a staff member pushing a cart carrying a teapot and cups.
“Yeah, like that,” Molly said, nodding and trying not to smile when Callum’s eyes darted mischievously up at her. “Hold your chin just like that.”
Before she returned to her easel, Callum brushed his fingers against hers. It was the softest of touches, like a feather brushing naked skin, but it sent such a jolt to every nerve up and down her whole body. Like a jagged strike of lightning hitting her in that Scottish field.
For a second, she was worried that Isla had noticed this subtle interaction and put the pieces together. However, Isla had eyes for only one thing, and it wasn’t their fiery chemistry.
“I don’t understand.”
She was standing in front of Callum’s half-finished portrait, and she didn’t look pleased. Not at all. After risking a glance back at Callum, Molly saw her own worry in Callum’s expression before she hurried to Isla’s side.
“It’s not fi
nished, ma’am,” Molly started. “You can’t judge it properly until—”
“It looks nothing like your work,” Isla interrupted.
Molly tried to grab the sheet to drape it back over the canvas, but Isla pushed her hands away. She shook her head as she continued to stare at the portrait.
“We hired you because of the stateliness present in your work, Miss Rose. This is…this is…well, I have no idea whatsoever what this is. What is this?”
She turned to Molly with such condescension in her scowl that Molly felt punished like a naughty child.
“It’s not finished,” was all she could say, accompanied by a lame shrug.
She glanced toward the double doors, preparing her swift exit. Surprised, she found Callum standing firmly by her side. Isla was like the sudden blast of cold winds and Callum like shelter from the storm.
“Mother,” he said, his tone firm and commanding, “we need to allow Miss Rose to finish her work before we start adding our own petty critiques.”
Molly watched the shock play across Isla’s face. Callum didn’t speak to his mother in such a manner. Or at least hadn’t in some time, Molly guessed. But in front of her darkening eyes, he held firm.
“Petty critiques?” Isla repeated, her voice shrill and harsh. “Did you say petty critiques, Callum Phillip? Have you seen this mess? Have you seen it?”
She wildly pointed to the eyes Molly had so lovingly painted. Molly wanted to defend herself. She wanted to say that her style showed Callum with more life and humanity than the stiff, regal, lifeless style Isla wanted. She painted with love, just as her mother had taught her. It was the only way she knew how.
But more than that, she wanted to defend Callum. More specifically, the way she saw Callum, the way she wanted for him to see himself.
Molly had always thought there was something distant about Isla’s interaction with her son. Yes, she called him “darling” and “love’”, but those words seemed to have no meaning to her. It was said with the same affection as “sir” or “madam”. It was duty. Yes, she kissed his cheek every morning she joined them for the portrait session. But she never smiled, her eyes never lit up upon seeing him, and her arms never pulled him in tight. She didn’t feel like the mother of the hurt man standing in front of Molly, searching for his way, struggling to deal with a past he believed was his fault.
But knowing Isla had expected a different son to be sitting on the throne, Molly couldn’t help but think she wasn’t seeing Callum at all. Isla saw what could have been, what should have been. She didn’t want to see the wild green eyes on the canvas, because she didn’t want to see Callum. She wanted Jamie’s eyes. Jamie’s hair, Jamie’s lips.
Anger boiled in Molly’s chest. She wanted nothing more than to force Isla’s eyes to truly see the son standing right there in front of her. The injustice made her frustrated and her own inaction only compounded it. She couldn’t make Isla see everything wonderful and special and loving about Callum, since saying that would require revealing her secret.
So, as much as she wanted to open her mouth, she remained silent.
Neither did Molly want this, what she had with Callum, to end. She had no illusions that it wouldn’t end, at some point. The real world was still out there. She had to return to her father, and bills and past due notices and late fees were piling up in her inbox. The real Priscilla Rose was also out there, at some point to be revealed. But Molly also knew she’d fight for just a day longer with Callum, just a few hours more. Even just a couple of minutes would be worth it.
It was selfish. Molly knew it was selfish. But she wanted another chance to lie in Callum’s arms, and so when she spoke to Callum’s mother it wasn’t with the words she truly wanted to say.
“Ma’am,” she said, “I can make some alterations next time to make it more to your liking. I believe in the end it will all come together just as you desired.”
This drew Isla’s stern gaze from Callum to her. She crossed her arms.
“I want the colors muted,” she said.
“Of course.”
“It’s not traditional for him to be smiling like that.”
“I can change that.”
Isla glanced again at the portrait before turning back to Molly. Huffing, she said, “Just make it more, I don’t know, more like a duke.”
With that, she spun on her heel and marched out of the ballroom. She looked back at Molly, pausing in the doorway. “There are a whole lot of them outside here, if you need an example of what a duke looks like, Miss Rose.”
The door slammed shut. Molly sighed and collapsed on her stool. She rubbed her palms against her eyes and wearily rested her elbows on her knees. She was aware that Callum had moved to stand in front of her.
“Molly.”
“No.”
“Molly, look at me.” He knelt on his knees in front of her. His warm fingers wrapped around her hands. He gently pulled them away from her face, but Molly kept her chin against her chest, eyes fixed on her lap. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He raised her chin with his pointer finger. His eyes were brighter than she’d ever seen them. “Are you looking at me?” he asked.
She gave a hint of a nod.
“Answer me,” he commanded, sending shivers down her spine. She loved when he used that tone on her. “Are you looking at me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
With an intensity she’d never heard from him, he said, “Molly Lane, don’t you change a goddamn thing about that painting.”
Chapter Fourteen
Callum
Callum was lost in admiring the gentle curve of Molly’s ass where she lay on her stomach on his bed.
Buzz buzz. Buzz buzz.
With a frustrated groan at the interruption from his phone, he leaned over the edge of the mattress and groped along the rug for his pants. He caught his phone just before it slipped back to the floor and swiped it open.
“Everything all right?” Molly asked.
Callum silenced his phone and tossed it back into the haphazard pile of clothes piled up where they had fallen. He smiled at Molly, who looked at him over her shoulder.
After the morning portrait session, they went right back to his room and stripped each other naked as if their clothes were on fire. The bed had creaked and shook as Molly gripped one of the four posts with white knuckles. He’d fucked her from behind, watching her back arch beautifully, her hips push greedily towards his cock, her toes curl uncontrollably.
Afterward, he’d called up a tray of coffee, fruits, and pastries. Neither of them had reached for their clothes. He hadn’t even seen Molly’s eyes search out a T-shirt or underwear. The thought of covering himself up hadn’t even crossed his mind, except for when he’d been forced to put on a robe to take the tray from the maid who’d brought it up.
Naked, they’d lain together, sipping coffee, feeding each other strawberries, wiping croissant crumbs from each other’s body. Few words had been exchanged, but each touch said more than any number of words ever could.
He’d brush her hair from her shoulder and press a line of kisses from her neck all the way down to her delicate pinky. She’d run her foot along his leg with the softest touch and wait only long enough for his goosebumps to disappear before doing it again. He lay between her legs and pressed his cheek against the warm silky skin of her breasts. Her fingers would card through his hair as he rested his head on her stomach.
Now, when she shifted and crawled off the bed, Callum thought the silent intimacy had ended, but Molly just searched her backpack and returned with a stuffed notebook and a pencil between her teeth. She grinned and climbed onto her stomach, wiggling her ass at him before starting to sketch. Callum settled back into the pillows with a contented sigh and massaged her feet as he watched her.
It was the only time he regretted not paying more attention in art class. However, even if he had paid att
ention, even if he had a blank page before him, he knew it would all be in vain. Years and years he’d try with this color or that color, and his art would fail again and again to come close to his American muse. There was no way he could capture her spirit, her beauty.
“It was a calendar reminder,” he explained, rubbing circles along her back. “I have to go into town soon.”
Molly sighed at his touch on her skin and lay her head down on her arms.
“The rest of the world still exists then?” she asked sleepily.
“It’s all still out there. I don’t believe we can escape it.”
“We can try.”
She looked at him. He knew she was joking from the slight crinkle of her nose. But there was more there than just gentle teasing. There was a kernel of hope. A desire to hide away from the world. From the stress of his position, from the guilt of his past, from the person everyone expected him to be. Callum knew Molly also had things she wanted to shield herself from. He remembered her phone call that he’d overheard. He remembered hints she’d dropped, the way she’d grown sad when he’d asked about her parents.
As he saw the glimmer of hope in her that the impossible could be possible, he wanted to make it so for her. They couldn’t stay in his room. But he could be the calm for her, the peace of a morning spent completely naked and open together. He could protect her.
“Come with me,” he said, leaning forward to kiss the top of her head.
She rolled over and stared up at the ceiling, drumming her fingers across her stomach.
“Must we put clothes on?” she asked with a playful grin.
He rolled on top of her, careful not to let her nipples skim his chest, lest he get drawn into the siren call of her flesh. He kissed her.
“If you don’t put on a shirt, love,” he whispered between more kisses, “how am I to rip it off you?”
He kissed her again and climbed off both her and the bed. She grumbled and hit her fists against the bed.
“Your Grace,” she moaned.
Her eyes were on him as he crossed the room and kicked through the pile of clothes for his boxer briefs.