That surprised me, but not as much as my reaction. I usually hated it when people touched me. With my injuries, touch had grown unpleasant. Medical, prodding, exposing. Touch reminded me of all I'd lost.
You'd be surprised how much of a sex life I managed with women while avoiding their touch. There was online intimacy, perhaps my favorite. So much could be achieved through the connection of the screen. Interacting like that was like giving me the reins. I could tell a woman exactly what I wanted her to do, arouse her with my words, my instructions. So much of sexual connection was mental, and I excelled at that, recognizing and exploiting hot buttons of arousal or taboos that spiked a woman’s lust.
Even in person, many women got off on my controlling every aspect of our interactions. If I tied them up, binding their wrists, they sighed and moaned and felt my attentions all the more intensely. It didn’t seem to ever occur to them that part of what I was doing was preventing them from touching me.
But Annie? She’d gotten a good, full look at my back in the gym. But she hadn’t run. She’d stayed, taking all of me in, until I’d yelled at her to leave. And now she was touching me, crossing the boundary between us, wanting more.
I’d even caught her checking me out a few times. When I wore short sleeves around her, she didn’t stare at the back of my left arm where I was scarred. She looked at my chest, my shoulders, my muscles. She liked what she saw.
That was going to make her a lot harder to resist.
Sunday, Annie spent the whole day away with her family. I missed her when she was gone. That really pissed me off. I’d gotten myself into a good spot, caring about nothing and nobody. It made for some easy living. In less than a month, she’d managed to level the walls I’d spent years building.
Monday morning, I was feeling supremely irritated. It didn’t help that I was drinking less and taking less pain medications. I had Annie to blame for that. She’d wormed her way into my goddamned head.
I roamed the estate, antsy and restless, hands clenching into fists. Where the fuck was she? It wasn’t her day off any more. I did a long workout, trying to get out some of my pent-up energy, took a long shower trying to relax my knotted muscles. Neither worked.
At six o’clock, I headed into the kitchen and found her there, standing where I least expected, at the counter with a bottle of whisky. She was holding it up to the light, examining it as if she’d never seen one before.
“Where have you been?” My voice came out too growly, too gruff.
“My mum needed help with Brian.” She sounded tired and frustrated. “He didn’t have school today, but she still had to work. Our neighbor bailed at the last minute.”
“And you stayed to help.” My anger at her dissipated in an instant.
She nodded. “I’m sorry, I know I was supposed to be back this morning—”
“You want a drink?” I didn’t need her apology. But she sounded like she could use a glass of Scotch, and she happened to be holding a bottle of liquid gold right there in her hands.
“I could stand a beer, but…” She scrunched up her nose. “I’m not a big fan of Scotch.”
I stood up and took the bottle from her as if I needed to block its ears so it wouldn’t take offense. “Do you know what you’re insulting? This here is Douglas whisky, lassy.”
She grinned, looking down. It felt too damn good to make her smile. I knew I was getting in too deep with this woman, but there was nowhere else I wanted to go but further down. “Saying you’re not a fan of Scotch is high treason under this roof. You need to respect the family brew.”
“Douglas whisky?”
“My family's been making it for hundreds of years."
Her lips curved up more, such a tempting shade of pink. What would it feel like to kiss them? I didn't know which I'd like more, starting slow and gentle, building up the fire in her, holding her in my arms and making her feel cherished while I kissed those soft, full lips. That had its appeal. But so did a full on cease-and-desist order, pulling her to me, taking her lips with mine, crushing her against me and making her gasp. I knew one thing. I wanted to bite that bottom lip of hers. I’d start with a nip, and then I'd lick, suck on that plump lip and make her moan into my bite.
“Is it any good?” she asked.
“What do you think? It’s Douglas Scotch.” She looked up at me, not seeming convinced. “All right then, it's settled. Tonight, you're getting an education. After dinner, I'm going teach you about Scotch."
“Is it to be a formal class then? Should I bring a notebook and pen?"
“Just bring that mouth of yours and we should be all set." I ran my finger along her lower lip, her eyes blazing at my touch. Then I left the room before I could get myself into even hotter water. I shouldn’t be doing it, making plans, drawing her closer, but I no longer seemed able to stop myself.
Around eight o’clock, I fixed a fire in the fireplace, then relaxed back on the couch. The large, buttery-leather sectional was one of the few new pieces of furniture I’d purchased for the house. I didn’t care about the main room. That I left in disrepair. I never spent any time there, anyway. It was the library where I liked to rest and relax. Tonight, with Annie. Not long after, she walked in shyly, wearing a soft green sweater that looked remarkably as if it were the right size for her petite, curvaceous frame.
“Welcome to Scotch 101.” A full tasting menu sat before me on a low table with several bottles of Scotch and two glasses. “Here you’ll see three distinct types of single malt Scotch whisky.”
“So formal.” She smiled at me, gesturing at my well-arranged display. I couldn't help smiling back. It had been so long since anyone had teased me. My little sister Sophie used to do that all the time. I forgot how much I liked it.
“Have a seat.” She hesitated only a moment before moving to join me on the couch.
“So you say you're born and bred in Scotland?” I began as she settled down next to me. As she sat, I caught a whiff of her scent, light and feminine. It made my mouth water.
“I’m a Scottish lass.” I’d known that was the case, and I would've known it even if she’d never opened her mouth to speak in her gorgeous brogue. She looked like the quintessential Scottish lass, healthy and hale, blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, her thick golden brown curls tumbling down her back. “I've barely left the country,” she admitted.
“No holidays on the continent then?” I got the sense that she didn't exactly come from money. What would she be doing wasting her time as a caretaker with a guy like me if she had?
“Not so much,” she admitted. “I'm one of four, so.” She shrugged as if she'd never really expected more than she'd been given in life. I never sensed any bitterness in her. The few times she mentioned her mom, she seemed full of praise and admiration.
“What about you then?” she asked. “Do you have dual citizenship? How long have you been living here?”
I shook my head. “I know you're curious. But tonight's not about me. Tonight I’m going to teach you about something much more important.”
My dirty mind flashed on so many possibilities. She was an eager student, sitting there next to me, close, in the firelight. She looked so untouched and pure. I knew I could shock her so easily, and I felt sorely tempted. But first, Scotch.
“Now Scotch was initially made from malted barley,” I began my instruction. “Distilleries started in with wheat and rye in the late 18th century, but they were just trying to come up with new-fangled ways of doing things.”
“As my mum says, new isn't always better.”
“I happen to agree with your mother. She sounds like a very intelligent woman.”
“She is.”
“Now, Scotch is divided into five distinct categories.”
“I should've brought a notepad and pen.”
“I can see that you're joking.” I pointed my finger at her, slightly scolding. “But this is important stuff. And any full-blooded Scottish lass should be able rattle off those five categories.”
>
She smiled, but not so much with teasing as in delight over my enthusiasm. The crusty, cranky part of me wanted to tell her to simmer down. I was still the dark, reclusive beast of a man who frustrated the hell out of her. But I also happened to know a thing or two about Scotch.
“Is some of that from your family's distillery?” she asked, pointing at the row of bottles I had on the table.
“All of it,” I assured her. “Founded by Aengus Douglas, spelled A-e-n-g-u-s, because A-n-g-u-s wasn’t Scottish enough.” She cracked up. I loved making her laugh. “Prepare yourself to taste the best Scotch ever made.”
“Modest are we?”
“Honest.” I met her eyes and held her gaze. The air in the room felt warm. She was hanging there like a delectable ripe fruit, so innocent and pure. The opposite of me. Better to just teach her about whisky, at least for tonight.
I poured us each some single malt, only about an ounce in her glass. I didn't think she had much tolerance. She brought it up to her nose and sniffed it suspiciously, as if it might actually be poison.
“Not a big drinker?” We’d been under the same roof for about a month, and I didn't think I'd seen her have more than a glass of wine with dinner. Of course, I'd been a bear and hadn't offered to share any of my stash.
“I'm not a teetotaler,” she responded somewhat defensively.
“No need to get defensive,” I reassured her. She started to bring the glass to her lips. “Wait.” I brought a hand to her arm, stilling her. I could feel the warmth of her skin through her sweater. I wanted to leave my hand there, or trail it up, catch the end of one of her curls in my fingers. “You need to take some time before you taste.”
I tilted my glass, showing her how to let the whisky coat the glass. “It enhances the aroma,” I explained. “And see these?” Legs ran down the glass, sticky like fine honey. “See how good that looks?”
She imitated my movements tilting and swishing her glass, dutifully studying it like an attentive pupil. She was so good at following directions. For some things, you had to take your time. I could be an impatient man, but when it took to enjoying life's pleasures, I saw no rush.
“A lot of people think drinking scotch is just about the taste. But it's more of a sensory experience than that. It engages all five senses, the sight of the warm amber liquid, the sound of the pour, the feel of heavy glass resting between your fingers.” I held up my glass and she adjusted her grip, bringing the stem between her index and middle. She picked things up quickly when she wanted to learn. There was so much I could teach her.
“Bring your nose to the glass. And keep your mouth slightly open.” I touched my finger briefly to her chin and her lips parted, plump and juicy. The smooth feel of her skin jolted me. The brief contact ran through my whole body, charging through me like a live wire. It seemed like she felt it, too. Her eyes widened and she licked her lips.
“What do you smell?” I nodded to the glass.
She brought her nose to the glass and inhaled, then looked at me a little shyly. “I'm not sure I know how to describe it.”
“You don't need to worry about finding the right description,” I reassured her. “They're plenty of snobs out there saying they can smell or taste random things. But they’re just making it up. I want to know what you smell.”
She closed her eyes and surrendered to the experience, breathing in the Scotch. I could see a sensuality to her, one that perhaps she’d yet to explore with any time and attention. I’d be happy to be her guide.
“I feel like I smell flowers?” she mused, eyes still closed, breathing in. “Or cherries?”
“Possibly both,” I agreed.
“I don’t know why it smells so sweet but burns so badly when you drink it.”
“Ah,” I shook my head. “That’s because you’re not holding it in your mouth.” I couldn’t resist another brief stroke of her bottom lip with the pad of my thumb. “After you take a sip, hold it in your mouth for at least 10 seconds. The burn dissipates, and you’ll start to taste the sweetness. Then it’ll go down smooth.” She looked at me, unsure. “Try a small sip,” I encouraged her.
Trusting, she brought her lips to the glass and tilted the barest of sips into her mouth. She looked at me as I mouthed “10, 9, 8…” then nodded at her when it was time to swallow.
“I can’t believe it!” After she finished, she looked at the glass, then at me with surprise. “Scotch has always made me burn and choke. But that tasted delicious.”
“See how much you can learn from me?” She gave me a glance that suggested she might know I had other things on my mind. Watching her sip and swallow gave me all sorts of ideas.
After she finished her taste, I poured her another batch of Douglas whisky, telling her about the process, the aging in oak barrels a minimum of three years. I coached her through the next sip, reminding her to coat her tongue as she held it in her mouth.
My arm stretched out along the back of the couch and she leaned into me as if on instinct. “This is so fun.”
“You like Scotch?” Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright. I bet she’d taste divine, her own natural sweetness mingling with the drink.
“I never did before.” She smiled up at me. “How do you know so much?”
“It’s in the blood.” Some of my fondest childhood memories were spent in Scotland. I told her how my grandfather had passed when I was 10, but before then I’d spent time with him each summer, mostly at the distillery. “When I was a kid, the distillery seemed like a sorcerer’s secret, magic lair.”
She laughed, music to my ears.
“One more.” I poured her another.
“Last one,” she agreed, a hand to her head. “I don’t exactly have your tolerance.” She sipped, savored, and swallowed, looking up at me as if she were having a mystical experience. “So good,” she exhaled, looking straight at my lips.
I couldn’t help it. I dipped down, tasting what I’d wanted to for weeks now, really since I’d first met her. Her lips opened to me the instant we touched. Warm, liquid fire, her tongue met mine and she moaned into me, pressing closer, kissing me back as if she’d been wanting it as much as me.
She tasted like heaven, honey, Scotch and sex. I drank her in, moving closer, kissing her deeper as I stroked her neck, her hair.
“Ian,” she murmured, clutching at my sweater, breaking from me as she looked up into my eyes, panting sweetly.
I could see how the night could play out. I could lay her back on the couch, spread her before me, kiss her until her little moans and sighs built and I worked my hand up her thigh. I could touch her where I wanted, feel her wet and throbbing, watch her face while I caressed and stroked, coaxing out as much pleasure as she could give.
But then what? I pulled back, adjusting myself, putting some distance between us on the couch. With the separation, she seemed to come to her senses as well. She stood up on slightly shaky legs.
“Well, I’d better be bedding to get.”
“Getting to bed?” I asked, a wry smile playing at my lips.
“Right.” She nodded, not moving, as if forgetting what she’d just said.
“Out you go then.” I shooed her away, assuming my detached demeanor once again. It was easier, simpler, cleaner that way.
Only now I’d tasted her. And it only made me want more.
7
Annie
“Morning, Annie.”
Sunlight filtered into the kitchen window over the sink. I rubbed my eyes. “Am I still dreaming?”
Ian chuckled, getting out a coffee mug from the lower cabinet and then, yes, pouring me coffee.
“You slept in this morning,” he informed me, handing me a steaming mug.
“Did you make coffee?” The aroma already started warming me, waking me from my fog. I knew technically I hadn’t drunk a lot of whisky the night before, but my usual amount was zero. It had gone to my head, making me all mixed up and swirly the night before. So much so that we’d kissed on the couch. It
had felt like melting into him, his rough stubble against my cheek, his surprisingly soft lips, the sure way he’d held me and sank down into my mouth. I could have kept kissing him for hours, clinging, sighing, wanting more. But he’d pulled away and sent me to bed.
I took a sip of coffee, hiding my burning cheeks. I looked away as I thanked him.
“There’s toast in the toaster. It’s not eggs and bacon, but I’m not as good as you, am I?” He winked at me and left the room.
I sat down. What the hell was happening? He looked so damn handsome in an old tattered Irish knit sweater. Torn around the edges, it didn’t look disheveled so much as having a laid-back, casual appeal.
Last night I’d wrapped my arms around him, pressing myself against his chest for all I was worth. I’d like to say I’d been drunk, but I couldn’t blame it on that. I had a buzz, sure, but kissing him was exactly what I wanted even when I was sober. Just now, he’d winked at me, giving me a rakish smile, his flash of white teeth contrasting with his thatch of black hair. My stomach gave a little flip at the memory.
When had this happened? How had this happened? I forced myself to stand up and bustle around like normal, sponging off crumbs into the sink, buttering my toast. The toast Ian had made for me.
I’d pretty much assumed he’d hated me up until last night. He’d called me Mary Poppins on more than one occasion. No one wanted to make out with Mary Poppins. It was kind-of how I tended to think of myself, to be honest, a rather sexless caregiver tidying up and sending the little ones off with a “spit spot, toodleoo!”
That wasn’t how I felt last night in his arms. I’d felt nearly dazed with arousal, the feel of him, his kisses, his arms, it had felt like melting and soaring all at once. I’d never felt so swept up and transported, so satisfied and filled with longing all at once.
All I Need: Ian & Annie Page 7
