Cuff Me at Christmas

by Avery, Lark

  "Come on, Jess. Come for me." Max kissed me, his tongue sweeping along my lower lip. The feel of him inside me as he invaded my mouth was overpowering. I was being carried away on a wave of sensuality that I'd never experienced.

  He stroked once, twice, three times more, and then I could feel myself tipping over the edge of reality into a place where Max and I were one. I came so hard that I thought I'd black out, but I felt Max's orgasm. He cried out in an unfamiliar language, and I smothered his mouth with kisses to muffle the sound.

  Afterward, we lay panting in my cramped twin bed, though I wasn't complaining. Max flipped us so that he was on his back and I was laying on his chest. My small window was open, car horns and sirens blaring drifted up from below. Sounds of the city that always comforted me every night.

  "Fuck." Max breathed. "I popped your cherry. And damn, I loved it."

  "Yes." I gulped. My heartbeat fluttered against his rock hard chest as I lay on him. His fingertip skimmed up my back, stroking each vertebra. I'd still not quite recovered.

  "You were a virgin, but you do love cock." Max laughed softly. "And that pussy of yours is heaven."

  What did someone say to that? Thank you seemed a bit formal since he was still inside me.

  And though I'd never admit it, I was scared to death now. Max found one of my washcloths, and in my small room sink, he'd wiped my blood away.

  I wasn't regretful in the least of what we'd done. In fact, quite the opposite. We couldn't go back, and I wouldn't want to. The question was how to go forward.

  Max’s phone vibrated. It must have been in his jacket on the floor. He started to reach for it.

  "Forget the phone and hold me." I didn't recognize my own voice; it was so was relaxed.

  It continued buzzing. He leaned down and kissed me hard on the lips. Then he reached over extracting his phone. He started to read when suddenly he rolled out from under me to sit at the edge of the bed.

  “Fuck no. It can’t be.” He rubbed the side of his head as he hunched over the phone.

  "Can I help?" My arms went around him, my breasts flattening against his back.

  He leaned into my embrace. One of his hands reached for mine.

  He dropped his cell phone to the floor, crashing back on the bed. He pulled me down to him again. My body fit against his like I was made for him. “My twin brother is missing and presumed dead. He disappeared skydiving over the Amazon.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I tightened my arm around him.

  “Don’t be sorry. We weren’t close.” His voice sounded hard. Even though he held me, I could feel him growing more distant. “But that’s not the worst part.”

  My head was on his chest. He fisted a strand of my hair, brought it to his nose to inhale the scent, then released it. How disastrous falling in love with Max could be, but something nagged at me. "What could be worse than losing your twin?"

  “Becoming the next duke of Gylen.”

  3

  Max

  I'd been back home in Scotland for seven months, and it felt like seven years.

  When I'd left New York last May within twelve hours of learning the news about my brother, I promised Jess that I'd call her, but every time I tried to reach her, my call went straight to voicemail. I even phoned her at work, but she’d always been busy.

  Until yesterday, when she called me asking for my help. The ‘help’ requested involved her coming to Scotland immediately. I wasn’t a praying man but I said a quick thanks to the cosmic forces bringing her back to me.

  My thoughts often returned to that night with Jess, especially in the wee hours of the morning when my cock begged for release. Holy fuck, what had that been? I'd had the best sex of my life with a colleague. And a virgin.

  That last bit blew my mind. Now that I'd had a taste of her, the thought of Richard near her made me clench my fists.

  Unfortunately, that wasn't my biggest problem. My brother's plane had crashed in the Amazon, and he was presumed dead, which meant I inherited the Dukedom. I'd never wanted the title; growing up, it was clear I was the spare heir. With my parents focused on my brother, Alistair, I'd gone out and built my own life.

  Last May, I arrived home to find my mother grief-stricken and creditors beating a path to our door. Between bad investments and my brother’s gambling debts, we were at risk for losing our ancestral home, Gylen Castle. I threw myself into shoring up finances and the management of the estate. I knew I could never go back to being a physician in New York. It was my duty to carry on the family legacy. I understood it, but I didn't have to like it.

  Just like that, seven months passed, and it was mid-December. Nearly Christmas.

  As a boy, I loved Christmas at Gylen. In the highlands, we escaped Edinburgh’s endless drizzle for fresh snow. Inside the castle, fresh evergreens and boughs of holly lent a festive air along with strings of light. Ornaments that had been in the family for generations were displayed throughout the main living areas.

  Heating Gylen was not easy. The fireplaces in every room were in full use, which lent a cozy vibe to the place, even if the fires didn’t really change the actual temperature in the 17th century stone home.

  Gylen’s interior temperature wasn't an interest of mine--the cashmere sweaters created from our sheep kept me warm enough—but for my mother, Gylen's temperature provided endless conversation. I tried to be patient with her. My brother's death, coupled with all the financial issues that’d surfaced since, made life difficult for her. And my mother was a challenging person in the best of times. I'd had to sell the Italian villa, she'd not forgiven me for that.

  Tonight, I barely listened to her list of complaints. Cook had prepared my favorite stew and biscuits, but in the formal dining room, with fine china and candlelight, I hurried through the delicious dinner, hoping to escape my mother’s notice.

  I failed.

  “You checked your watch three times in the last ten minutes. Surely this former school chum of yours can manage to find his way here from the airport?” My mother, Anastasia Ransom, former Duchess of Gylen, frowned at me.

  Or, I guessed she did. She had so much Botox in her forehead; only her hairline moved.

  I hadn’t informed my mother that Jess was female, or that she was fleeing a stalker in New York. Nor did I share the fact that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her in the seven months since I left New York. It’d been hard enough thinking about Jess alone in New York, but to learn that some motherfucker had been stalking her had me gripping my fork so forcefully that I bent it.

  Fuck it. I wasn’t hungry anyway.

  The call from Jess yesterday was still seared in my brain. I'd been working in my study, deep in financial statements when my phone flashed the New York area code. The breath caught in my chest and I took a second before answering to say a quick prayer.

  Please; let it be her.

  "Sorry to bother you, Ransom." She greeted me with her brisk tone.

  The sound of her voice filled me with longing. I was instantly transported back to the emergency department, working beside her, or getting a coffee together in the hospital’s cafeteria at 3am on a slow night.

  “I need to get out of NY.” For the first time, I noticed a slight tremor in her voice. “The cops recommend I leave the US for a while with this stalker situation. You’re the only person I know outside the US. Everything is all booked up for the holidays. Can you call in a favor at a hotel in Scotland and find me some space?”

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Jess wanted to come here.

  My stunned brain took a few seconds to catch up. She had a stalker?

  “What happened?” It came out harsher than I meant. Fuck.

  "He grabbed me, but I fought him off. I'm a little bruised, but nothing is broken." Her voice was factual and detached, like she was giving a medical report on some other person.

  “You have a stalker?” I demanded. It was too much to take in with her so far away. She wasn’t big enough to fight some asshol
e off.

  Jesus. Get a grip, Ransom. She’s not the one you are angry with.

  Her nervous laugh betrayed her anxiety. "It's not like I bought a new designer handbag, Ransom. The detective said," she broke off, talking to someone else nearby.

  “Where are you now?” I cut in. Images of Jess alone on the streets of New York with her stalker tracking her were making me break out in a sweat.

  “I’m at the police station near work.”

  "Get an escort to JFK. I'm getting you on the next flight out of New York to Edinburgh. I'd send my plane, but this will be faster."

  “I think you’re overreacting.” I could feel her surprise over the phone. “I just need a place to stay far away from here for a few days. A week at most.”

  She had been injured. She was afraid, even if she didn’t want to admit it. She had a stalker for Christ's sake, and there was not much I could do about it across an ocean.

  "Jess, shut up and get on a damned plane." She inhaled sharply at my words. "There will be a first-class ticket waiting for you at the airport. Don't go back to your place. Now, let me talk to the detective."

  That conversation was twelve hours ago. She texted me when she boarded the flight and when she had landed. Her messages were crisp, which I suppose wasn't a surprise. This was the first time we'd communicated since May.

  Now I was resentful as hell that I had to sacrifice my life in New York. But that wasn't enough for my mother; she was on the hunt for my duchess.

  I wanted to keep Jess's visit private, a tall order considering my mother's information network of household staff and servants. So I'd arranged for her to stay at a nearby cottage where she’d be safe and away from prying eyes.

  Jess needed help. Asking for it couldn’t have been easy for her. I owed her all the protection I could provide.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I couldn’t sit still any longer. I pushed back my chair, waving down my mother as she started to stand. All that damn bowing got to me. I could give fuck all about protocol.

  While I was tied up in bank meetings all afternoon, followed by a round of cocktails with some local investors, Fergus would pick Jess up at the airport and drive her to the cottage nearby.

  I shook my head, clearing the lust that clouded my brain whenever I thought about her. About our one night together. Honestly, it pleased the hell out of me that I’d been her first. It fueled a primal branding in me that surprised me. Before that night, I'd never felt possessive about a woman. I never thought I was capable of feeling that way, and I sure wasn't seeking it.

  Would whatever had sparked between us seven months ago still sizzle?

  4

  Jess

  I was met at the airport in Scotland by a stooped elderly man holding a sign with my name on it. Stunned, I blinked as he took my small backpack and welcomed me to Scotland with his delightful accent and a hearty handshake.

  None of that took the rub off the reality of things.

  Ransom was nowhere to be found. He hadn’t come to the airport himself.

  That fucker.

  He was too busy to pick up a former colleague at the airport?

  Ever since our night together, I'd used a serious amount of energy trying not to replay our time together. I did pretty well avoiding it at work, but away from the hospital, my mind was free to return to Ransom. And it did with startling frequency. It'd been hard to call him from the police station, but at the sound of his voice I knew that I had to see him again.

  Just one last time.

  To say goodbye.

  Though I hated having to take an emergency leave of absence during the holidays, getting out of town was a good idea. Emergency departments never had a slow season, but there'd been no luck tracking down my stalker. He seemed to move around New York like the invisible man. A few weeks away would give the detective time to catch him. Then in a few weeks I could go back home , having seen Scotland, survived a stalker, and said goodbye to Ransom. That was my plan.

  I'd fretted about seeing Max for most of the flight over. Except for a bit when I'd been distracted by flying first class, which was pretty damn awesome. I wish I'd had a chance to dress for the trip, but the fucking stalker had grabbed me on my way home from work and pushed me down in a pile of stinking garbage while I fought him off. He obviously didn't know that, being a New Yorker, I'd studied more than a passing amount of self-defense.

  My coat was ruined by the garbage that broke my fall and I had to toss it because it smelled like chow main and rotten fish. As a result, the detective gifted me with an "I Love New York" sweatshirt that formerly belonged to some unfortunate tourist.

  I didn't ask how it had come into his possession, but I knew the story had ended badly for the tourist not to need it anymore. Luckily, I salvaged my blue scrub bottoms, but now I looked like a walking cliché of a New Yorker. At least I had my running shoes; life's trauma was always better tolerated with supportive footwear.

  My guide, Fergus, navigated us through the airport and loaded us into a dark green Land Rover. It looked just like the type I'd seen the Royal family traveling in from those tabloid pictures. It hit me—I was actually in Scotland.

  It was dark and raining, so I couldn't see much. I imagined that Ransom lived close to Edinburgh because I knew how much he loved cities. But as the city fell away behind us, I realized I knew nothing about Scotland and very little about Max. Oh fuck, maybe this was a terrible idea.

  After more than an hour of driving, we slowed as we entered a village. Through busy windshield wipers, I spied The Pig and Thistle pub. It was a low stone building with a sloping roof. Suddenly, I was famished and ready for a pit stop.

  I turned to Fergus breaking the silence in the car. “Can we stop? I’ve never been to a real Scottish pub.”

  He shook his head, but his eyes didn't leave the road. "His Grace, wouldn't like that. I'm to bring you straight to the cottage."

  Indignation swelled up inside me. His Grace, indeed! That fucker hadn't even bothered picking me up from the airport.

  I was hungry, dammit. Guilt about all my fellow passengers eating pretzels for six hours back in the main cabin made me pick at my fancy first-class dinner. "I'm starving, and I'm sure you are hungry too. Let's stop."

  “I don’t know.” The car slowed.

  “The least I can do is buy you a pint for picking me up.” There, I’d used up all my knowledge of local Scottish culture with an hour of arriving.

  “Agnes does make a fine fish supper.” He steered the car into a parking space along the road.

  Inside the pub, a few regulars at the bar greeted Fergus with a hardy greeting. They looked curiously at my clothing, and I couldn't blame them. I was dressed like a gaudy billboard.

  Agnes was a red-faced grandmotherly type who bustled out from behind the bar to greet us. Her Scottish accent was thick, so I only understood about every third word as she handed us menus. One of those words was "Ransom." It seemed, Max, with his new fancy title, was the local big shot.

  She seated us as far away from the bar as possible, which I immediately appreciated as a handful of fans followed a football game playing on the television, cheering and groaning as the circumstances applied. The pub was homey with county fair posters from years past decorating the dimly lit walls. Pretty quickly, Agnes brought us two pints of beer and our fish dinners.

  My stomach rumbled as I tucked into the tender fish and took a few sips of my beer. I was a lightweight in the alcohol department, but I couldn't pass up trying the local brew in an actual Scottish pub.

  While Fergus and I ate, sleet hit the lattice window next to us. Starving, I finished my dinner quickly. I traced my finger along the leaded glass on the window pane while I waited for Fergus to finish his meal. Periodically, the group at the bar erupted.

  A sense of nervous anticipation built through me. I was thrilled and scared witless about seeing him again. To say that things ended between us awkwardly was an understatement.

  Questions about M
ax's life crowded my head. Did he miss practicing medicine? Knowing how much he loved being a physician I couldn't imagine him giving it up forever. Was he happy being a Duke, and what the fuck did that entail in the twenty-first century? If anyone could be a dirty talking Mr. Darcy it was Max.

  Speaking of talkers, Fergus went all-in for that whole loyal servant thing. Based on the silence in the car from the airport, he wasn't willingly going to answer any of my questions. I wasn't worried. My medical training made me an excellent inquisitor. It was all in the timing; I'd let him have a bit more of his beer first.

  The pub’s heavy wooden door opened and a gust of cold damp air swept inside the pub.

  I, along with everyone else, turned, craning our necks toward the door. Who the fuck was letting the chill in?

  The door slammed.

  Max’s voice reverberated across the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  His Scottish burr had strengthened in the months he’d been away from New York. The growly brogue went straight to my cunt. Oh shit, now I was wet.

  The fucking hot bastard stalked toward me like he was marching across a battlefield. Suddenly my cheeks heated from my blush.

  Ransom wasn't dressed in scrubs or an expensive suit. He was dressed like some Scottie McHottie that I'd conjured from my wildest fantasies. He wore a crisp white shirt with a tartan sash and a kilt. Muscles corded his bare legs.

  Holy Hot Fuck.

  “Your Grace.” Fergus whipped his cap off and bobbed his head as he jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. “We’re having a bit of dinner. The Miss was hungry.”

  Poor Fergus. Max had that effect on people.

  Max barely glanced at his servant, who was nervously twisting his cap in his hands. "Finish your dinner, Fergus." He glared at me. "We're leaving now."

  Holy Mother of God.

  Part of me wanted to slap that arrogant asshole into the middle of next week. And the other part, even more appallingly, was turned on by his He-Man act. Was it something in the Scottish water that made me turn into a village maiden around the massive brooding Duke?