Hot Scots Christmas

by Alam, Donna

  None of these observations are new, all being discovered by both sight and clutching fingertips, but seeing the splendour all over again is a bit like Christmas in July. A wonderfully abundant second chance .

  He has a total gym god bod. As well as the appropriate muscle mass, he has that light golden tan those gym worshippers all seem to sport, only his body has more colour by way of a tattoo gun. Black and red images swirl up both arms and one shoulder; a great deal of it Día de Muertos designs; skulls and luxurious haired women, swirling ribbon and flowers, from what I can tell. It’s sort of mad, yet beautiful at the same time.

  My original intention sidelined, my gaze makes a snail’s progression to his face as I take mental snapshots of this canvas, while delighting in sensory memories of last night. Of he and I.

  Cursive script curls around his neck and shoulder, winding around to his back. Even craning my neck, his position is such that I can’t quite tell what it says. Though I’m more than curious. His hair is dishevelled just enough for a photo shoot, his sharp jaw covered in a sandy stubble heavier than last night, and his cool grey eyes are open—open!

  ‘Oh, f—fudge.’

  He doesn’t look fully awake, now rubbing the back of one hand across his brow while his other grabs a handful of the ass that it’s resting on. That would be my ass . His mouth opens suddenly, flashing a set of white teeth as he makes a noise someplace between a growl and a yawn as his lower body pushes upwards against me.

  ‘Mornin’, titch.’ His voice, thick with sleep and disuse, rumbles against me; warm morning wood twitching against my skin. Maybe less like a pig in blanket and more like a baseball bat .

  And, holy shit, fully hard, I mean, awake now.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ I’m reminded of my position; I may be plastered against him, but I’m also in a sort of half push-up position. ‘Or are you thinking of getting on again?’

  ‘Getting it on again?’ I repeat, engaging in a brain-to-mouth function fail.

  ‘Getting on it .’ His gaze flicks down, my own following, my next words addressed to his dick.

  ‘I really don’t think I can.’ Regretful, much?

  ‘Aye?’ My gaze tracks back up his body to where one eyebrow quirks. ‘Why is that, then?’

  Is there a polite way of citing overuse? I open my mouth, think better of it, closing it again, opting instead to come down from my push up position, leaning awkwardly on my forearm instead. So, not intentional—no, really—but somehow I’ve ended up almost eye to, erm, eye with not-so-little-Rory.

  ‘Option three it is then?’

  ‘B—but you can’t possibly be hard?’ I stutter incredulously. We had a lot of sex last night. A loooot of sex. And though I have slept, prior to that revelation, it seemed as though only moments would pass before one of us would reach out to the other during our drowsing and the heat between us would flare again. How on earth can he be ready again?

  ‘Tell him that.’ My eyes follow the low path of Rory’s gaze and he exhales a sultry chuckle. My insides flip, as does the notion of being unable to go another round.

  ‘You couldn’t possibly.’ Could you? ‘I don’t think I even can.’ Even as I say this, my gaze flicks once more between his face and . . . well, you know . . .

  ‘No?’ he purrs, one finger lifting my chin, making me pink in the face. ‘I know he’s an eyeful, but pay attention.’ Again with the smirk! ‘How about . . . I make it nice. Real sweet.’

  Along with my resistance, I feel the marrow in my bones melt. It’s not that I think he really means it, because he hardly went easy all night, which suited me surprisingly well. What turns me to goo is that he wants me still. Even if it is just for my body and just for now. And just for the record, I’m also good with this. And that satin sleek length protruding between us? That’s because of me. And all for me. It’s just a case of channelling the little red engine, isn’t it? I think I can, therefore I’m good to go again?

  At this rate, my channel will end up a little red, anyway.

  I think my dignity must’ve gone on vacation overnight.

  ‘So sweet,’ he murmurs, sliding both hands under my arms to pull me upwards against him. Almost face to face now, my eyes flutter closed as I anticipate the feeling of his lips against mine, opening suddenly as he flips us both.

  ‘Oh!’

  Pushing me against the pillows, Rory begins sliding downwards; placing soft kisses against my skin.

  ‘Oh—don’t. I mean—’ Ohh, yesss. ‘But, no. I—’ Oh my God, if he’s heading where I think he is—surely not after last night. Marcus would only go . . . down if I’d recently showered and never after sex.

  ‘Shh,’ he whispers, taking my nipple between his lips and sucking softly before, sure enough, moving further south. As he settles himself between my legs, he holds his palms against my thighs, spreading my conflicted legs wider, his wicked gaze rolling up my body to meet my own. ‘I’ll kiss it all better.’ His tone is laced with husk and honey. ‘I promise.’

  ‘But I’m all—’

  My words halt immediately as the point of his tongue delicately grazes my clit. I’m down. Oh, I’m definitely down for that now.

  ‘What was that, darlin’?’

  I moan loudly as his tongue flicks out again; curling my fists under the pillow, I fight my body’s urge to push up into his face.

  ‘Yeah, I thought that’s what you’d said.’

  Even as my mind tells me that this surely can’t be pleasant for him, my hips rise of their own accord to meet the breath he blows across my centre.

  ‘Anybody ever tell you you’ve a very pretty pussy, Fin?’

  My heart pounds.

  At how he’s addressing that part of my anatomy.

  At the flash of memory those words bring.

  At the thoughts of the secrets I’m not sharing.

  But as his tongue flicks out, simultaneously sliding two long fingers inside, all my thoughts turn heavenwards.

  ‘Oh, my fucking god .’ Well, sort of.

  His broad, flat tongue presses harder, his lips fastening over my clit. The feeling is so intense against my sensitive flesh, my hips almost spring from the bed.

  ‘A very pretty pussy. Pink and gorgeous. And wet.’ His words are half growled against my slick flesh as his fingers work slowly in and out. ‘And do you know what this pussy tastes of?’ he asks, swiping the length of me with his tongue.

  ‘Unpleasantness,’ I mumble, folding the corner of the pillow over my face. I think it might have been a rhetorical question as he bites the soft flesh of my inner thigh. ‘Ow!’

  ‘No, this pussy tastes of you. And of me. Of last night. Of fucking.’

  I moan again at the rawness of his tone, the noise taking on an edge as his fingers slip away, replaced by the hot press of his mouth. He kisses me as he would my mouth; soft lips and sweeping tongue, interspersed with sucks and lengthy licks until there isn’t a thought left inside my head, let alone a protest. His actions are more intense than sweet but more pleasure than pain, and just about perfect. As he begins thrusting his fingers inside me again, my hips almost levitate off the mattress, his tongue working my clit with long licks.

  Fingers sliding and curling.

  Lips and tongue pressing and pulling—and the sounds.

  His growling and sucking.

  Wet fingers.

  My moans filling the air.

  The feeling that builds is so intense I strive to close my legs, prevented by his reprimanding grunt. I can’t keep still, my orgasm rolling around inside me like balls of silvery mercury. Pushing up onto my elbows I look down at him, it seems impossible that I can feel more, yet the sight of his dishevelled chestnut coloured head bent between my legs—the sight of a bird’s wing moving as though in flight, yet inked to his shoulder and neck—pulls me closer, my orgasm rolling closer, inch by inch.

  That Rory must sense this is both a blessing and a curse as his fingers begin to pump harder and he fastens his mouth over my clit.
>
  I either black out or blank out, I’m not sure which, the only thing I’m aware of is that I’m coming hard, and that I’m noisy with it.

  ‘Ohgodohfuckoh . . . Rory! ’

  Fireworks—stars—cloud my vision as I collapse boneless against the bed. Over my heaving chest, Rory appears to be climbing my body, a moment later his face is level with mine.

  ‘Sweet.’ He kisses my forehead and twists to the nightstand to retrieve a condom, but whether sweet refers to his supposed gentleness or is in some way a reference to me, I don’t know. And I won’t be able to ask until I regain the power of speech again.

  Condom in place, he rolls to face me, absently wiping the back of his hand against his glistening mouth. I’m suddenly struck by how obscenely beautiful he is; massive and manly and wickedly gorgeous, his mouth and chin glistening. It’s a fleeting thought, dispelled as he slides lower and I tense, anticipating the sting as he settles between my legs.

  A sting that doesn’t come.

  Collectively, our eyes roll closed as Rory glides forward, pushing himself deep inside. My mind switches gears, my body responding as his hips rock, his palms flattened against the mattress either side of my head. Our movements are slow and unhurried. To begin with, at least, until Rory notches this whole show up a gear. With solid thrusts and low grunts, he gives me it all, the room filling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, sharp breaths and moans. I curl my legs around his back as though to draw him closer, desperate for this not to end as those large hands slip under my body, holding me where he needs as he pounds me solidly.

  ‘You like that,’ he growls against the skin of my throat.

  Oh, I do. Seriously, I do, but can only answer in a hoarse, ‘Yes!’

  ‘Nice is it?’ I can hear the amusement in his words.

  ‘Fuck nice,’ I pant.

  ‘Oh, I think I am.’

  Smart words elude me from here on in as I’m coming harder than a freight train. His hands grab my ass tighter, pulling me into him, his rasping breath at my ear as he grinds hard into me.

  And into me.

  ‘Oh, God—that’s, fuck!’ Rory’s movements become halting and jerking, before his whole body is suddenly rigid and tense . . . but for the one piece of his body pulsing inside my own. The sounds he makes as I instinctively tighten around him . . . I could listen to on a loop.

  It seems as though dawn begins creeping across the room moments later, both our bodies limp from climax overload. I’m too tired to even begin to think about moving, though concede this is a pretty awesome way to start the day.

  Twenty-Five

  Fin

  I wake for the second time today, the sound of the shower narrowing my options to two choices as far as I can tell. Option one is a repeat of last time: leave before he returns, probably all dripping wet and gorgeous, pretending I don’t have intimate knowledge of this man.

  Option two is to behave like a grown up: wait until he returns, all dripping wet and gorgeous. Be civil, though resist him, and tell him this can’t possibly happen again.

  The second is the most sane option, though the first is more tempting. As it happens, I don’t get to choose. I’m drawing up a mental pro and con list as he walks back into the room. Not dripping wet, but slightly damp, though still gorgeous, and pulling his blue t-shirt over his chest.

  ‘Want to head into the village for breakfast? There’s a café there, yeah?’

  The blue in his shirt brings out the darker tones in his eyes, I notice, as he unceremoniously plunks himself onto the mattress next to my thigh.

  ‘You lost your voice?’

  ‘What?’ My eyes snap back to his face and to the suggestion of a knowing smile lingering there.

  ‘Or maybe you’re not hungry. For food.’

  ‘No. I am. I mean I’ve got to get back.’ I can’t move, not with any element of elegance or grace, because he’s blocking the way. Short of turning my back to him and rolling myself—and the sheet—out of the opposite side of the bed, I’m kinda stuck.

  ‘To your other job at the hair place?’

  ‘Yeah—wait. Just how do you know about that?’

  ‘I may be shameless but I’m not daft,’ he says, his expression now bland. ‘Did you really think I didn’t recognise you in the bar the other night?’

  I can feel my mouth is open and close it with a snap. ‘I thought with my hair—’ My words come out in a rush because he sure didn’t recognise me without blue hair. ‘So you knew? All along?’ Though not exactly everything.

  ‘Yeah, but I was following your cues, titch. Playin’ along. You didn’t want to see me again, did you?’ As I shake my head, he says, ‘Well then.’ He adds a small shrug before trailing the back of his hand up my leg. ‘I didn’t expect to see you again, but don’t stress. I’ve no stalking plans.’

  ‘That wasn’t why.’

  ‘Whatever makes you comfortable. I’m an obliging sort of man.’ The innuendo in his words makes my cheeks burn. God, this is so awkward. ‘So, it’s a second job?’

  ‘What? Oh. Sort of. Not really. I’m just helping out.’

  He nods as though understanding, though how can he, really? ‘And you’ve no time for breakfast?’ His large warm hand stills on my thigh. Absorbing the motion, I eventually remember to shake my head. ‘Lunch then.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, shaking it again.

  ‘Dinner? You’ve got to eat dinner,’ he says, giving me the full weight of his lazy grin, more parts sexy than indolent.

  ‘Look, this has been nice and all—’

  ‘Oh, the brush off,’ he says with a hard laugh. ‘At least you hung around this time, I suppose.’

  ‘No, it’s not like that,’ I begin.

  ‘No drama, hen,’ he says with a dismissive wave on his hand.

  ‘I think I panicked. It had been such a long time—’ I stop, teetering on the point of overshare.

  ‘I’m offering you a meal, not a trip down the altar, titch.’ His smile is wide and kind, and at the use of that God awful name, I feel my body relax. Strange. ‘Besides, it looks like I’ll be here all weekend.’

  ‘Really?’ How worrying, though I don’t think this is the reason my heart jolts.

  ‘I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be eating later, if you can join me, great. No strings. Just lots of eatin’,’ he adds roguishly.

  ‘I’ve really got to go. But—but I’ll see what I can do.’

  He stands then, giving me the chance to do the same, wrapped in the sheet, which seems kind of silly, especially as I catch him smirk.

  ‘What?’ I turn my back to him, opening one of the drawers I’d put my clothes into earlier in the week.

  ‘You live here, then?’

  I chance a guarded glance over my shoulder. ‘No, of course not. It’s just . . .’ I like my space. I like spending time without people asking me how I feel, like I’m constantly three seconds away from flipping out. ‘I lost track of time and missed the tide a couple times. I didn’t much want to cycle across to the village at one in the morning in the dark. So I just . . .’ I turn my gaze back to the drawer, slipping out underwear and a pair of jeans.

  ‘Prepared for all eventualities?’

  ‘Hardly. It’s just some spare jeans.’ I hold up the pair of black, shiny jeans recently pulled from the drawer.

  ‘A kitted out bathroom and a really comfy bed.’ Behind me, I hear the springs squeal in protest at Rory’s thrown weight. ‘Really comfy.’

  ‘Have at it,’ I say, trying not to look at the big bronzed effigy of Michelangelo’s David spread enticingly against the pillows, hands folded beneath his head. ‘I—I need to shower,’ I mumble, leaving the room as his voice follows me.

  ‘If you want me to wash your back, gimme a yell.’

  I emerge from the shower all pink, and not just from the cold water, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disconcerted to find him still in the room.

  ‘I thought you had work to begin. Oh—didn’t you want me t
o show you around?’

  ‘Nah. I’ll be fine. I’ll get there. Eventually.’

  I slip on my rain boots, well, Ivy’s rain boots, or wellies, as she calls them, still conscious of his eyes. Are they . . .

  ‘Are you seriously looking down my shirt right now?’

  ‘Yep,’ he answers, completely unabashed. ‘And at your nipples yesterday as you stood out in the cold. Your legs and that lovely arse. I can go on if you like?’

  As I straighten, I know I should have some kind of retort. Instead, I find I can’t make my mouth work.

  ‘Too honest?’ he asks, all faux innocence.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘There’s no such thing. I like what I see, so I like to look. Especially as I know what’s taunting me under those clothes.’

  I look down at myself, knowing I really oughtn’t to ask, though find myself doing so. ‘Looking at what?’

  ‘One smokin’ hot body. Curves in all the right place. Thighs like pale silk.’

  ‘I—I have to go.’

  His laughter follows me to the doorway of the cottage where I find myself turning as the handle moves out of my hand.

  ‘I should’ve locked it. Tied you to the bed so I could have my wicked way with you all weekend.’ He laughs at my expression, his eyes darkening as I speak.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve given it some thought.’

  ‘Oh, I have. Plenty.’

  And just what am I supposed to do with that?

  Rory bumps his hip against mine and I jump a little, startled. ‘The offer stands.’

  ‘I—I really,’ I say, rapidly shaking my head. ‘Really, really have to go.’

  ‘I meant food later,’ he says, laughing. ‘Or the other. I’m up for both.’ Then he curls his hand around the top of the door because he’s just that kind of tall. The sight of his muscles bunching and his tattoos shifting has my mouth dry.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. If I can, but only dinner, though.’

  ‘Sure.’ He answers with a slight shrug and a deep inhale. ‘That was . . .’ His eyes flick over me, heating each place they touch.

  Earthshattering? Mind blowing? Vagina breaking? All those things and probably more. I’d expected this to be awkward; parting is such sweet sorrow and all. Not tears, exactly. Maybe a little regret with a spoonful of shame? What I hadn’t expected was the desire to do it all over again, right here against the door or the wall.