by Donna Alam
‘But better to possess. God, you’re so lovely,’ he rasps. ‘You’re so . . .’ His gaze flicks from my chest to my face, my soft sigh drawing off as he leans forward, taking my nipple into his mouth. My whole body shakes, his tongue plucking pure sensation between my legs. ‘So fucking edible,’ he hums, pushing me backwards and onto the bed.
‘You’re crazy,’ I half speak, half sigh.
‘And you love it,’ he replies, his body poised over mine, his expression an unholy sinful sight.
‘Oh God, I do,’ I say, smiling suddenly. Smiling and fighting back tears as I slide my hands around his neck again. ‘I love it and I love you, Rory.’
‘Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,’ he answers, his expression faltering; becoming serious. ‘You’ve been through so much and I can wait. In your own time.’
‘You don’t get it,’ I say, unable to hold back the flow. ‘My life was such a mess. I loved you, but couldn’t say. I couldn’t even admit it to myself.’
Then he covers me. Covers me with his body and kisses. He kisses my cheeks. My neck. The corners of my mouth. And then he kisses me—wholly. Absolutely. He kisses me like he’s a man possessed and I’m the one responsible.
And if that makes me the devil, I really don’t care.
My heart swells—I’m so full I could quite literally burst. I hold him tight, my hands in the nape of his neck. I’m crying and laughing, and suddenly, I’m staring up into his handsome face as he pulls back.
‘I wasn’t joking,’ he says, his voice strained. ‘I want my shorts back. Get ‘em off.’
Epilogue
Fin
At the front of the room, Kit taps his champagne glass with a piece of silverware. I still find it disconcerting how much he and Rory look alike at first glance. They both have the same chestnut hair, silver-grey eyes and knife-sharp bone structure, but whereas Rory is quick to smile and has a semi-permanent gleam in his eye, Kit is much more serious. Some would say grave. But he’s just as handsome. Okay, maybe a tiny bit less so than my man. It could be his lack of tattoos, because I’m a big fan these days. I’m in love with Rory’s most recent ink: a pin-up girl complete with Betty Paige bangs, very much like I’m wearing my hair again these days. Pin-up girl is super sexy and sort of provocative; tiny denim cut-offs and a risqué bikini top. She bends from the waist, her head turned coquettishly over one shoulder, her expression almost a dare. I’m not sure if I like that she resembles me best, or the swirling script written above her head. In a blue moon. And it’s not in reference to her ass. As Rory says, a love like ours comes infrequently and we’re lucky to get a second chance.
Back to our Master of Ceremonies, dressed impeccably in Saville Row, as his deep baritone rings confidently across the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
‘And Natasha,’ sniggers a voice in my ear. Ivy.
‘Shut it, tubby,’ Nat whisper-hisses over me. The giggling to my right morphs into a sharp intake of breath.
‘You . . . you absolute cow!’
‘Better not let June hear you swearing,’ crows Nat.
‘I asked you last week if I looked like I’d put on weight and you said no,’ Ivy whines plaintively. ‘Call yourself a friend?’
‘For the love of—will you two just shut the eff up?’ I whisper-hiss. ‘I’m trying to listen.’
‘What for?’ they ask simultaneously.
‘Because some of us aren’t here for the free bubbles and canapes.’
Ivy frowns at the wad of used napkins crushed in her hand.
‘No, seriously, what for?’ deadpans Nat.
‘This is a momentous occasion in my boyfriend’s life.’ No need to go into details. ‘And I want to hear what Kit has to say.’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Thanks for coming, now bugger off and eat some grub,’ Nat gripes. ‘Those trays look full of grubs, anyway. I’ll probably need to order room service later.’
‘It looks great, though. Very avant-garde,’ says Ivy, her gaze scanning the room.
‘She means a bit mad,’ clarifies Nat.
And they’re both right. The room we’re currently standing in is a new extension to the original house, and not so wild. Intended to cater for larger gatherings, it’s a modern yet a sympathetic edition; exposed stone juxtaposed by walls of glass, on one side providing a view to the sand dunes and the ocean beyond, while to the other, an extensive patio and outside fireplace—for those twelve days a year it doesn’t actually rain—and the croquet lawn . . . which will probably only get used by drunk people at the very posh weddings that will eventually be held here.
Like Nat says, very classy, though the main house rocks a different vibe. It still has a country manor house feel, only the kind of country manor you might find the Queen of Hearts holidaying in. Because they’re all mad here . . . The residents bar is painted in hues of orange, pink and gold, and houses around a hundred stag heads hanging from the walls. Stuffed antique ones. Carved wooden ones. Contemporary metal ones. One’s as big as . . . well, you get the picture.
‘Have you seen the bedrooms?’ Ivy asks, shuddering at the heads adorning the walls.
‘Not since they’ve been finished.’
We’d arrived a couple hours ago and Rory had taken our bags straight to our room, via the rather grand staircase, while Kit suggested we order coffee for the three of us. It’s been a stressful time for them both, especially as they have another hotel opening next month. But it’s so great to see the finished place and I’m so happy I’d been able to help plan today’s opening. I’m still employed by the same company, though it’s taken Savannah a couple months to stop glaring green daggers at me. But I suppose if I was going home to Pierce and his Viagra stash, I’d be envious of me, too.
Rory. What can I say? That it’s gotten better with each passing day? Not absolutely true. We still have our ups and downs, like all relationships, but we’re having fun. And we’re in love. And we’re actually dating, as in Rory picks me up at least twice a week like our relationship is brand new. I’d mentioned I’d never really done the whole dating thing, and my man is as accommodating as he is hot.
Oh, and as of last month, I’m unmarried again. Well, divorced. Same thing.
‘When did you see the bedrooms?’ I ask, Natasha’s words belatedly sinking in.
‘When we arrived. I just popped up for a wee keek. Did you know,’ she says, her eyes suddenly sparkling, ‘there’s a room up there called the Master’s Suite.’
‘Yeah, it’s the hotel’s main bedroom.’
‘Well, the name’s pretty apt.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, turning to her. ‘Specifically, because that’s the suite Rory and I are staying in tonight.’
‘I’m saying nothin’,’ she says, sniggering. ‘Except maybe it gives off vibes of the red room of pain. I’d say someone’s in for a skelped arse tonight.’
‘Give over,’ scoffs Ivy. ‘It’s not that kind of hotel.’ Her gaze glides to mine. ‘Is it?’
I start to answer, but my attention is drawn by the sudden sound of applause as Kit introduces Rory. Dammit; I missed what he had to say. And this must be an impromptu addition as Rory had said earlier he didn’t want to be involved.
‘Thank you,’ Rory begins. ‘But if I could just ask my lovely partner in crime to come forward. Fin?’ As his eyes scan the crowd I feel myself shrinking into the neck of my dress. ‘That is, if she’s not too busy yammering to her friends back there.’
Warm laughter ripples through the crowd, the modest but select sea of people parting.
‘Go on, then,’ says Ivy, her hand at my back. ‘Go see your man.’
‘Did you know anything about this?’ I whisper through a painted on smile.
She doesn’t answer beyond giving me a sharp push.
Crowds make me nervous these days, but I can focus on Rory . . . while wondering what he’s up to, though it can’t be. Surely not. He’s not going to ask the question he’s asked me at least once a mont
h since we got back together.
He wouldn’t . . . would he? Not in front of all these people.
As I approach the front of the room I can’t help but marvel at what an attractive figure he cuts. He’s hot in jeans and a tee, or what I like to think of as his Mellor’s get-up, but in black Armani he’s absolutely breathtaking. It’s not his fault. It’s just the way he’s made: the sharpness of his cheekbones; his height; the graceful lines of his body; the permanent gleam in his eye.
His slate coloured button-down brings another dimension to his steely gaze; it’s a gaze that means business, along with a whole host of other stuff we won’t get to until the bedroom. The Master’s Suite. Hells bells . . .
As I draw closer, he holds out his hand and brings me to his chest for a brief hug. In his arms, I feel his chest expand in a deep inhale, silent but for the movement of his body against mine.
‘I hate to do this, blue.’
And then it’s my turn to inhale a quick breath, because that term of endearment is strictly for use inside the bedroom.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask as he steps back, without letting go of my hand.
I can feel my mouth gaping back at his smirk as he . . .
. . . begins to lower his body
. . . a hand feeding into the inside pocket of his jacket
. . . goes down onto one knee.
‘Fin,’ he says, a playful smile tugging at his lips. A smile I suddenly want to smack. Then kiss. My hand comes up to my own mouth to prevent my heart from falling from my throat to the ground.
‘Oh, Rory. You’re not—’ Please don’t say he’s doing this—not in public. We’ve already spoken about this—I told him I wasn’t ready. Sort of.
‘I’m afraid I am,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling with glee. I begin to shake. ‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ he announces, loud enough for more than those nearby to hear. ‘And I know you value your independence. I want you to know that I’ll never take that away from you, but darlin’, I’m tired of traipsing between Waterloo and my place. Put me out of my misery, Fin.’ He begins to pull his hand from his pocket. ‘I was daft enough to let you go the first time. I’m not risking it again.’
There, balanced on his index finger is a keychain; silver and sparkly. ‘I’m going to ask you again. And if you say no, that’s fine. I’ll just ask you another time, and another, until you tell me the words I want to hear. Fin, will you move in with me?’
As a mixture of sniggers and more heartfelt aww’s break out around us, I take the keychain from his proffered finger, folding it into my own.
‘I could murder you right now,’ I say disparagingly. Undeterred, Rory opens his mouth to speak again, but I beat him to it. ‘Yes, Rory. I will.’
‘You will?’ He stands abruptly, hands now on my shoulders as he stares down at me. ‘You make me the happiest—’
‘What’s this hanging from it?’ I lay the keyring flat against my palm, something bright and sparkling catching my eye. It’s beautiful—oh my God, it is, isn’t it?
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says laughing softly. ‘All at your own pace.’
Oh my God, it is!
How many carats is this thing?
It’s so beautiful . . . and huge!
While my brain tries to process, working on some kind of happiness induced delay, something catches the corner of my vision: a small, dark head weaving through the crowd at such a brisk pace that people are staggering out of her way.
‘Excuse me—excuse me. Would you just ever move!’ It’s not like Ivy to be so rude as she all but explodes from the room.
Rory takes the opportunity created by my distraction to thread his arms around my waist. ‘You don’t have to wear it,’ he whispers. ‘Not yet.’
‘I know,’ I answer, smiling distractedly up at him. ‘All at my own pace.’ But I do want to wear it, I find. ‘It’s beautiful, Rory, and I am ready—give me the works!’
‘Really, you want—’
‘Forever.’ I reach up to touch his face, laughing softly at his stunned expression. ‘I really, really do, but can we keep it to ourselves? At least for a few hours?’
‘Come on,’ he says, grabbing my hand. ‘Let’s get out of here and go celebrate.’
‘We can’t leave! What about the opening?’
Tugging my hand, he responds, ‘We’ll carry on the festivities. Naked, in our room.’ A-hell-yes.
Unfortunately, before we’ve taken more than a couple steps, Nat and her granny find us.
‘Have you seen?’ Nat asks, tipping her head.
‘Seen who?’
‘Some random,’ giggles a clearly squiffy June.
‘It’s rando, June. Random is so twenty-fifteen.’
‘Sorry.’ She hiccups, then takes a sip from her sherry glass. ‘It’s a full time job keeping up with—I mean—being down, with the kids.’ With her free hand she makes a strange kind of granny-gang sign. Bemused, I turn back to Nat.
‘Seen?’
‘Tequila tits out there, running away from Dylan Murray.’
‘Dylan Murray,’ I repeat doubtfully. ‘You mean the actor?’
‘I mean the film star,’ she replies with a touch of asperity. ‘In case you missed it, he’s just chased Ivy out of the room.’
‘Did you arrange for him to be here? For the opening, I mean?’ I tilt my head to Rory’s handsome, yet impatient face, but he shakes his head.
‘She’s keeping up a fair old pace,’ he says. I follow the line of his vision wondering why everyone’s acting crazy today. Through the expanse of windows, Ivy seems to be doing some sort of jog-walk-race along the side of the house. See? Crazy. ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Rory adds flatly. ‘But if that’s him chasing Ivy, I’d say she knows him very well.’
‘Hey.’ I grab Natasha’s arm as she turns. ‘Why tequila tits?’
‘That’s him who drank the stuff out of her cleavage. And here I thought I was the wild one. Whatcha got there?’ Her eyes flick down to the multiple twinkling carats in my palm. ‘Is that—it is, isn’t it?’
‘No, Nat—’
‘Ah, that’s amazing, babe! Hey, everyone,’ she yells. ‘Listen up, they just got engaged!’
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Author’s Note
You made it! What did you think?
My heartfelt thanks to you for giving One Hot Scot a go. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed telling Fin and Rory’s tale. I also hope you’ll take a few moments to write a quick review on Amazon.
Reviews are so helpful. I can’t adequately express what a difference they make to an author like me. I don’t have a massive publisher backing me or a large advertising budget, but what I do have are lovely readers. Honest reviews of my books help bring them to the attention of others, and what better way to gain new a new reader than by recommendation?
If you’ve enjoyed Fin and Rory’s story, I’d be so grateful if you could take two minutes to write me a quick review. Thanks so much.
Review link
Other Titles
The Pretty Series
Pretty Hot
Pretty Liar
Pretty Things
Playing Games
an Erotic Romance
Trouble by Numbers Series
One Hot Scot
Two Wrongs – early 2017
Sneak Peek
Two Wrongs
Ivy’s book, coming
early 2017
‘Oh my god! Look at that sausage!’
How typical. Friday night book club and, as usual, Natasha has her eyes glued to her phone. I bet she hasn’t even read this week’s book, probably because she spends most of her free time drooling over one of the many cooking videos that pop up on her Facebook feed. Feed being the operative word; she does love her food, and anything meaty in particular. I feel myself shiver at the notion of the fleshy substance as I place the plate of crudités and dip on the coffee table in the centre of the room.
‘I’m going to instigate a no-phones rule before next Friday’s meet-up. And please don’t ask if you can bring sausage next week.’ She really is enough to drive a vegan to drown in non-soy latte. ‘Same goes for chorizo, salami and bratwurst.’
‘Oh-ho-oh.’ Less word than a dirty laugh, Nat keeps her eyes glued to the screen of her phone. ‘It’s not that kind of sausage I’m looking at, though I wouldn’t mind gobbling this particular bit of meat, if you know what I mean.’
I close my eyes and sigh, now knowing exactly what she means, because her internet love of all things food is surpassed only by her love of internet porn. Honestly; does no one use their phone for calling these days? Not Nat, at least. If you were unlucky enough to view her browsing history, you’d see only three things:
Recipes. Natasha salivates over all things food related; food net, tasty treats, those how-to-cook-amazing-things videos. It’s definitely a voyeuristic interest as I’m pretty sure her culinary skills don’t surpass much more than burning toast.
Porn. The hub and the hamster, though she draws the line at the any of those pay-per-wank subscription types. Her words, not mine.
