Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  I put a hand over my heart, because in addition to pounding it’s now painfully twisting, like a rabid squirrel caught inside my ribs. With shaking hands, I open the box.

  It’s a pair of exquisite emerald earrings, glittering up at me from a bed of black velvet.

  “The exact color of your eyes, he said they were.” Mrs. Dinwiddle is gazing at the earrings, misty eyed. “He bought them the same day you bought your party dress.”

  “The manager,” I whisper, my eyes swimming with water. “He asked to speak to the manager. I thought he was going to complain about the paparazzi who took our picture, but he . . . bought . . . these . . .”

  I’m gasping for air, drowning in emotion, unable to continue because what I’m feeling is so big. Somehow the feeling morphs and swells until it sounds like music. Loud, strangely irritating music.

  Rap music?

  With wide eyes, I gaze at Mrs. Dinwiddle. “Can you hear that?”

  She looks insulted. “I’m not deaf, my dear! Of course I can hear it!”

  The box of earrings clenched in my fist, I move slowly past Mrs. Dinwiddle into the living room. My apartment door is still open, like I left it, and from the hallway comes the distinct thump of bass, overlaid with truly awful lyrics sung by a man who sounds as if smoking crack and swallowing razor blades are his favorite hobbies.

  Got yo BACK, muthafucka

  I be WITH ya, muthafucka

  We be gangstas, muthafucka, for LIFE!

  In a daze, I cross the hallway and try Kellen’s apartment door. It’s locked. I knock, but there’s no answer, so I go back inside my apartment and get the key Cam gave me, which I’ve been keeping in a little dish on the kitchen counter.

  It turns in the lock, the knob twists in my hand, and the door swings open. And there he is, standing right inside like he’s been waiting for me. Like he’s been waiting for me this entire time.

  He’s barefoot and barechested, of course, wearing only a kilt and his signature grin. He says, “Can I help you, lass?”

  Cannae help ye, lass?

  That’s the first thing he ever said to me. I remember what I thought, standing exactly where I am now, staring at this beautiful mountain of a man. My mountain. My prancer. The man who made me believe in miracles, and in myself.

  Dear God, he’s a Scotsman. A huge, half-naked Scotsman in a kilt. Smiling at me like he knows all my secrets, what color my panties are, and that I’m curious what it would be like to have a man pull my hair during sex.

  My voice raw and shaking with emotion, I say, “I was just wondering what the difference is between a kilt and a skirt.”

  Those hazel eyes blazing, he steps forward, takes my wrist, and pulls me against him. Into my ear, he whispers, “What you wear underneath. Ask me what I’m wearin’ underneath.”

  I wind my arms around his shoulders, hug him as tightly as I can, and smile. “I feel like this is a trick to get me to look at your junk.”

  “Aye,” says Cam. He swings me up into his arms. “It is.” Over my shoulder, he tips his chin up at Mrs. Dinwiddle, who’s watching us from my doorway, vigorously fanning herself with her silk Chinese fan.

  Cam kicks the door shut with his foot and heads toward the bedroom. I kiss him all over his face and neck, thrilled and disbelieving that he’s here. He’s here. “You’re supposed to be on a flight to Scotland, prancer.”

  “We’re supposed to be on a flight to Scotland, lass.”

  He takes us down to the bed, and I’m still kissing him, holding his face, ignoring the water leaking from the corners of my eyes, because I feel like I’m flying. “I was just packing, I was coming to meet you, I went into work and realized I’m an idiot and I didn’t want to be without you, so I rushed home and then Mrs. Dinwiddle told me everything—you’re in cahoots with Mrs. Dinwiddle!—but I was rushing to pack and then I heard your stupid music, and oh—”

  He stops my breathless babbling with a kiss—deep, hot, and hungry. When we finally come up for air, we’re both breathing hard.

  His voice is low and gruff when he says, “I told my coach I needed another week to get the woman I love to fall in love with me.”

  “Oh.” The woman I love. I feel the beat of my heart in every part of my body. “What did he say?”

  “That I was a bloody idiot and if I wasn’t back in two days, I was off the team.”

  He kisses me again, and I’m melting, but I’m also panicking because Cam can’t get kicked off his team due to me. “Wait!” I push him away. We stare at each other, nose to nose. “I got the promotion. They fired Michael. Portia isn’t a lesbian.”

  He crinkles his forehead.

  “Never mind. Listen—I have a very serious question to ask you. Our entire relationship could hinge on how you answer.”

  Deeper forehead crinkles. “So no pressure, then. Shoot.”

  Looking deep into his beautiful hazel eyes, I ask solemnly, “What flavors of ice cream do you have at your house?”

  His eyes do this crazy thing where they soften but somehow also get hotter, and they do it now, burning me up with everything he’s feeling, all that Mountain Man love.

  “I have all the flavors, lass,” he says, chuckling. “This is Cameron McGregor we’re talkin’ about. I’ve got every goddamn flavor you need.”

  He kisses me to prove it, his mouth declaring his love without words, his body hot and hard over mine.

  “We’re going to miss the flight,” I whisper, arching as he moves his mouth to my neck.

  “What about your job?” His hands are opening the buttons on my blouse, and his lips are following.

  “I’m in a good bargaining position to get them to let me work from home.”

  When he lifts his head and looks at me, cocking an eyebrow, I grin at him. “I’ll tell you about it later. Now are we going to try to catch this flight or what?”

  His grin comes on slow and sexy. “No, lass. We’ll get the next one. We’ve got more important things to do right now.”

  And oh, do we. We’ve got so much important stuff to do, we don’t catch a flight out until late the next day.

  EPILOGUE

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  Top Ten Reasons Why Rugby Doesn’t Suck

  Incredibly fit men wearing extremely short shorts and extremely tight shirts who bash into each other constantly while getting covered in mud and looking sexy as hell. It’s like a giant violent orgy.

  Incredibly fit men in tight clothing who take every opportunity to grab each other’s asses and hug. Shameless bromances abound, the players adorably unselfconscious about their devotion to their teammates. Their extreme machismo apparently has ample room for spontaneous displays of straight-dude affection and brotherly love, all while wearing shorts so tiny and revealing they might as well be Hanes. It’s a beautiful thing.

  Beards.

  Tattoos.

  Muscles. Muscles for daaaaays.

  This macho war dance called the haka performed before the start of the match by certain teams. It’s a crazy tribal thing filled with grunts, chants, and a lot of coordinated stomping that works the crowd into a frenzy. Because incredibly fit men in tight clothing, dancing.

  No cheerleaders.

  The fans. Rugby fans are the friendliest, most passionate people in the world. And the most well mannered. I’ve never sat in a stadium with a huge crowd who acts polite and formal, like they’re awaiting a personal audience with the Queen. Cam keeps telling me rugby is a gentleman’s game, and he’s right. (Except for the giant violent orgies.)

  Cameron McGregor, captain of Scotland’s beloved Red Devils, the single most virile, handsome, gifted, sexy, smart, kind, and talented beast of a man who ever lived.

  See number nine.

  “What’re you up to, Miss Snufflebottom?”

  That low sexy voice comes from the bed behind me, where I left Cam sleeping to get up and make my list. I glance over my shoulder and find him propped up on an elbow, the sheets pooled around his waist, his hair messy
, his tattooed chest bare, those hazel eyes warm with desire and unmistakable love.

  Pinch me. This is way better than any fairy tale.

  “Making a list. Though I was about to start on your Valentine’s Day present.”

  “Oh?” He hungrily eyes my nightie, a sheer black wisp of a thing he bought me the first week I moved to Scotland. It was followed by another, and another, until I had so many I had to take over a section of his closet to house them all.

  Not that he complained. I think he’d gladly give up all his closet space if it involved my lingerie.

  “Does this present include a striptease and strategically placed whipped cream?”

  I was thinking more along the lines of a sonnet, but he looks too eager to disappoint. So I send him a Mona Lisa smile, rise from the chair, and stretch my arms overhead. Cam’s eyes follow my every move, sharp as a hawk’s. “It might. Depends on how soon you say you’ll take me to see Nanny O’Shea again. I adore that woman.”

  Cam instantly pronounces, “As soon as you want.”

  I laugh, delighted as always by the ease at which he’ll agree to anything I ask if he gets some attention in return. The man is a love sponge. He can’t soak up enough.

  I make my way over to the bed, moving slowly, enjoying his adoring gaze on me, until I’m close enough that he can grab me by the wrist. Then he pulls me down on top of him, rolls me to my back, throws a heavy leg over me, and kisses me with so much passion it takes my breath away.

  He comes up for air only long enough to murmur, “Mornin’, sweetheart.” Then he kisses me again, more tenderly this time, cupping my face in his hand, his hair tickling my cheeks.

  I run my hands up his muscular back, feeling like I’m sinking down into the mattress, melting and gooey like a marshmallow left in the sun. “Good morning to you, prancer,” I say breathlessly when the kiss ends. “Though it’s not morning anymore—it’s afternoon. I can’t believe we stayed up until four a.m.”

  “You’re the one who had to watch just one more episode of Peaky Blinders.”

  “Sorry. Netflix is my Kryptonite. How’d you sleep?”

  He nuzzles my neck, raising goose bumps all over my arms as he inhales deeply against my skin. In a husky voice, he says, “Best night’s sleep of my life.”

  I smile, tightening my arms around him. “You’ve said that every morning since I got here.”

  “That’s because every mornin’ it’s been true.” He lifts his head and gazes down at me, smiling when he sees the happy expression on my face. “What’s that big grin for?”

  “For the most beautiful man in the world, with a heart almost as big as his ego.”

  He laughs, a low rumble of noise that makes warmth like sunshine spread through my chest.

  “I’ve got things bigger than my heart or my ego, darlin’.” He flexes his hips to make his point, and now I’m the one laughing.

  “I see Godzilla’s awake, too.”

  “Indeed he is. Awake and hungry.”

  “When isn’t he awake and hungry? That thing is on steroids!”

  “‘Thing’?” Cam repeats, insulted.

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, excuse me. I forgot I’m supposed to pay the family jewels their proper respect.”

  Cam’s smile comes on slow and sexy. “And most of the time, woman, you do a hoora good job at showin’ your respect.”

  Now it’s my turn to be insulted. “Most of the time? What exactly are you implying?”

  He grins at the sour look on my face and pinches my bottom. “Now who’s got the big ego?”

  “You’re rubbing off on me,” I grouse, pretending to be angry with a pout.

  “Oh, I’ll rub off on you all right,” he breathes. He digs his fingers into my bottom and drags me closer against him so his hardness throbs right between my legs. When I gasp, he cuts it off with a kiss—deep, hot, and demanding.

  “I’ve got a conference call in less than ten minutes.” I try to stifle a moan by biting my lip when Cam moves his mouth to my neck and starts kissing a trail down to my collarbone. It feels so good. It always feels so damn good.

  He nuzzles his nose between my breasts, then oh-so-gently bites my nipple, right through the sheer nightie.

  This time I fail to stifle the moan. I arch into his mouth, sucking in a breath when he palms my breast and swirls his tongue around and around my hard nipple.

  “Cam.”

  “Mmm.”

  He’s nibbling. Oh God, he’s nibbling. “I have a call with work in—”

  “I’ll be quick,” he whispers, moving that hand from my breast down to my stomach, then sliding it between my legs. He rubs the heel of his palm against me because he knows how much I love it. How that simply drives me wild.

  “Let’s wait until after,” I say. Or pant, technically. “I don’t want to be quick this morning. I want to go slow. Long and slow and deep and hard and oh—”

  I can’t talk anymore because Cam is now doing something with his hand that requires all my mental focus.

  In the other room, my cell phone rings.

  Cam groans. “Bloody hell. She’s early.”

  I try to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. “Sweetie. I have to get that.”

  He flops onto his back with a dramatic sigh and flings an arm over his face. I clamber off the bed, plant a quick kiss on his chest, and head for the phone, saying over my shoulder, “You’d give Mrs. Dinwiddle a run for her money in the theatrics department, honey.”

  He’s still muttering under his breath about the interruption as I leave the room. I snatch my cell from the coffee table in the living room where I left it last night when Cam picked me up from the sofa, threw me over his shoulder, and carried me into the bedroom, bitching that he’d had enough of TV and needed to get his fill of me.

  I’m still waiting for him to be filled, but so far it hasn’t happened.

  “Joellen Bixby speaking.”

  “Happy Monday, Joellen. It’s Portia. How are you?”

  Her voice is warm. Over the past month and a half we’ve forged something that might actually qualify as a friendship, speaking on the phone several times a week, and not always about work. As it turns out, the ice queen has a really wicked sense of humor.

  I sit down on the sofa and prop my feet on the coffee table, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Cam’s downtown Edinburgh flat to a panoramic view of Edinburgh Castle, the Meadows—a miniature version of Central Park—and the city center. “I’m great, Portia. How’s everything at the home office?”

  “Nothing interesting to report since we last spoke, except Denny has launched into some new seasonally themed fart jokes.”

  “Oh God. Valentine’s Day fart jokes? I can’t even imagine.”

  Portia laughs. “Yes. Apparently farts are the screams of trapped—”

  “Stop!” I say loudly, waving my free hand in the air. “I left the country to escape fart jokes—I don’t need you telling them to me over the phone!”

  “I know for a fact you left the country for a different reason altogether, Joellen. And how is your Scottish baller?”

  I have to laugh at the term and the innuendo in her voice. “Don’t let Ruth in HR hear you talking like that or you’ll get a black mark on your employment record. And he’s great, thanks for asking.” I sigh in contentment, dreamily twirling a lock of hair through my fingers. “He’s amazing.”

  Portia says sharply, “If you’re about to tell me you need time off for a honeymoon, I’m about to tell you there are very few places on earth without Wi-Fi—”

  “Nobody’s getting married! We’re not even talking about that yet!”

  There’s a brief silence after my outburst, then Portia goes all practical on me. “Forgive the impropriety, but you’re almost forty. You’ve probably got about half a dozen good eggs left.”

  “Whoa! We went from getting married straight to infertility! Have you been talking to my mother?”

  “No,” she says, “but I think you�
�d be a wonderful mother. No time like the present. So how’s Beth Addison’s book coming along? I can’t wait to get that sucker to market. She’s such a fantastic writer.”

  “You’re giving me whiplash here, Portia.”

  “Keep up, Joellen. Just because you’re not in Manhattan any longer doesn’t mean I’ll accept any slack in your mental pace.” She pauses. “Or has all the haggis gone to your head?”

  I watch as Cam ambles into the room, gorgeous in only a pair of white briefs. He strolls over to where I’m sitting, leans over the back of the sofa, sweeps aside my hair, and kisses my neck.

  “I wouldn’t eat haggis if you paid me a billion dollars. Let’s get back to Beth Addison before this conversation completely goes off the rails.”

  Against the back of my neck, Cam murmurs, “We should talk about marriage, though. Considerin’ I already talked to your parents about it.” He stands and casually walks into the kitchen, as if he hasn’t just dropped a grenade into my lap.

  He’s already talked to my parents about marrying me? Am I having a heart attack? Is this what a heart attack feels like? Oh God, I can’t feel my face.

  “. . . on track with the dev edit?”

  “What? Huh? What’d you say?” I twist around on the sofa so I can look at Cam. He’s rummaging around in the cupboard for something, his back to me.

  Portia’s sigh sounds aggrieved. “I’m glad I didn’t already patch the rest of the team in—you’re hopeless today.”

  “Portia, I’m so sorry—can I call you back in five minutes? I’m having trouble with the connection. I’m going to get on a landline.” Without waiting for her to answer, I hang up. Then I sit staring at Cam’s broad back until he turns around and looks at me.

  When he sees the expression on my face, he breaks into a grin. “Oh, no. She’s thinkin’. I can smell the smoke from all the way over here.”

  In a small voice, I ask, “You talked to my parents about marrying me?”

  “I know,” he says, becoming serious. “It’s a little ridiculous considerin’ your advanced age, but I when we tell our kids the story about how we fell in love, got married, and lived happily ever after, I wanna be able to say I asked your father for permission. Even though I really just told him I’d be marryin’ his daughter, not asked, but that can be our little secret.”