Chapter 3
Chapter Three
F reya
It’s dark and quieter here at the rear of the property, the rich scent of Fiona’s jasmine flowers in the air. Raised in fresh air and humble homes, my island family and my dearest friends from childhood are drawn to the garden.
They’ve traveled hours to be here, some taking an overnight ferry from our wee island to the big city of Glasgow. Callum rents a floor of the Sherwood, a local hotel, year-round, so our revolving door of visitors always has a comfy place to stay.
I greet each person as I pass by, thanking them for making the long trek as I head to the whisky. No one here will stop me from completing my mission.
Fiona’s four brothers have fashioned an outdoor bar for the night. Sitting on the grass is an upside-down dingy set on two tree stumps, bottles lining its top. Arran, my childhood friend and first kiss, stands behind the boat-turned-bar, holding a bottle of Frisky Whisky to fill a friend’s glass.
His smooth voice takes me back to school rugby matches and sneaking smokes behind the caretakers’ shed as he greets me with an easy, “Heya Freya.”
“Hey, yourself. So glad you came! I know last time we spoke, you weren’t sure about your work schedule.”
“You know I wouldn’t miss it. I hired a couple of extra hands for the week, though I’ve been driving them crazy with texts, checking on the cattle.”
“Of course you are.” Arran always was a caretaker. It’s part of his personality. I remember many a night he got me home, helping my drunk ass sneak back in through a bedroom window. “I’d forgotten you’d taken over the Bayne ranch.”
I go around the bar to hug him but trip over my feet—whoops—and he catches me in his arms. Righting myself, I peck his cheek and throw an arm casually over his shoulders. He smells like fresh hay, mint, and home.
I eye his whisky. “You got some of that for me?”
He eyes me back, brow furrowing. “You sure, love? You look a wee bit...”
“Blootered, steamin', wrecked?” I slap my palms onto the boat's bottom, making a hollow, echoing sound as I blurt out more Scottish slang words for my inebriated state. “Bladdered? Hammered?”
He gives his big, easy laugh. His good nature is what kept us friends long after we stopped kissing. “Aye. Something like that. ”
“Or am I sloshed and smashed, ooot yer tree, steamboated?” A fresh song with a great beat comes on over the speaker, and I shake my hips.
“I’d say all of the above. Yer mad wae it!” Grabbing a red plastic party cup—Fiona’s rule is no glass in the garden—he pours me a splash of liquor, handing me the drink.
I take the cheap cup and throw him a look. “Can I not be trusted with more?”
Folding his arms over the bottom of the boat, he leans in closer. “Nope! You certainly cannae.”
“At least put more than a drop in the cup.” I try to seduce him to my will with a dance. Red cup aloft, my hands sway to the beat, opposite my rolling hips.
“I don’t know?—”
“Seriously? I grew up drinking with your rugby team. You know I can hold my own,” I say. “Fill ‘er up, lad. Fill ‘er up!”
“Aye.” His pretty eyes sparkle at me. “I never could say no to ye, could I?”
“Not many people dare to try,” I tease.
He takes the cup back, pouring in a bit more. “Here ye go, ye wee hellion.” He hands it over. “That’ll do ya.”
“Thanks.” I’d forgotten how blue his eyes are. “So, how have you been?” I put my drink on the bar, giving him my full attention. I catch up on his farming adventures, laughing at his stories. We reminisce about old times. We laugh some more.
Ready to return to bro time, Fiona’s brothers begin to close in. I give Arran a quick farewell hug and kiss and grab my cup, making my way to the dance floor.
The first few notes of a goddess’s melodic voice—the gorgeous, ginger-haired singer for Florence and the Machine — resound through the night air, and I’m instantly elated.
Swaying in the center of the dance floor, lights shining down on me, Florence’s voice serenading me, I take in this perfect moment. Licking my lips in anticipation, I finally bring the cup to my mouth, forgiving the cheap plastic vessel that holds the liquid gold. The moment the white rim touches my bottom lip, it’s taken away.
“Hey!” I snap my head over my shoulder to see who’s stolen my drink. I stare into Fredrick's determined brown eyes once more. “Are you joking? I’d like that back.”
He moves in close. Cedarwood and heat. That deep, resonating voice returns, hovering just over my right ear. “You’ve had enough.”
Anger flashes over me. “I’ll say when I’ve had enough.”
He captures my chin between his finger and thumb. So not cool. But…I can’t deny the dominance of the power move. My knees feel a little weak.
“Party’s over, princess,” he says. I shrug out of his grasp as he follows up with, “I’ll be taking you to bed now.”
“Taking me to bed?” An involuntary wave of heat presses between my thighs at the very idea. I let my eyes drag over his broad chest, wide shoulders, Cartier watch, and cuff links. I reach up to bop him on the nose like Fiona, but his stern vibe makes me think better of it; my hand shrinks back. “Hell shall freeze over before that happens, but I will say Kitt was right; you are HAWT. ”
Hiccup.
Did I say that out loud?
Fredrick grins.
But it’s more than just a smile. That cocksure, dangerous facial gesture tells me he thinks he’s in control here. My mind goes to the conversation Callum and I had at the top of the stairs. Did he ask Fredrick to keep an eye on me tonight?
Where is Callum?
Ignoring the whisky-stealing, steadfast elderberry popsicle before me, I glance around the garden. Carol Ann leads a group of her and Fiona’s friends from home through the gates, overnight bags hanging from their shoulders as they head toward her guest house slash craft cabin where they’ll stay the night.
Arran and the boys from earlier are no longer gathered at the boat bar. They’re settled around the bonfire with cups of beer from the keg. Their voices are lowered, and their talk has turned reflective as they watch the flames crackle over the logs.
My party is winding down.
“Excuse me, Freddie. I’ve got to find my brother.”
“Party’s. Over.” He slips an arm in the crook of mine. “Allow me to escort you to your room. I have something to show you. Something I know you need.”
Darn him. He’s piqued my interest. “Fine. But you go no further than the door. Understood? ”
“Sorry.” He shakes his head, then runs a hand through his dark hair, showing off how thick it is. I almost want to reach out and touch it. “That won’t work,” he says. “You’ll want privacy for this.”
What could it be that he wants to show me? A tickle dances over the back of my neck, telling me to turn down his offer. But anyone who knows me knows I can’t leave a mystery unsolved.
I have to know everything.
“You want to come inside my… bedroom?” I gulp.
Callum and I bought this estate a couple of years ago so that he could establish the Kings Mafia in Glasgow and I could experience city life. We only just finished the final renovations before this party. I’ve thrown myself into establishing my place at a new law firm and restoring this house to its former beauty.
I’ve not dated…anyone.
There’s been no man in my bedroom. It was the same as in my childhood home on the island. If I snuck off with a boy, it was always somewhere else.
And I always keep things from going very far.
I tell myself that’s why there’s a strange, squishy feeling in my belly. I’m just not accustomed to having a man in my room. But I want to know what secret he’s keeping.
I’ll treat this as a business meeting. “Okay, but I’m only giving you five minutes.”
We’ve reached the back door. He glances down at me, narrowing his brow. “I’ll need at least twenty to unwind it. ”
Now, I’m inquisitive.
Working with my brother as he does, Fredrick’s a frequent guest, so he knows his way around the house. We slip through the kitchen, and he leads me to the rear staircase, away from the prying eyes of lingering guests. We reach my door.
He stands beside me, waiting for me to open it. The small signal is another power grab, forcing me to consent to his visit by turning the knob myself. I would face him in a standoff, waiting to see who breaks first and opens the door, but I want to know what it is he’s showing me.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” I slip into the room, leaving the door partway open. He closes it behind us, the metal clicking as it latches.
Suddenly sober, I stand in the center of the room, unsure what to do with my hands. I leave them hanging at my sides and glance around the room. My guest armchair is covered in the discarded outfits I last tried on, leaving the bed open. I am not inviting him to sit on the bed.
“Nice room,” he says, strolling around, taking in the pale blue walls, the chandelier suspended from the tray ceiling, the silver bed frame, and the fluffy feather duvets. I may be nearing thirty, but as an unmarried woman, my conservative upbringing still tugs at my conscience for having a man in my room.
Silly, I know, but we girls were taught to keep our legs crossed and our minds on Jesus. Only now, standing here alone with him in my private space, do I realize the enormity of the energy we’re exchanging.
One spark and…kaboom .
I take a shaky step back. I feel entirely out of control.
And that’s making me fizzin’. I need to get rid of him. Now.
I take another step back, trying to ignore the unsettling heat he’s bringing. “Look, Freddie. I don’t know your little surprise, but I don’t want you in my room. And as you said downstairs, the party’s over.” I force myself to make eye contact with him. “You’ve overstayed your welcome. You need to leave.”
He closes in, standing right in front of me. There is only a tiny breath of air between us, charged with electricity. He stares down at me, those brown eyes emanating what I can only describe as a primal hunger.
I should never have made eye contact with him. Some otherworldly, beam-like force glues my gaze to his, making it impossible to look away.
He breaks my gaze only long enough to eye the purple wig, most likely sitting askew atop my head. He reaches up, slipping it off. “Purple’s not your color,” he says, placing her lovingly to the side.
Only now do I remember the hideous netting I’ve placed over my hair, a wig cap to keep stray blonde hairs from peeking out. Furious at myself for caring what he thinks about me, I rip the pantyhose-like material from my head and toss it to the floor. My hair is knotted at the base of my neck, and flyaway strands surround my face.
I clasp my hands together, hiding the shaking in my fingers. I’m not happy with the baby-sweet way my voice sounds as I whisper, “Show me what you wanted to show me already. Then be on your way.”
“Say please,” he croons .
“No, thank you.”
“You’re going to like it.” He cups my face in his hand, brushing his thumb's pad against my parted lips. Tingles dance over my skin as he runs it over my bottom lip, dragging it down into a pout before releasing me. A wicked grin covers his handsome face. “I promise.”
I almost faint. I thought he was going to try and kiss me. He’s playing with fire and dangerously close to crossing a line with me. One that will have him running out of my room begging for an icepack.
What do I do? Kick him in the groin and out the door? Demand that he stop teasing me, quit playing games, and just come out with whatever this surprise is?
Or do I give in to him, give him what he wants, and…
Just. Say. Please.
It’s not that simple.
He'll think he owns me if I give him this tiny concession.
But what if he leaves without showing me the thing? As a lawyer, no, as a woman—Patrick doesn’t care about half the gossip I give him—I need to know everything, all the time. Curiosity surely would kill me. Plus, I’ve never known him to lie. If he says I’ll like it, I already know I will.
“What do you say?” he asks.
He’s no longer touching me, but I feel him all over me. Those eyes burn into me, daring me to play his game. The part of Freya who is quickly turning traitor to my strong woman persona is wondering what it would have felt like to be kissed by him .
“Fine. I’ll play.” I match his grin, putting on a smirk of my own. “Pretty, pretty please, with a cherry on top.”
My breath stuck in my lungs, I wait, expecting him to take something from his suit jacket or pants pocket. Instead, he drops to one knee. What is he doing?
He slides his hands around my waist, staring up at me then running his hands down the outsides of my thighs. When he reaches the hem of my dress, he pinches the cloth between his forefingers and thumbs.
He’s shimmying the soft material up my bare skin, past my knee-high black leather boots, revealing my bare-naked thighs, cool air rushing over my legs as the warmth of my clothing disappears. I have no idea what he’s planning, but I’m frozen, curiosity and hot desire swirling in me as I stare down at him.
His light touch weakens my knees, and I’m teetering on the spiky heels of my boots. I grab his shoulders. His face is right there. I can feel the heat of his breath on my exposed skin. If he moves that dress up even a tiny bit more…
My voice comes out in that weak baby whisper again, my words shaky. “Wha—what are you doing?”
“Kissing you,” he says.
I’m only confused for a moment, and then his fingers brush my skin; my dress is up around my waist, and my entire world is split wide open as I balance myself on my boots. His hot breath caresses my skin as he murmurs something against me, hot kisses caressing me over the see-through lace gusset of my black thong.
Fingers digging into his shoulders, I sway into his kiss. The kissing stops, his mouth gone. My eyes flutter open, looking down at him. He holds my gaze, his fingers hooking into the elastic waistband of my thong. He doesn’t look away as he tugs it down my thighs, stopping at the tops of my boots.
Heat and shame flash over my face from wanting this so much, knowing it’s the wrong man, wrong room, wrong night.
Despite it all, I find myself parting my legs, making it easier for him to drag the panties down over my boots. I’ve experienced this scene in films before. I always watched with my breath held as the man wound the rolled elastic down the woman’s naked thighs, ready to pleasure her.
I never thought it would be me in that scene.
It feels so sexy, so sultry. I’m Freya, the goddess of beauty and debauchery, and this, THIS, is MY All Hallows Eve, and if he wants to worship at the throne of Freya, who am I to stop him?
So, I step out of my panties, but the elastic gets caught in a heel, my new-found sexual confidence momentarily failing me. But he’s so smooth, so experienced, he circles a firm hand around my ankle, over my boot, then gently untangles the black lace.
Sliding them into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
Before I can protest his theft, he’s back where he doesn’t belong, hands pushing up my dress, his hot mouth on me. My body says otherwise and insists he’s right where he should be.
I run my hands through his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my fingers, wondering if his excellent hair genetics would pass down to his offspring as I tug gently in response to each flick of his tongue, waves of pleasure cascading through my body.
I’m moaning softly with each new surge of ecstasy.
I can feel myself growing closer and closer to the edge, my breath coming in ragged gasps in my struggle to maintain control. But it is a losing battle, and soon, I can’t hold back any longer. My fingers tangle in his hair; it really is as thick and luxurious as it looks.
I’ve lost all power, all control. He’s won. And I don’t care. I let go. “Fredrick! Oh, God, Fredrick.” Crying out his name.
I come hard against his mouth.
Even though I've climaxed, he gently teases me while he continues to suck and nibble on my sensitive spots. I try to push him away. “I can’t take anymore…”
But he refuses my protests, murmuring against me, “Yes, you can.”
And he slides his finger inside me.
The aftershocks of pleasure continue to ripple through me, each one more intense than the last as he works his tongue against me, his finger moving in me. I can feel my heartbeat pulsing in my ears and hear the rhythmic sound of my ragged breath.
I lean in closer to him, tugging his hair and pulling him even more firmly against me as he draws a second orgasm from me, this one more powerful than the last.
I stand there, mouth gaping, knees quaking, boots shaking, in disbelief at what’s just happened, what I’ve let him do, what he’s done to me, and how my body feels like the warm, delicious center of a gooey cinnamon roll pulled out of the oven moments too soon.
I stare down at him, wondering where things go from here.
Slowly, he pulls my dress down, smoothing it back into place. Stands in front of me.
“My—my panties.”
Taking them from his suit jacket, he lays the panties in my open palm.
He brushes a chaste kiss against my cheek, his lips soft, the stubble of his chin rough, the smell of cedarwood mingled with… me. To my shame and pleasure, my intimate scent swirls around us.
He pulls away.
And leaves.
Quietly closing the door behind him.
The panties drop from my hand. My mouth gapes.
What in Scotland’s Highland Hills just happened?
I zip down a boot, rip it from my foot, and in my frustrated confusion toss it—lightly—I mean, it’s a Saint Laurent after all—at the closed door after him, telling him all I should have said the moment he stepped into this room. “Nyaff! Get out, stay out, and never come back!”
I’m speaking to myself. In an empty room. Every nerve ending in my body is still tingling with pleasure from him. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. I can still smell his intoxicating scent, feel his warm, strong hands on my hips, the hot lash of his tongue flickering between my thighs. The worst part?
I want more.