16. What Wont Kilt You.
WHAT WON'T KILT YOU...
CALLUM
The cabin of the Fidelity sits forty feet below the deck, far removed from Seattle's summer night and the lingering ghost of Richard's smug face.
Down here, the only sounds are the gentle hum of the engines, the soft rush of water against the hull, and Karina's breath catching as I carry her across the threshold like some kind of tartan-loving caveman.
This is a terrible idea.
Possibly the worst I've had since agreeing to let my grandmother reorganize my kitchen "feng shui" last Christmas.
And yet, with Karina's arms looped around my neck, her weight perfectly balanced against my chest, I can't seem to remember why stopping would be the sensible option.
"You can put me down now," she murmurs against my neck. "Unless this is some Scottish tradition I'm unaware of."
"Tradition dictates I carry you over the threshold, then recite the seven ancient clan blessings before removing a single item of clothing."
She pulls back to study my face. "Seriously?"
"No," I admit, lowering her carefully to her feet. "But your expression was worth it."
The cabin surrounds us in warm mahogany and subtle luxury—a king-sized bed with crisp navy linens, ambient lighting that casts a golden glow over everything, and panoramic windows that frame Seattle's retreating skyline.
Karina spins slowly, taking it all in. "This is... not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Dead fish on the walls? Antlers? A shrine to Excel spreadsheets?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You think I'd mount Excel spreadsheets on my wall?"
"Color-coded and laminated, obviously."
"I prefer PowerPoint. More visual impact."
She laughs, the sound relaxing something in my chest I hadn't realized was tight. Then she notices the small wooden display case mounted discreetly on the far wall.
"Are those... fencing medals?"
"Perhaps."
She crosses to examine them. "Silver in the 2009 Scottish Championships? Callum Abernathy, you've been holding out on me."
"It never came up in conversation."
"It should've," she says, turning to face me. "I would've liked to know I was kissing an athlete."
"Former athlete.” I move closer. "And we weren't exactly discussing resumes earlier."
A tightness squeezes across her face—a momentary tension I can't quite read—before she smiles, wry and a little sad. "No, we never seem to get around to that, do we?"
I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "We don't have to talk at all."
"Professional mistake number six thousand," she murmurs, leaning into my touch.
"I've stopped counting."
"That's very unlike you."
"You bring out my slovenly side."
Her laugh turns into a gasp as I trace the line of her jaw, then the curve of her neck. "Is that what this is? Slovenly?"
"Mm. Terribly disorganized. No spreadsheets whatsoever."
"The horror," she whispers as I bend to kiss the pulse point below her ear.
For all our banter, there's an undercurrent of uncertainty—as if we're both waiting for the other to come to their senses and call this off.
But then her hands find my shoulders, and mine settle at her waist, and the moment for sensible retreats passes.
"One night," I say against her skin. "To get this out of our systems."
"Then back to normal." She nods, her fingers already working at my tie. "Strictly professional."
"Absolutely."
We're lying to ourselves, of course.
But the fiction feels necessary, a flimsy shield against complications neither of us is prepared to face.
Her dress comes off first—a slow, deliberate unveiling that leaves her in nothing but midnight blue lingerie and the emerald pendant at her throat.
The contrast against her skin is striking enough to make me pause, just to look at her.
"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"You're beautiful," I say, simple truth.
Something in my tone must surprise her, because her cognac-colored eyes widen slightly before she recovers. "You're still wearing too many clothes."
"I'm Scottish. We're naturally overdressed."
"Funny, that's not what the internet says about kilts."
I step closer, backing her toward the bed. "The internet will be disappointed tonight."
"Will I?"
"Not if I can help it."
She sits when the backs of her knees hit the mattress, looking up at me with a mixture of desire and challenge that sends heat spiraling through me.
But tonight isn't about rushing.
It's about memorizing every detail of her.
The way her breath catches when I trace the curve of her collarbone. The small gasping laugh when my stubble tickles the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
"You're very..." she begins, then loses her train of thought as I kneel before her.
"Methodical?" I suggest, pressing a kiss to her knee.
"I was going to say 'thorough,'" she manages. "Though 'methodical' works too."
"I believe in being comprehensive."
The cabin hums around us—soft water lapping, the deep purr of engines, the whisper of the Fidelity cutting through the Sound.
But all I can hear is Karina's breathing.
All I can see is her, flushed and trembling in my bed, a vision of chaos and temptation in midnight blue lingerie and messy hair and bare, begging skin.
I palm the curve of her thigh, my thumb brushing that vulnerable spot where her leg meets her body, and she shudders—so fucking responsive it damn near undoes me.
"You're stunning like this," I murmur, voice rough. "All spread out for me. So fucking wet already."
She tries to hide her face, but I catch her chin and tilt it up. "Don't you dare get shy now, sweetheart. I want to see every second of how I wreck you."
A broken sound slips from her throat, equal parts want and need.
"Lie back," I order, my voice leaving no room for argument.
She obeys, heart pounding so hard I can see it fluttering in her throat. I trail kisses down her belly, slow and deliberate, until I reach the edge of her panties.
I hook my fingers in the delicate fabric and pull them down agonizingly slow, baring her inch by inch.
She’s glistening for me, her thighs trembling.
"Fuck, Karina," I groan, staring like a man dying of thirst. "You smell like heaven. You taste even better."
She whimpers, hips shifting instinctively toward my mouth.
"Patience," I rasp, kissing the inside of her knee. "I'm going to make you beg for it."
"I—" she starts to protest, but gasps when I nip her inner thigh.
"You’ll beg, sweetheart," I promise darkly. "And when you come on my tongue, it'll be the only goddamn thing you can remember."
Her moan nearly breaks me.
I drag my mouth up her thigh, open-mouthed kisses, sharp little bites, until finally— finally —I press my mouth to her slick pussy.
She cries out, hips jerking upward, and I pin her to the mattress with my hands, spreading her thighs wider.
"That’s it," I growl against her. "Take what you need. Rub that sweet cunt on my mouth if you want, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on my tongue."
Her breath comes in ragged little pants as I lick her in slow, filthy strokes, savoring every slick, salty-sweet taste of her.
I focus on her clit, slow circles at first, teasing, until she’s keening high and desperate, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging, anchoring me exactly where she needs me.
"You’re fucking perfect," I murmur into her. "You know that? Every moan, every twitch. Mine, Karina. You’re fucking mine."
"Callum—" she sobs, writhing, trying to chase the pleasure.
I slip two fingers inside her, curling them just right, and she shatters—grinding against my face as she comes, wild and gorgeous, crying out my name like it’s the only word she knows.
I don't stop.
I keep fucking her with my fingers, keep flicking her clit with my tongue until she's sobbing with overstimulation, too wrecked to form a coherent thought.
"One more," I whisper against her drenched skin. "Give me one more, sweetheart. I know you can."
"Can't—" she gasps, but her body tells a different story, already tightening around my fingers again.
"You can," I promise darkly. "You will. "
I rub her clit harder, faster, letting my fingers fuck up into her at a relentless rhythm, and she screams when she comes again, squeezing down so hard I swear I could die happy between her thighs.
When she collapses back against the pillows, utterly spent, I finally ease off—pressing a kiss to her trembling inner thigh.
I crawl up her body, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and she grabs me, pulling me down into a kiss that’s messy and needy and desperate.
"You taste like me," she whispers, dazed, licking my bottom lip like she can't help herself.
"Good," I rasp, kissing her harder. "Because you’re all over me. You’re fucking everywhere."
We stay just like that, hearts hammering against each other, both of us too wrecked to move.
Eventually, she tries to reach for my belt again, but I catch her wrist, pressing it gently to the mattress.
"Not tonight," I say, voice hoarse.
Her brow furrows. "But that's not fair."
"Life rarely is."
"Callum." She props herself up on one elbow. "Are you seriously telling me you're going to... what? Just walk away now?"
"Not walk away.” My gaze remains steady. “Merely relocate to another cabin."
She sits up fully. "Why?"
I brush a strand of hair from her flushed face. "Because tonight was about you."
She studies me. "This wasn't part of the 'getting it out of our system' plan, was it?"
"Plans change."
"So do we," she says softly.
I lean down to kiss her—gently this time, without the earlier urgency. "Get some sleep, Karina."
As I turn to leave, she calls after me: "This doesn't make sense, you know."
"I'm aware."
"And it definitely won't work."
"Probably not."
"And tomorrow will be awkward as hell."
I pause at the door, looking back at her—gloriously disheveled, wearing nothing but moonlight and confusion. "Without question."
"So why are you doing this?"
Because one taste won't be enough.
Because this wasn't just physical after all.
Because I'm falling for you, and I don't know how to stop.
"Because I'm Scottish," I say instead. "We're notoriously stubborn."
Her laugh follows me out the door and down the narrow corridor to the second, smaller cabin.
I close the door behind me, leaning against it in the darkness.
One night, we'd agreed. One time to get her out of my system.
I stare at the ceiling, achingly hard and thoroughly screwed—in all ways except the one I'd planned.
Because now I know the truth…
One taste of Karina Peters will never be enough.