Chapter 17
seventeen
CLAIRE
We’d fallen into a rhythm that felt dangerously perfect.
Mornings filming reels at the distillery, pouring all my pent-up desire for Owen into the content.
Then, lunchtime meetings with Isla to review marketing and discuss how best to leverage the buzz to the distillery’s benefit.
Afternoons hand in hand with Owen, trawling charity shops for furniture I could upcycle, or walking with Scruff while he worked.
And then there were the evenings. Evenings where Owen showed me the many ways he could drive me to the edge of sanity with that tongue of his.
Or those insanely delicious, thick fingers of his.
Not to mention the rope. Giving up my ability to control the situation had led to my forming a deeper trust with Owen in the few short weeks I’d been in Otterleigh than I’d had with anyone before.
While our sessions were ultimately about sexual satisfaction, there was a layer beneath it that made me warm and fuzzy.
I trusted him. Gave myself to him in the most vulnerable way I could, and he used it to learn my body and mind.
Although he still hadn’t let me touch him, or progressed beyond him fisting his cock at the end of a session. I was gagging for him. Unfortunately, not literally. While I’d always enjoyed sex, I’d never been shown a cock and denied it. Owen had me frothing at the mouth, and everywhere else.
After making me squeal into the early hours, he’d cook and clean and stroke my hair until I fell into a languid puddle, and he used that to steal the argument for giving me his cock right out of my mouth.
One could argue that I didn't even need it, since he made me come over and over. But it wasn’t even so much about the activity as about that barrier that he still had around him.
I understood he’d been hurt and that he was reluctant to open himself up to that again, but I wanted to bust through that wall and see all of him.
To have all of him.
Would it be so bad even if it were only for a few weeks?
The ache that filled my chest when I thought of going home told me yes. My holiday romance would gut me when I took the train back to the city. Arriving in the middle of the late autumnal gloom, when the trees had shed to bare and the sky was that pervasive grey.
Since the bath, he hadn’t exactly backed off the touching, he still wrapped my throat with his fingers, thumbs under my jaw, kisses that melted my underpants, but he stopped himself from taking.
The combination of giving and refusal to allow me to return the favour had me climbing the walls like a feral badger.
By Friday, we’d got the sitting room to the point that it could pass as a usable room.
I stood in a giant, paint-stained T-shirt and weathered leggings and dashes of sage green up my arms. And in my hair, which I’d roughly manhandled into an oversized clip.
Owen wiped a drip from the French dresser we’d painted with the corner of a rag while giving me one of his brooding looks.
Was he planning to pin me to the floor and finally take me?
Fingers crossed.
‘Karaoke tonight,’ he said, standing to stretch out his back. ‘You’ve not been yet, and I’m not sure you can stay here without experiencing it at least once. It’s not my bag, but Isla’s been begging me to ask.’
It was already nearing eight o’clock. I held up my paint-splattered arms in a WTF pose.
‘I don’t have time to get ready.’
‘Ready?’ Owen wrapped clingfilm around the paintbrush and tray to prevent it from drying out before we applied the next coat.
‘I can’t go out like this. I am forty per cent paint. And that’s just what’s visible. It’s one thing to see me like this, but everyone else?’ Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have set foot outside in this state to pick up milk, far less a social function.
‘Sure, you can. You look beautiful.’
‘I look a mess, Owen. I don’t usually go out without my face done, and I haven’t even washed my hair in three days. I look like I’ve been fighting with a roller. Which I have.’
He put the rag down, crossed to me, and cupped my painty face in those ridiculously big hands.
‘You are insanely attractive right now, exactly like this. Paint and all. Hair and all. You’re a smasher, city girl.
If you want mascara, fine. If you don’t, I will spend the whole night trying not to drool over you anyway. ’
Damn. The way he made my heart flip should be studied. ‘You’re just trying to placate me.’
‘Incorrect. I never say anything I don’t mean, Claire. Even covered head to toe in paint and grime, I have to fight not to rip your clothes off.’
‘That’s an activity I’d be a-ok with,’ I threaded my arms over his shoulders as his hands slipped to my ass.
‘Later, you little brat. For now, we need a drink and something that isn’t filming reels or decorating. You need to see the fun side of Otterleigh Bay.’
I dropped my eyes down to the space between us in an exaggerated way. ‘I can think of a fun side of Otterleigh I’d love to get up close and personal with.
‘Buy me a pint and I won’t spank you for that.’ Owen moved a hand up to my hair, tugging it at the nape to expose my throat to his mouth. The way he dragged the flat of his tongue over my skin had me swooning.
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but don’t think that spanking is the threat you think it is. I might like it.’
Satisfaction dripped between my thighs at the way his eyes darkened, and for a few moments, I thought he might say fuck the pub and bend me over instead. Anticipation tingled in my stomach.
‘Get you’re coat, Claire.’
Well, damn him and his willpower.
The Tipsy Otter had gone full Pinterest-level autumn.
Pumpkins along the windowsills, mixed in with cute little colourful squashes, and even the odd turnip, as is the Scottish tradition.
Paper leaves strung over the beams, draping the pub in golden yellows, burnt oranges and deep reds.
Fairy lights twisted through them, and looking up was like walking through the woods with the sun behind the leaves.
The noticeboard sported a flyer with a cartoon witch announcing ‘KARAOKE (NO CHILDREN AFTER 8 PM)’, the no children having been underlined twice.
Someone clearly needed a child-free night out really badly.
It was cosy and a little over-the-top, much like the village itself.
In the corner, the battered speaker did its best to cope with the loud, and often out-of-tune, songs that belted through it.
Kenny clutched a clipboard like it was the most crucial job in the world.
Strung conkers hung from the bar, where the local old soaks sat, trying to avoid pulling them down with every move of their knees.
The place smelled like a unique mix of cinnamon and stale beer—quite the bouquet.
‘There she is!’ Morag waved us in like we were late. ‘The decorator.’
Her gaze skimmed me head-to-toe. A wave of nausea hit me as I waited for the inevitable judgment that came with going out looking such a mess. ‘You’re looking well, Claire. The sea air must be doing you good.’
It stopped me in my tracks.
My walks along the shore with Scruff certainly brought a healthy flush to my face, and the non-stop activity, both in and out of the bedroom, had my energy at record-high levels. Morag may have had a point.
Owen leaned in at my ear so I could hear him over Gretchen’s test warble. ‘Vodka lemonade?’
‘Yes, please. It’s karaoke. I require as much liquid courage as I can imbibe.’
He returned with a tray a few minutes later, sliding into the table we’d sat at during the quiz. Their table. Maybe my table? Isla descended upon us in a halo of excitement and a cardigan with leaf-shaped sequins.
‘Look at you two,’ she said with a grin. ‘Managed to drag yourselves from your love nest.’
‘It’s not a love nest.’ I took a sip of my drink while my face heated. ‘A love mess at best.’
Isla lifted a brow. ‘But still love?’
I choked on my drink, my eyes widening as I searched for a retort to that.
‘It’s a none-of-your-business.’ Owen gave his sister a look that screamed butt out, you nosy mare.
Jeff pointed at my face. ‘Paint on your cheek. Right there.’
‘I’m more paint than person at this point. I’ve given up fighting it. I’m assimilating to the cottages' demanding ways.’ I grinned as Jeff laughed.
We squeezed around the table. Owen was at my side, his hand on my knee under the table, like he needed to maintain a touch base with me at all times.
After Marty never having touched me in public, it delighted me.
I was hyper-aware of my absence of my usual social armour.
No eyeliner. No lipstick. No social media to disappear in.
‘You should sing,’ Owen murmured against my ear, his rumbling voice making me clench my thighs. ‘You’ll be brilliant.’
‘Absolutely not. I sing in bathrooms and cars. Alone.’
‘We can duet,’ Isla said, her voice high and keen. ‘We’ll do one of the bangers.’
‘This is a nightmare,’ I told Owen.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And yet?’
And yet it might be fun.
‘You two stop mooning over each other before you make everyone heave.’ Isla rolled her eyes at us, but Owen didn’t let up, gently squeezing my thigh. ‘Write us down, Kenny. Something by the Spice Girls.’
When Eilidh’s name went up, she dashed over and grabbed Isla and me by the hands.‘Come on then. Girlband energy.’
‘No—’ I began, but then I was on my feet, dragged into a loose triangle in front of the mic.
The room whooped, and I died inside, seeing all those faces staring at us.
I mumbled through the first verse, letting Isla and Eilidh carry the song, my face feeling nuclear heat levels.
But by the time we his the second chorus, I relaxed, belting it out with them through laughter, fully leaning into the chaos.
Eilidh had a great voice, Isla and I less so, but we let her carry us like a mother dragging two unruly toddlers.
We sounded ridiculous, and happy, and Owen watched, a rare smile lifting his lip. In public.
For the key change, I stepped back to really give it some welly, and hooked my ankle in the mic lead.
I tried to snatch my foot back, but only succeeded in pulling the whole mic stand toward me, where it teetered for a moment before toppling.
The mic gave a death squeal that had the pub covering their ears while I tripped over into a loose display of pumpkins, shoulder-checked an old man, and sent a wooden squirrel skidding across the floor like a rogue curling stone.
‘Man down!’ Kenny barked.
‘Save the pint!’ someone yelled, as the old man bumped his table, his glass teetering by the edge.
I lunged for the pint, over-corrected, and got wrapped up in a string of paper leaves, which slithered down around my neck like a seasonal noose.
The room paused in a single, horrified yet delighted moment.
Owen sprang up, wrapping an arm around my waist and freeing me from the garland. He set me on my feet before righting the mic, the display, and checking that the old man was okay. I stood there, the weak spotlight on our sad-looking trio, as Isla stifled a giggle.
Owen came back to me, grabbing my hand and whispering. ‘Bow.’
‘What?’ I asked, through gritted teeth as humiliation wrapped around me.
‘Bow.’
Silence.
Then the place erupted. Whoops. Applause. A wolf whistle from Morag had me laughing.
Isla clapped like a drunken seal while Eilidh took my hand and bowed even deeper, as though the entire thing was just a skit.
‘Better than Eurovision,’ Alistair said, deadpan.
MacKay cupped his hands. ‘Ten out of ten for comedy. Would watch again.’
‘They’ll love you forever,’ Owen murmured, eyes crinkling as he righted me like I weighed nothing.
‘Everyone in the village is going to hear about that,’ I wheezed, cheeks on fire.
‘You’re all right,’ he said, in that low rumbling voice that soothed my soul, keeping one arm around my waist.
Isla grabbed the mic back as if I hadn’t just ruined the song.
‘From the top!’
Owen gave me a little push as I rejoined the women, singing through my embarrassment until it no longer buzzed through the pub. More drinks were consumed, and the conversation moved on.
We smashed the chorus, and the room sang along. By the last note, I was breathless and giddy and glad I’d stuck around.
We exited the tiny stage, and Owen was there immediately, hand out. He looked at me like I hadn’t just made a royal arse of myself. If anything, he looked proud.
‘You were brilliant.’ He spoke into my ear, his words wrapping me in happiness.
‘I was loud,’ I said.
‘Come here.’
Before I knew what was happening, he kissed me…
Not a quick peck. Not a polite brush. A real, public, panty-melting kiss. His hand cupped my jaw as his other arm slid around my waist, pulling me close. The pub did that collective hoot people do when they are drunk and see a smooch.
Owen claimed me in front of everyone, and while I felt all eyes on us, I didn’t care. No. I adored it. Marty had barely risked a side-hug unless we were alone. Owen kissed me like he wanted the whole village to see that he wanted me.
When he eased back, I bit my lip.
‘Show-off,’ I whispered.
‘You need to be shown off. Look at you.’ He kissed my temple to the sound of Isla wolf-whistling and Morag shouting Get a room.
Later, when we tumbled into the square altogether, tipsy and sung-out, the salty air pinched my cheeks with its icy fingers.
The bunting danced in the wind, outlined by the streetlights, while fallen leaves circled in the breeze.
Owen shrugged out of his coat and settled it over my shoulders.
I inhaled the way it smelt of him, woody and manly, and smiled up at him.
We passed the noticeboard. A new cream card had appeared:
SPOTTED: paint-splattered siren nearly takes out the pumpkin display. I couldn’t help but laugh.
‘God, they got on that quick. Who do you think writes them?’ I threaded my fingers through Owen’s.
‘I’ve always assumed Morag. She’s the epicentre of village gossip.’
We walked toward Rose cottage, hand-in-hand, and I felt peace wash over me. A perfect evening, even in its imperfection.
‘Thank you for convincing me to go out,’ I said.
‘Now to convince you to stay,’ Owen muttered, pulling me against his side.
A pang of nerves settled in my stomach. The idea of staying was a no-brainer, but I couldn’t just uproot my entire life.
Right?