Chapter 10
TEN
Ice bath dick
Georgie
I wake to the sound of birds chirping and sunshine streaming through the window—no honking taxis or rumbling rubbish trucks, just blissful, uninterrupted peace. Skye gets so much daylight this time of year that it didn’t get dark until ten last night.
I stretch, feeling surprisingly well-rested for someone who spent yesterday having multiple panic attacks.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Jake:
How’s your first day in paradise? Heard you got the VIP helicopter service with Patrick. Lucky you! X
I roll my eyes.
Me:
You conveniently forgot to mention he’s qualified to fly aircraft.
Jake:
Ha! Yeah, he’s a bit of a daredevil. Did he scare you senseless?
Scare doesn’t even begin to cover the emotional carnage of yesterday.
Me:
Just a bit. When are you back from your expedition?
Jake:
Few weeks. I’ll come visit you in Skye between trips. If you’re still there.
If Patrick doesn’t pack me off to London in disgrace, I think grimly.
Me:
Looking forward to it. Try not to get eaten by polar bears.
Jake:
No promises. Behave yourself up there. X
If only he knew about the athletic Highland sex chalked at the top of my kitchen wishlist.
I roll out of bed. The swoop in my stomach reminds me that IRIS implementation starts today.
I need to configure the IT systems throughout the hotel and introduce key staff members to IRIS’s core features.
I pad over to the cottage window in my pajamas. What a view. So calming. And it’s only six in the morning.
My eyes land on the binoculars sitting innocently on the windowsill. I pick them up, feeling instantly outdoorsy.
Portree is barely awake. A couple of dog walkers shuffle along, a postman does his rounds—and oh, wow, mate, you might want to know that I can see you going elbow-deep in your nostril while you sort the mail.
I swing the binoculars toward the hotel, already drunk on my newfound surveillance power. Someone’s doing laps in the outdoor pool.
I pan across to the staff cottages. Someone’s left laundry out overnight, which feels risky in Scotland.
Then I shift to the posh cottage, the one tucked away between the trees.
I adjust the focus and suddenly I can see right into the back garden. They probably think the trees give them complete privacy. And they’re not wrong—unless someone’s standing in a cottage on a hill with professional-grade binoculars like a nosy little creep.
Oh, this is so naughty.
I hover, fingers twitching on the focus wheel. One small adjustment. Just a peek.
Just a tiny, innocent—
“Oh my God.”
The binoculars catapult out of my hands. I fumble frantically and catch them mid-air, pulse hammering against my throat.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Was that really—?
Of course it was.
There’s only one man who could make my body react like this.
I should put the binoculars down. Respect his privacy. Maybe do some therapeutic stretching or meditation.
Instead—
My hands betray me instantly.
Binoculars up. Focus wheel turning.
The image sharpens into high-definition sin.
Patrick McLaren is naked in the garden.
Not “cheeky towel low on the hips” naked.
No.
We are talking full-frontal, Greek-statue-in-IMAX naked.
My gaze greedily trails over him, soaking in every breathtaking inch.
Those thighs—thick with muscle that shifts and flexes as he moves. His chest is all hard definition, with enough dark hair to remind you he’s a grown man who doesn’t wax for anyone. The sharp V of his hips draws my eyes lower, following that dark line to—
Holy mother of—
That size of cock has no business existing outside of late-night streaming platforms.
It’s not a penis, it’s… a landmark. Something you could find on Google Maps. “Turn left at the enormous cock, you can’t miss it.”
I inhale sharply as my mind floods with fantasies. How he would feel. How my fingers wouldn’t quite meet around the thickness. The throb of want that hits me is so sharp I make an embarrassing whimper in the back of my throat.
I haven’t allowed myself to think about a man like this in years.
He stretches, one arm reaching skyward, the other behind his head, and every muscle in his torso responds to the movement.
This is fucking criminal.
I bite my lip hard enough to sting. Just to check I’m still alive, still here, still watching Patrick, stark bollock naked, in his garden at six in the morning.
Morning light catches the water droplets clinging to his chest. He must’ve just showered—his hair’s still damp, darker than usual.
I zoom in, very professionally, telling myself this is purely investigative journalism—I am fact-checking Jake’s claim about the missing toe, after all. And yes, there it is: right pinky toe, truncated.
But my traitorous eyes keep drifting north, up his thighs. I zoom in on the balls. I’m not proud. But they’re actually… impressive. These are Alpha Balls. Balls that have presence. If these balls walked into a room, everyone would stand up, out of respect.
He walks toward what looks like a stone tub built into the patio. No steam rising from it. Of course he starts his day with an ice bath.
I watch, slack-jawed, as he lowers himself into the tub. One leg, then the other.
His whole body goes rigid as he sinks down. His eyes close, his head tips back, baring the length of his throat, and damn, he looks like he’s in the grip of something far more intimate than cold water therapy.
My desperate little pants fog the binoculars.
The sliding door to his cottage opens.
I suck in a gasp, hand clamping over my mouth.
A woman steps out, wearing… a black thong. Only.
Who is she? Local? Some cool Highland wellness coach? Did he fly her in? Is it casual? Serious?
The jealousy hits like a physical blow, sharp and vicious. Entirely uninvited.
It’s not like I don’t know Patrick could have anyone he wants. Rich, successful, devastatingly attractive men generally do. I just didn’t expect to witness it happening live.
Didn’t expect it to hit quite this… hard.
She’s beautiful. Obviously. Long blond hair that she shakes out like she’s in a shampoo advert. She’s toned and athletic. Her breasts defy gravity in a way that means excellent genetics.
My free hand presses against my own softer stomach, as if I can hide the parts that aren’t like her.
She’s probably mid-thirties, Patrick’s age. Even from here, she moves with that same confidence he has. Like she’s never stumbled over her own feet or stress-constipated herself for five days.
Basically: everything I’m not.
She leans over him, fingers sliding gently under his jaw in a gesture so intimate it makes my stomach lurch.
His eyes open—and the look on his face…
Oh, God.
It’s the kind of grin that erases every hard edge in him, making him look suddenly boyish. I didn’t even know his face could do that. He’s never smiled at me like that. He doesn’t smile at me, period.
They exchange words, probably something sexy like “I need you inside me right now.”
She dips her hand into the tub, then jerks it back with a laugh.
Then his expression changes.
The teasing warmth disappears, replaced by something darker.
His eyes fix on her with the kind of predatory focus that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I’ve always been aware of the ten-year age gap between us in a professional capacity—the gulf between seasoned CEO and junior employee. But watching him now, I’m suddenly aware of the other gap. The one that has nothing to do with boardrooms and everything to do with bedrooms.
He says something to her. Just a few words, but his jaw is tight.
Her hands slide to the thin strings of her thong. Slowly, she begins to push them down her hips.
She’s not just undressing. She’s following an order.
The thong hits the patio. She steps out of it, completely bare, and saunters toward the house.
He leans forward as she passes, and his palm cracks against her ass hard enough to make her jump.
I bite my lip hard. That looked like it stung.
When she looks back at him over her shoulder, her face is pure heat. The kind of expression that says she’d let him do anything.
Patrick doesn’t smile.
He stands. Water rolls down his chest, down the tight ridges of his abs, and over his cock and holy fucking hell, if that’s him post-ice bath, I don’t even want to imagine the physics-defying situation at room temperature.
He doesn’t hurry. Doesn’t scramble for a towel. Just steps out of the tub like a god descending to collect his sacrifice.
The sliding door shuts behind them.
I lower the binoculars with shaking hands.
It’s obvious what’s next.
They’re going to have sex. Not gentle, candlelit, Enya-playing-in-the-background sex.
No. They’re going to fuck.
The kind of athletic, confident-people sex that I’ve only read about in books I pretend not to own but have definitely dog-eared and highlighted.
The kind I can only dream about.
My friend Shelley said Patrick looked like rough sex, and God, she was so right.
Clocked it in under five minutes when he showed up at Mum’s kitchen that Easter.
We were both home from uni, tipsy on cheap rosé, when Jake walked in with him.
The entire kitchen just… stopped. Mum forgot she was holding a roasting tin.
Shelley’s mouth dropped open mid-rant about her media studies professor.
I collapse backward onto the bed, the binoculars thudding onto the mattress.
I’m dizzy from voyeurism and this weird mix of arousal and frustration that makes me want to scream into a pillow.
Is she “just a fling” or the current star in what I assume is a rotating cast of gorgeous, accomplished women?
From what Jake’s let slip over the years, Patrick doesn’t do serious relationships. He builds hotel empires and pilots aircraft for fun, but God forbid anyone’s toothbrush infiltrates his bathroom.
That’s why he and Jake are perfect friends. They’re both wired the same way. Jake never lets anyone get too close because commitment means staying still, and staying still means missing out on whatever mountain is calling his name next.
I blow out a shaky breath.
I feel like someone’s dragged me out of a sexual coma. All the frustration I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist is now fizzing under my skin with nowhere to go.
“Have sex with hot Highland men” is absolutely staying at number one on the list, though I might have to add subcategories for stamina and girth requirements.
Riri would be so proud.