Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Fairies need feeding
Georgie
I wake up in Patrick McLaren’s arms.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. I can hear all the inner workings of Mount Patrick rumbling away in there. His hand claims my hip even in sleep, fingers spread possessively, and his breath stirs my hair in deep, steady waves.
This might be what heaven feels like.
I tilt my head carefully—trying not to wake him—and get an immediate noseful of armpit. The entire wilderness, right here, two inches from my face.
Is it concerning that I’m voluntarily sniffing Patrick’s armpit and finding it attractive? I inhale again. That’s my answer.
And I, Georgie Fitzgerald, am still alive after an entire night with him. Still breathing. Still got all my limbs.
I stayed over.
That specific brand of morning-after panic starts in my chest. What’s the etiquette here? Do I… sneak off? Wake him up to say goodbye? Pretend I’m casual about this? I’ve never been casual about anything in my life.
I begin the delicate process of extracting myself one millimeter at a time. Roll the shoulder, slide the leg, maintain steady breathing patterns. Don’t wake the sleeping beast.
Except the beast tightens his arm across my waist, pulling me back against him.
“Don’t even think about it.” His voice is sleep-rough, his eyes still shut.
“Think about what?”
“Sneaking off.”
“I wasn’t! I was just… stretching.”
His lips twitch, eyes still closed. “Lie better, sweetheart.”
The endearment makes my stomach flip. I immediately yank the sheet up over my face. There is no universe where Patrick’s first fully conscious impression of me includes morning breath and whatever my hair is currently doing.
He rolls towards me, still half-asleep, and that’s when I’m assaulted by a massive, unapologetic erection pressing hard against my hip. Announcing itself like, Good morning, Georgie, cancel your plans and climb aboard.
I try to ignore it. Truly. Then it twitches against me.
Heat rushes through me, pooling low and fast.
Oh God. I’m late.
“I need to get up,” I mumble into my sheet shield. “I promised Fee I’d go to the Fairy Pools this morning.”
Except the Fairy Pools do not contain Patrick McLaren’s cock, which suddenly makes them feel like a very poor use of my time.
One eye cracks open, so blue even half-asleep. “I’ll drive you.”
“What? No—you don’t have to—”
“I said I’ll drive,” he cuts in, rolling onto his back like the matter’s settled. His shoulders stretch, muscles tightening as he moves, and his cock’s still unapologetically there, tenting the fabric. “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”
“Oh.” My heart swoops. I want to giggle into the sheet. “Okay then.”
He wants to spend more time with me.
I beam up at him, fully besotted, not even pretending otherwise. One car ride and I’m mentally carving our initials into a tree. Pathetic.
“Why is there so much fairy-related stuff on the island anyway?” I ask. “Fairy Bridge, Fairy Glen, Fairy Pools. Do Scottish people actually believe in fairies, or is it just excellent marketing?”
“Aye, of course they do.”
“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re being serious because your delivery is impeccable but the content suggests you’re taking the piss.”
“Never say you don’t believe in fairies on Skye. Bad luck.” His mouth curves. “My gran swore fairies kept watch over the island. She used to leave bread and milk out for them.”
My jaw drops. “You’re telling me you’re a billionaire CEO who flies helicopters, manages hotel chains, and also believes in fairies?”
“I’m a rational man.” He stretches again, glorious shoulders flexing. “But if Gran said the fairies needed feeding, then they bloody well got fed.”
I snort-laugh into his chest, but the sound dies in my throat.
Because at the tail end of his stretch, his big hand drags casually down over me—over my collarbone, over the swell of my breast. His palm spreads, thumb catching my nipple with a slow, deliberate drag that makes my breath stutter.
Like it’s just another part of the stretch.
My nipple hardens instantly against his palm.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t pretend it’s accidental. He just leaves his hand there like he owns the territory. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to wake up, stretch, and grope me in the process.
I try to laugh, to cut the tension, but it comes out shaky, because behind me, Patrick’s cock is pressing heavy against my ass.
The giggle dies a swift death. The room shifts. The air thickens.
Without a word, he rolls me until my back slots against his chest. One thick arm clamps around my waist, locking me in place. The other drifts lower, palm flat over my stomach, sliding down, down—until his fingers find exactly where I’m throbbing.
I gasp as his thumb circles my clit, slow and deliberate, sending a hot rush straight through me.
Instinct takes over. I push back against him, legs parting under the sheet, my body offering itself up like Yes, please, ruin me.
“Good girl,” he mutters into my ear, voice rough, thick with sleep. “I’ll fuck you so deep from this angle you’ll still feel me later.”
Holy. Actual. God.
He pushes inside me from behind, in a thrust that has me clutching at the pillow. The angle is deep and brutal and perfect, every inch dragging over nerves I didn’t know I had, forcing a cry out of me that sounds too raw to be mine.
“Push that ass back, sweetheart. Take me deeper.”
He groans, his grip on my hip tightening as he drives into me. Each thrust slams me forward into the mattress, the sheets twisting in my fists. His hips smack against my ass with a sting.
The bed rocks. The headboard rattles. My voice breaks into ragged moans I can’t control, each one punched out of me by the force of him. I can’t tell if it’s too much. Each thrust hurts in the best possible way, like my body can’t tell if I’m begging him to stop or never stop.
A strangled cry bursts out of me, high and panicked.
Patrick freezes. His hand spreads wider over my stomach, steadying me. “Too much?”
“No,” I pant, clinging to the sheet. “Don’t stop.”
His lips brush my shoulder before he drives into me again, slower this time.
“Patrick—oh god—”
My body clenches around him, as release rips through me. He groans my name, buries himself to the hilt, and comes hard, his body shuddering against mine.
“You okay?” he asks behind me, voice still gravel and sex.
“Yeah.” I giggle breathlessly.
“Good.” His thumb strokes absently over my hip, a lazy afterthought, before he groans and rolls away. The sudden loss of his weight leaves me cold. “Come on. I don’t want you late for the Fairy Pools.”
Fairy Pools? What Fairy Pools?
The mattress dips as he rolls away, then he’s on his feet, stretching long and unselfconscious, cock swinging thick and unapologetic as he rakes a hand through his hair. Caveman rise-and-shine: all muscle, no modesty, zero shame.
“You haven’t done the Old Man of Storr yet, have you?” he asks.
I blink up at him, still a little dazed. “What? No… why?”
“Do you want to? This afternoon?” His mouth quirks. “With your stamina for cold water, I’m betting you’ll last about two minutes in the Fairy Pools.”
“Yes!” The word bursts out before my brain can apply any filters. “I mean, the hike. Yes to hiking. Up a mountain. With you. Today.”
Oh God, I’m babbling. But it’s not just yes to a hike. It’s yes to more time with him. Yes to a silly Skye bubble when the rest of the world can wait.
Beneath the fizz in my chest a sensible voice whispers: Don’t get carried away. This is temporary. He’ll go back to dating models, and you’ll go back to your code.
I can’t bring myself to care about sensible little voices right now.
In this moment, Patrick McLaren is mine, and I’m hanging onto that for as long as my anxious, overthinking brain will let me.
How the fuck is he having a casual conversation while I’m actively dying on this mountain?
“You okay?” Patrick’s palm settles warm on the small of my back, right where my T-shirt has become one with my skin through perspiration.
“Yeh!” I wheeze. “Brilliant. Honestly, ten out of ten, would recommend.”
I pivot toward the view with what I hope looks like the pivot of someone suddenly possessed by awe, while mostly trying not to black out. “Just want a minute to… capture the majesty.”
Remember: nose breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Take your time.” He joins me at the edge of the path, not a bead of sweat on him, the bastard. He shifts the rucksack higher on his shoulders, carrying all our water bottles along with the jacket he insisted I bring.
“Do you know why it’s called the Old Man of Storr?” he asks.
I gasp in another secret lungful of oxygen. “Are you testing me? To see if I did my research?”
“Absolutely.”
Perfect. Exactly what I need: a pop quiz mid-ascent.
“It’s supposed to look like an old man’s face.
” I force out another breath, praying my wheeze isn’t audible.
I am trying to be the sort of athletic goddess he’s used to, even though he’s being a gentleman and I know he’s slowing down for me without making it obvious.
“Legend says a giant lived here with his wife. When he died, they buried him under the ridge, but his thumb stuck up through the ground to form the rock.”
“Good girl. You’ve done your homework.”
Normally, that sort of praise from him would send me into a full hormonal meltdown. Right now, I’m more concerned with not collapsing and rolling into a sheep field.
“How much further?” I ask, trying to sound casual rather than desperate.
If you say halfway, I will cry.
He tips his head up. “About ten minutes’ walk.”
Ten minutes. I could sob with relief.
Only ten more minutes of pretending my legs aren’t made of jelly and that I’m not about to faint into a patch of sheep shit. I can do this. Maybe. If the fairies drag me the rest of the way.
By the time we reach the trail’s end, I’m dead. Bury me here among the sheep and midges.