Chapter 16
Chapter sixteen
Katie
The warm cocoon of Lance surrounds me as I wake. It’s utter bliss. His strong arms cage me, his chest pressed to my back. His cock is already waking up, a hard line nestled between my butt cheeks.
Is there no satisfying this man?
My mind flicks back to last night. After deciding this relationship has to end, I needed him. All of him. We barely made it into the room before I was stripping him, hands roaming taut muscle, mouth on every inch I could reach.
I’d told him to lie on the bed, and he’d obeyed without question. Last night, I was in control. Me on top, his hands bruising my hips as he held my gaze and let me take what I needed. With every thrust, I felt closer to him… and further away. The clock is ticking on us now.
Why can’t I be twenty years younger?
Even ten years would make this feel less doomed. My heart aches at the thought of living without him. His lips brush my shoulder, dragging me back to now.
“You’re the most incredible woman,” he whispers. “I just adore you.”
My heart sinks. I adore you too sits on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. It’s not fair to pull us even deeper when I’ve already set the expiration date.
He rolls his hips, grinding gently. My body betrays me, heat pooling between my legs. He shifts, moving over me, bracing his hands by my head, and smiles slowly.
This man could not be any sexier if he tried.
With one deep thrust, he’s inside me. He moves slowly at first, steady, deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. I squeeze my eyes shut, overwhelmed.
“Katie,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead, “look at me. Watch me make you come.”
My eyelids drag open. His gaze is hungry, intent. His pace quickens, each stroke pushing me higher.
“I want you to scream for me,” he growls.
Pleasure buzzes up my legs, across my body. Cream floods my sex as I fall apart around him, my climax tearing through me. The sight of me coming tips him over; he shudders, burying himself deep as he follows.
We collapse into that dreamy, quiet aftermath, breathing in sync, talking lazily about the day ahead. The 365th day of the year. Our last day of the decade.
A knock rattles the door.
I frown. He grins. “Breakfast,” he says, rolling off the bed and wrapping a towel around his waist. “I figured we might have better things to do than line up at the buffet.”
He opens the door. The young woman standing there visibly reels at the half-naked god in front of her, mouth dropping open before she remembers to smile. Shy. Scarlet. Smitten.
Ogle someone else’s boyfriend, bitch, I send telepathically.
She doesn’t even register me at first—just stands there, eye-fucking him while I sit on the bed in my morning glory, apparently invisible.
“Your breakfast, sir,” she purrs. Her gaze finally sweeps the room and lands on me. “And ma’am,” she adds, like an afterthought.
“Just pop it on the table. Thank you, Jessica,” Lance drawls.
Of course he reads her name badge. She damn near faints with happiness and goes from crimson to full tomato as she scuttles out. Lance closes the door, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says, still grinning.
“Tell me,” I squawk, pouting like a petulant child.
“Could you be any more unfriendly without speaking?” He laughs. “Jesus, Katie, I could feel your venom from over here.”
“I don’t appreciate women openly ogling my man,” I huff. “You’re hard to miss, but for fuck’s sake, she’s meant to be professional. I could see her undressing you from the doorway.”
He smirks, comes over, and cups my face, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “There’s only you, Katie.”
Heaven help me.
***
Why would anyone do this for pleasure? Strap two knives to their feet and attempt to walk on ice?
Bloody idiots.
Lance swore ice skating would be romantic and fun. Never having done it before, I believed him. Right now, clinging to the rink wall for dear life, I’m plotting his death.
Ten meters. That’s as far as my terrified body allowed me to move in fifteen minutes. A whole ten meters of slow, clumsy shuffle. Meanwhile, children and pensioners whizz past me like they’re auditioning for the Olympics, sending me wobbling every time they breeze by.
Lance glides up beside me. “Hold onto me.”
I grab his hand and immediately overbalance. He steadies me with an arm around my waist, his body a solid, reassuring line behind me. Together, we inch our way around the rink, his hands firm on my hips as I tremble and curse under my breath.
“I need a drink,” I tell him when we finally escape the ice. He grins at me like a loon.
“Your wish is my command, ma’am.” He gives a ridiculous bow and offers me his arm.
People are watching, amused. My cheeks burn.
“Lance,” I hiss. “People are staring.”
“Let them,” he shrugs. “Why do you care?”
“Us together,” I mutter. “We’re… unconventional. I don’t like people watching. It makes me feel like a freak show.”
“You’re embarrassed to be seen out with me?” His eyes cloud, voice suddenly serious.
“No, of course not.” My throat tightens. “I’m very aware of how much older I look than you. That’s all. I hate the idea of people whispering behind our backs.”
He doesn’t answer. “Let’s go get that drink,” is all he says, taking my hand and weaving us through the crowds. His mood drops, but he doesn’t touch the age thing again. He doesn’t want to go there.
The Edinburgh Christmas market sprawls around the rink, twinkling with fairy lights. Rows of wooden huts, holly draped along their roofs, sell everything from glass baubles to socks. Carols float over the loudspeakers. People stagger past us with armfuls of junk and massive grins.
We buy hot chocolates and find a bench, watching families bustle by, cheeks pink, hands full, eyes bright. Joy is everywhere. It’s impossible not to feel it.
I pray we can get past my stupid comment. Just enjoy the time we have left together. Having faced so much abuse and death over the years, it makes time spent feel precious. It hurts my soul when good times are scarred by poor words. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
***
Preparations for tonight’s street party are well underway.
From our hotel room, we can look straight down onto the main street, where crews are testing lights and sound.
Tonight, thousands of people will pack that space, dancing, drinking, flinging their arms around each other as they bring in a new decade.
I’ve never seen the Edinburgh Street Party in person. Lance swears it’s huge. Televised. Iconic. The line-up is brilliant—pop stars, bands, traditional music. It should be everything I love.
My excitement is bittersweet.
I’m starting the new year with the most amazing man I’ve ever known… and I already know I’m going to have to leave him. The ironic truth is that my happiness will be short lived. That what I’ve been searching for was delivered in the wrong package, one I must return to sender.
At eight o’clock, we head down into the throng. The street is already rammed. We wander, hand in hand, until we find food stalls and tuck into steaming plates of haggis, neeps, and tatties. Considering what’s in it, it’s surprisingly tasty.
Even in my warmest jacket, the cold slices straight through me. My cheeks burn red, lips numb from the icy wind.
A ceilidh band starts up, and the crowd shifts, clearing space. Without warning, Lance grabs my hand and drags me into the forming sets.
“I don’t know what to do,” I yell, but he just laughs. Sweeping me along like he has every time I’ve became unsure of anything since we met.
We stand in two lines facing each other, men on one side, women on the other. Fiddles screech to life, drums pound, and everyone springs into motion. We move forward and back, clap, spin, weave in and out of other couples. It’s chaos, but joyful chaos.
At the end of each round, the top couple reels down the center and back up again, spinning like their lives depend on it. With each turn, we move closer to the top of the set.
After three rounds, it’s our chance.
Lance grabs me, and we jig down the line, spinning and laughing, hands slipping on each other’s coats. People flash by in a blur of tartan and wool and flushed cheeks. The icy, heavy breaths drowned out by the tune. Everyone is laughing. Brilliant white teeth shining from all directions.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers. “This is your ten-minute warning for the countdown to the bells. Please find those you wish to bring in the new year with.”
The music stops. The crowd bunches up again, people finding their people. Lance wraps himself around me from behind, and together, we stare up at the castle, floodlit and magnificent on its rock.
The countdown begins.
“10… 9… 8…”
His arms tighten.
“7… 6… 5…”
My throat goes tight.
“4… 3… 2… 1…”
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The sky explodes. Color bursts above the castle, fireworks cascading down over the rooftops. Gold, red, green—sparks raining in time with the music. People scream, cheer, kiss each other, wishing strangers on either side all the best.
Lance turns me in his arms. I look up into the softest eyes that have ever gazed at me.
He leans down and kisses me, long and sure, like there’s no one else in the world.
“Happy 2020, Katie Clark,” he says against my mouth. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me this year. I’m in love with you. Stay with me. Always. We’re meant to be together.”
Emotion strangles my windpipe. I clutch at his coat, burying my face in his chest as tears spill down my cheeks.
I don’t want to let him go. Ever.
“I love you too,” I whisper into his jacket, voice stolen by the noise, the fireworks and the crowd.
It’s probably best he doesn’t hear me.