Chapter Eighteen
In which there’s nothing better than a cozy Scottish morning.
Scarlett…
Oh, this is so nice.
Murder Mittens is snuggling me, but she’s grown into an enormous creature because I’m curled up against her and she’s enveloping me like a glorious, furry blanket.
That’s… not fur.
My head is resting on Wallace’s sculpted pectorals; his crisp mat of chest hair is tickling my cheek. It takes me much longer than is proper to appreciate how his broad chest swells with each deep breath in sleep.
I don’t know when he unbuttoned his shirt but I’d like to send it a fruit basket for doing the decent thing and falling open because this is a sight I never want to unsee. Forget a six pack. This is an eight pack, abs chiseled enough that I could grate cheese on them.
And tattoos. So many of them. His chest is an explosion, a riot of ink in violent and beautiful shapes.
Roaring across his chest is a lion in vivid detail, mid-flight, as if it’s about to pounce on its prey and tear it apart.
There’s a snarling black wolf on his abdomen - it has the MacTavish green eyes.
I look back to the lion and its vicious gaze is amber, just like Wallace’s.
Interesting. The two sides of his family?
Black roses curl along one bicep, a sickle moon weeping tears into a river on his other arm.
I can just catch the tip of a flame shooting up his neck, the rest of the tattoo must start on his back.
I inch up slightly, wanting to see more, when his eyes abruptly open.
His five o’clock shadow is growing into a proper beard and his full lips curve into a little, knowing grin.
“How long have you been awake?” I say accusingly, dipping my head to wipe the drool marks off my face, trying to regain any semblance of dignity I might have left.
He puts his arm behind his head. “A while. Ye seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
“I was trying to regain my senses,” I say haughtily. “I was overserved last night.”
“Aye,” he agrees. “Ye were past overserved and well on your way to blootered. I’d intended to be a gentleman and give ye the bed, but ye took my hand hostage.”
“I did?”
“Holding me like I was yer wubbie. Did ye have one of those as a bairn?” He’s openly grinning now and his biceps are flexing and the sheet’s covering the lower half of him and wondering what he’s still wearing is very distracting.
Realizing he’s waiting for an answer, I frown. “What’s a wubbie?”
“Ye know, a doll or a blanket or something? My sister Isobel had a ratty pink blanket that she’d barely let loose long enough for Mom to wash it. She patched it half a dozen times and Isobel still keeps it stuffed under her pillow.”
“Oh, I think that’s sweet.”
He rolls over on his side, so close now that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. I’m fully dressed, over-dressed really, thanks to the cousin’s “code.”
But I feel stripped bare.
“Good morning, wife,” he says, glancing briefly at the window. “Actually, more like good afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep in so long.” I feel the familiar tension, muscles tightening, stiff with anxiety.
Get up, you lazy bitch, get moving! Marlena’s voice, harsh and grating.
“Have calm, there’s no rush. The suite is ours as long as ye like.” His grin is slow, suggestive this time. “Especially if ye’d like to stay in bed with me.”
If I leaned in just an inch or two, I could press my lips against his, find out if that blazing hot kiss last night was just a once in a lifetime thing, or if every kiss from this man feels like that.
He’s waiting, I can tell. Holding himself still, though I can feel the coiled tension in his muscles.
“We’ve only known each other for three days,” I whisper.
“Aye.”
“Suddenly we’re married and enormous men are kicking down doors and… do I remember you calling Logan a gerbil-headed spunktrumpet?” I slap my hand over my mouth, laughing uncontrollably.
“While this is true, I invite ye to recall that he called me degenerate corned beef faced syrup-wearing wankstain,” he says, attempting to look stern as I put my face in the pillow and howl with laughter.
“Oh, my god your family is just so extra,” I wheeze. My abdomen is still sore from laughing last night.
“Funny, that,” he says, “it’s what we all call Logan. I’ll have to tell you about the time he was sent in to blow up a rival family’s warehouses and incinerated the wrong buildings.”
“Whose warehouses did he blow up?”
“Ours,” he sighs.
That sets me off into another round of helpless laughter.
Wallace orders brunch and insists on hand-feeding me bites of smoked salmon over little crackers with herbed cream cheese, and croissants with Dundee marmalade. While I was in the bathroom, he’d buttoned up his shirt to answer the door for room service, an action I noted with some regret.
We talk for a while, secure on our feather-filled oasis, lounging in the cashmere blankets and pretending that there’s nothing waiting for us outside this room.
“Ye have a smear there,” he says, holding my chin. “A bit of cream cheese.” He kisses me lightly, his tongue swiping the corner of my mouth. There’s a moment, he stops, hovering over me, lips still lightly pressed against mine. Waiting.
Surging up, I kiss him back, wrapping my arm around his neck and pulling him closer.
That kiss last night was no flash in the pan.
Wallace knows how to use his lips, teeth, and tongue in one perfect, ferocious assault.
He toys with me, soft kisses and harder ones, lips pressed firmly against my teeth as his tongue sucks mine into his mouth.
When a groan rumbles through his chest, vibrating against my skin, it’s as powerful as if he’d thrust his fingers inside me.
My knees part, letting him shove his thick thigh between them, his knee nudging my center and I flush. “So warm, sweet wife. Are ye slick under these heavy joggers you’re wearing?”
Stubble rasps against my skin as he kisses down my neck and I shudder, thighs tightening against his, holding him in place. His hand slides over my ass, big enough to squeeze both cheeks as he pulls me closer.
“I think ye should show me.” His voice is so deep, closer to a rumble and the sound is intensely erotic. He takes my hand, sliding it under the heavy cotton of the sweatpants and then, under the band of my undies. His fingers press over mine on my clit.
A huge groan/sigh/gasp escapes me and he chuckles low, “That’s it. So good for me, aren’t ye? Slide your finger between those slick lips.”
It’s too much, his amber gaze, the warmth of him, the feel of his hand cupping my center while his fingers move mine.
When he pulls my hand out of my undies, an electric shock zings through me when he brings my fingers to his lips.
The wet warmth of his mouth, his tongue licking my fingers?
Sweet Lady Gaga, I could come just from this.
I can feel the cool air on my legs as Wallace yanks his sweatpants off of me. His hand is back on my ass in seconds and he’s pushing his thigh up against me again. “Rub against me, Luaith Bheag, take what ye need. Show me how pretty ye are when ye come.”
The muscles in his thigh are rock hard, as sculpted as the ones on his chest. My clit finds the ridge of one and I press down mindlessly, rubbing back and forth, his hand on my ass moving me and his dark voice in my ear, whispering to me.
“So juicy, ye are. How ye taste, sharp and sweet.” I shudder, bearing down harder on his thigh and his hand squeezes my ass. “I want to see your thighs slick with your come. I’ll lick ye clean and then dirty ye up again. Humping my leg like a greedy wee thing…”
His thigh rises up, his hand pushes me down and I scream into his chest, coming, squeezing him between my legs and he understands, holding me still as I shudder and moan, clit throbbing.
When I collapse in a sweaty heap on his chest, Wallace wraps his long arms around me, encasing me, rocking me slightly.
“Such a good girl.”
Blootered - Scottish slang for extremely drunk