3. Lyric
Lyric
A scream rips from my throat, and my hand, still coated in my sweet cream, flies from my panties. The sheets tangle around my legs as I try to leap from the bed, ready to grab the wine bottle and use it as a weapon.
A deep chuckle sounds from the corner of the darkened room, and fear sprints down my spine. “Who the fuck are you?” I shout, fighting with the sheets.
“Ye ken who I am,” he drawls, his accent thick and rolling. I pause.
Um…what the fuck?
“Uh, no. I definitely don’t ken who you are.” Finally, my legs are freed, and I fall to the floor, landing with a hard thud. I groan at the impact, but quickly remember there’s a strange man in my room and force myself to forget about the pain.
Shit falls off the nightstand as I feel around, but I finally find the switch and turn the lamp on. Golden light floods the room, and something hits the wall again.
“How did ye do that? Are ye a witch?” The horror in his voice makes my lips twitch. It shouldn’t be funny. I should still feel terrified, but there’s something about him—his presence—that makes me irrationally comfortable.
Safe, even.
Which is absolutely batshit insane, considering I haven’t even looked at this man. And, you know…he’s a man. So I totally shouldn’t feel safe with him. But…I do.
With a deep breath, I turn around. My jaw hits the floor, and my eyes widen so much, I swear they’re about to roll from my head.
“What the—who the—how the—” I stare at him before dropping my eyes to the book on my bed. “Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. What the fuck? Okay, what the actual fuck?”
“I ask again: are ye a witch?” he asks, sounding totally horrified.
“I mean, no. Not usually. But I guess now I am?” I say absentmindedly.
It takes all the courage I have in my body to turn and look at the giant Highlander currently in the corner of my bedroom.
And when I say giant, I mean giant . Massive. He’s huge.
God, I really hope his size wasn't wasted solely on his height and there's something left to gag on.
Easily six-foot-five, and solid muscle. His chiseled jaw could cut glass, and his bright green orbs seem to glow in the lamp light. And don’t even get me started on the red curls on his head.
Talk about swoon-worthy.
But it’s the kilt wrapped around his waist and the dirty white shirt billowing in the make-believe wind that makes my knees weak.
“I’m Lyric,” I sigh dreamily. “And you’re Ian, right?”
His eyes shift from me to the lamp. “I am,” he says warily. “Lyric?”
I nearly squirt from the way he rolls the R in my name.
It doesn’t dawn on me to ask how he’s real or why he’s here. Truthfully, I don’t even care. All I care about is climbing this Scotsman like a damn tree.
“It’s just a lamp.” His brows twitch together.
“A lamp?” He finally removes himself from the safe corner of the room and staggers forward a step, like a moth to the flame. “That’s no lamp I’ve ever seen.”
I shrug. Considering he’s fictional, he’s never actually seen a lamp.
I freeze at the thought.
He’s fictional . And I’m well aware of that fact—unless he’s some random weirdo who likes cosplaying as book cover models. I guess that could happen, but the chances are slim, right?
I tilt my head to the side, inspecting him. How would I test him to see if he’s him and not some actor?
The word hits me, and I nearly fall back onto my bed. Actor! I swear to God, if Story hired some escort to show me a good time again, I’m going to lose it on her.
After I fuck him, of course. I can’t let her money go to waste.
“Alright,” I sigh. “You don’t have to keep the act up.” I wave my hand at him, ignoring the disappointment flooding me.
It’s ridiculous to wish he were a fictional character—actually, no. It’s certifiably insane to wish for that. But there’s still that feeling of disappointment stabbing a hole in my chest, and I know it’s because he’s a real man and not one written by a woman.
“Act?” He looks utterly confused, which really adds to the whole I’ve come to life from your book thing. And, now that I think about it, he smells like he just walked out of the 1800s, too.
I narrow my eyes. “When were you born?”
He looks even more confused at the change of subject. “April 14, 1829.”
My lips tip down as I think. That is Ian MacTavish’s birthday in the book. But anyone could do a quick Google search to know that.
No, he needs to know the answer to something only the real Ian would know.
I tap my chin as I pace in front of him, my eyes on his. What’s something only he would know? Something so miniscule, so random that it wouldn’t be Google-able.
“What happened to the sword you were sharpening by the brook? The one where the fairies visit during winter.”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“Ha!” I point at him triumphantly. “I knew you were a conman!”
He continues staring at me. Does he look a little pale? Maybe. “It cracked,” he murmurs. “It cracked right down the middle.”
“What did you do with the blade?” I ask, still feeling triumphant.
“I buried it.”
Okay, so he got the answer right. But that doesn’t mean anything. He can still be a psycho who likes breaking into women’s homes and acting like he’s Ian MacTavish.
He certainly has the right look for it. But why doesn’t he just do parties or something? He could probably make a killing.
“How are you here?” I ask, hoping to catch him off guard.
“I dinna know,” he rasps.
“You don’t know?” He shakes his head, his eyes boring into mine. “Do you know where you are?”
He looks around, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time. “This place…it’s?—”
“Modern,” I finish, and he nods absentmindedly.
“I feel like I’ve been here before. It feels familiar.” My head rears back as he looks back at me. The expression on his devastatingly handsome face takes me aback. “ You feel familiar, but I haven’t a clue who you are.”
“I told you, I’m?—”
“Lyric.”
There he goes, rolling that R again. My legs shift together, my throbbing clit begging for attention. If I could just get him out of my room, I could rub one out and find some relief.
His eyes drop to my bare legs, and he inhales sharply. “Where are ye clothes, lass?”
“I’m wearing clothes.” I wave my hand at myself, my oversized shirt hiding any of the goods.
“Ye legs…” He trails off, his voice thick. “They’re bare.”
“Are you really Ian MacTavish?” I ask, hesitating a step forward. He nods, his heated gaze lifting to mine.
“I am.” I lick my dry lips, and he zeroes in on the movement.
I’m probably going to regret this, but right now, my pussy is weeping for this man. I move all the way toward him, my knees shaking with each step.
“Do you want to fuck me?” I whisper, and his brows lift.
“What’s…” He trails off as I grab his massive hand and place it on my waist. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly.
“Fucking?” Reaching for his other hand, I step closer and rest it on my ass. His eyes flutter shut as he takes a deep breath.
My head tips all the way back to look up at him, my head not even reaching his shoulder. “Sex,” I say, and his eyes fly open.
“I—I canna do that. With you.”
Embarrassment floods me. What the fuck am I thinking? I try to take a step back, but his hold tightens.
“Ye not my wife, and ye don’t seem like a whore.” He eyes me again, that same unsure look from earlier.
“I’m not a whore,” I agree, and he nods like he knew that already, but is still wary. “I’m just horny.”