Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CAT
It’s funny how a man who radiates a certain kind of danger can make you feel so safe.
I lie across Robbie’s chest, my fingers tracing the intricate Celtic knotwork spiralling up his right arm. His heartbeat thuds beneath my cheek, calm and steady—a rhythm I could happily get used to.
I wander my fingertips across his warm skin, now skimming the rugged silhouette of a Highland landscape along his ribs. “What was it you wanted to tell me earlier?” I ask, tracing the peaks and valleys.
“Earlier?” There’s a sleepy heat to his voice.
“You came back to the bathroom when I was washing up. Looked like you had something important to say.”
“Oh.” He yawns, his chest rumbling softly beneath my cheek. “I was just going to ask if I could rip up the carpets tomorrow.”
“Didn’t we already agree on that?”
“Aye. Oh, all right, I just wanted an excuse to keep talking to you.”
Something fizzy and ridiculous bubbles up inside me, and I lift my head to look at him. “I never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of grateful for those fusty old carpets.”
He flashes me a roguish grin then gives a wee shiver when my wandering finger grazes over his nipple ring. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
“Aye, I know. So, tell me, which piercing came first?” I circle the cool little hoop with my fingertip, deliberately brushing his nipple at the same time.
“Eyebrow. Got it when I was sixteen. Nipple at nineteen. The other one at twenty-two.”
I glance down at “the other one”, still a bit in awe of what I experienced. “Did it hurt? Getting that one done, I mean.”
“Did it hurt getting your nose done?”
He taps the little stud at my left nostril. So, naturally, I reach down and give that piercing a gentle tap back. He jolts, just the tiniest bit, like I’ve sent a current through him.
“That isn’t the same,” I say. “A nose and a cock? There’s just no comparison. I didn’t flinch when you prodded my nose. If I had a clit piercing, though... well, we could compare notes then.”
Robbie’s eyes darken. “The mouth on you, McIntyre. You ever stop to think what it does to a man, hearing you talk like that?”
“Oh, I know exactly what it does.” I wink.
There’s a gruff sort of scoff from deep in his chest. “To answer your earlier question, aye, it hurt. Quite a bit, actually.” He shrugs, all casual, as if getting a hole punched through your bits is no big deal. “But once it healed...” His lips curl into something wicked. “Let’s just say sex, which was incredible before, became something else entirely.”
The thought of him using this... personal upgrade on other women has a flare of possessiveness sizzling through me.
“So?” His gaze sharpens with interest, and my jealousy quickly dissipates. “What did you think?”
“I liked it,” I admit. “As in, really liked it. It heightened everything.”
Something primal flashes across Robbie’s face—male satisfaction that he’s given me a first experience. And he has. I’m deliciously sore in the best way, my body still humming with memories of him everywhere.
I nestle my head back against his chest, breathing in the warm, salty-spicy scent of his skin. For some long, blissful moments, neither of us says a word. There’s only our steady breathing and the gentle thump of his heart beneath my ear. Robbie’s fingers slide through my hair in slow, lazy strokes that make me melt even further into him. I want to stay like this all night, tangled up with him, safe and warm and far away from anything or anyone else.
But after a few more minutes of perfect, contented silence, Robbie shifts. With an almost apologetic half-smile, he gently extracts himself from under me.
“It’s getting on,” he says, sitting up and swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. He stands, and with his back to me, I get a good glimpse of the majestic stag tattoo spanning his shoulder blades. The antlers stretch wide, and the detail is exquisite. “I should go.”
I reach for his arm. “Stay for dinner. I owe you a meal for staying late to work on my flat.”
Robbie hesitates, looking over his shoulder at me then towards the door.
“Come on, it’s just pizza. Frozen, but it’ll save you cooking.”
He relents with a small nod. “All right.”
I wrap myself in a dressing gown, and Robbie asks if he can use my shower. Says he’s got some paint-free clothes he can change into afterwards. I fetch him a towel, briefly entertaining the idea of asking to join him, but I dismiss it. Whatever that was between us just now, it was... a lot. We probably both need a breather—ten minutes or so to regroup.
So, instead, I go in after he’s finished, and when I emerge, I feel almost like myself again. Or at least, as much as a woman can after being thoroughly ruined by Robbie MacDonald.
I find him sitting at my tiny kitchen table, in a clean white T-shirt, his hair still damp. He looks hot—ridiculously so—but I preferred him sprawled out naked on my sheets. Actually, scrap that. I preferred him sweaty, paint-smudged, and enthusiastically pounding into me. But this is fine too.
He’s taken out the chicken pizza I put on, cut it up, and served it onto plates. Even raided my fridge and found that sad little bag of rocket and some cherry tomatoes, tossed them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, and made a simple side salad. Got us each a glass of water too.
“Wow, this is great!” I say enthusiastically.
“Hmm. Don’t take this the wrong way, but your fridge is tragic. This was the best I could do. Anyway, tuck in.”
We both do.
“You know,” I say after a few bites, “if we bump into Ally again, I can no longer claim you haven’t laid a finger on me.”
Robbie rolls his eyes but doesn’t reply, just tears into another slice of pizza.
“Speaking of Ally—well, all my brothers, really—can I ask you something? Do you think there’s an expiry date for being seen as the irresponsible wee sister? Or will they still view me that way that even when I’m ninety-two and zipping about on my mobility scooter?”
Robbie’s lips twitch, but there’s something thoughtful in his eyes. He swallows. “I’m probably not the best person to ask. People still see the version of me they remember from years ago, not who I am now. But your brothers’ nagging and fussing? Well... it shows they care, right?”
I’m not quite sure what to say to that. The irony isn’t lost on me—Robbie defending my brothers’ interference when he and Ally spent half their teenage years scrapping like terriers. But he’s got a point. They do care.
We eat some more, then Robbie takes a swig of water, his throat bobbing as he gulps it down. I’m momentarily distracted—not by the muscles working in his neck (although that’s hardly an eyesore)—but by the belladonna tattoo peeking out just above his collarbone. I want to know more about his tattoos.
Leaving my last slice of pizza untouched, I stand, pad around the table, and swing a leg over his lap, settling myself astride him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He leans back, eyebrows rising like he’s not sure whether to laugh or brace himself for impact.
“Take your top off.”
He lets out a low chuckle but obliges, baring all that beautiful artwork for me to admire again. Earlier, I was too blissed out to ask questions, but not now.
“Good lad,” I murmur, staring like the lech I am. “Talk me through each of these.” I trace the raven on his biceps with one finger, following the sweep of its wings and the elegant curve of its beak.
“Well, that’s a raven.”
I swat at him playfully. “I know that. But why did you get it?”
He shrugs. “Thought it suited me. Dark and brooding.”
Well, I can’t argue with that.
“But also, ravens are adaptable. They survive when others don’t.”
“All right. And the broken chain?” My finger follows the tattoo that wraps around his upper chest, lingering on the link that’s broken.
“That one’s about my da.”
I wait, giving him space to elaborate.
“Despite living in the same town and working at the same place, we’ve never... connected. I got that tattoo after a bad argument a few years back.”
“What happened?”
“An issue with a guest, this entitled arsehole who kept making inappropriate comments to the female staff. I told him to back off, and he complained to management. My da called me into his office and tore into me without even asking me for my side of the story.”
Robbie glances down at the chain. “Of course, I wouldn’t have got inked just for that one incident, but... it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
My fingers itch to squeeze his hand, to offer him some kind of comfort, but before I get the chance, his phone buzzes on the table, slicing through the moment.
“Sorry.” He reaches around me to grab it then scans the message that’s come in. His brow furrows. “It’s David.” He turns the phone to show me.
David
Johnny overheard something earlier, and it’s not good news. The police are nearly done with their investigation, and they still think it was you. If you’ve got a trick up your sleeve to clear your name, now is the time to play it!
“We need to do something,” I say, still perched on Robbie’s thighs, though the mood has shifted in a flash from intimate to mission-planning mode. “We need to sort this.”
“Aye, but how?”
I think for a moment. “Earlier, when we were painting, I asked you who you thought Samantha is sleeping with, and you said you had an idea. Who do you suspect?”
“I was thinking it might be Drew Miller. Do you know him?”
“Hmm... I know the name.”
“He stays a wee way outside Bannock, but he works at the resort. You’ve probably seen him around town before.”
Robbie takes a few minutes to fill me in on why he suspects Drew, and afterwards, we agree Robbie should go straight to Drew’s place and speak to him. If Drew is sleeping with Samantha, he might know something about the thefts. He might even have been involved in them, though Robbie hopes not. He claims Drew’s “one of the good guys”.
I offer to go with Robbie, but Robbie reckons Drew will be more likely to talk if it’s just him.
“All right, well...” I give his nipple ring a cheeky tap. “You’d best put your top back on before you go. And come back here afterwards, please. I want to know how things go. Also, I know you’re so much older than me, but if you’ve got the stamina for it, we could always go another round.”
In one swift motion—far too practised, if you ask me—he flips me over so I’m sprawled across his lap, like some saucy damsel on the cover of a historical romance novel. My leggings and knickers are tugged down before I can even pretend to protest.
He delivers a sharp (but not too sharp) skelp to my bare arse. I yelp—more surprised than pained—but laughter is already threatening to burst out of me.
“I’ve warned you several times to watch that mouth of yours, McIntyre.” He slaps my arse again, this time a wee bit harder.
“Ooft!” I wiggle on his lap, trying—and failing—to sound affronted as warmth spreads, well... everywhere. He spanks me once more, the sting blooming across my skin. I bite down on a giggle, loving the way every nerve ending fires at his touch. God, who knew this would be such a turn-on? And if this is my punishment for winding him up, I might just have to misbehave more often.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for days.” His voice is rough with desire. “Still think I’m past it?” He gives one cheek a possessive squeeze.
“Prove you’re not later,” I challenge.
“Oh, I will.”
His fingers sneak between my legs, and I moan.
“I’ll be back soon, and I expect you to be wet and ready for me. Understood?”
I nod, biting my lip because words have deserted me.
He withdraws his fingers, cracks off another spank, and I damn near purr.