33. Happily Ever Kilted #2
She moves to the railing, looking out over Seattle's twinkling skyline. "It's beautiful up here."
"Yes," I agree, though I'm looking at her rather than the view.
"Callum," she says without turning, "what's really going on? You've been acting strange all evening."
I join her at the railing, gathering courage. "Do you know what today is?"
"Halloween? Or is this a trick question?"
"It's two years since we first met," I say quietly. "At Richard's Halloween party."
She turns to face me. "You’ve been thinking about that?”
"Of course." I take her hand. "I remember everything about that night. You were Persephone. I was Hades. We talked about Greek mythology and data security, and you laughed when I said firewalls were modern Cerberus."
"I can't believe you remember that conversation," she says softly.
"I remember thinking you were the most fascinating woman I'd ever me…And then Richard appeared, and I discovered you were dating my brother, and I spent the next year trying to forget about you."
"Until I became your viral nightmare," she adds wryly.
"My viral awakening," I correct. "The best catastrophe that ever happened to me."
Her eyes soften. "That's quite the reframing."
"I've learned from the best." I take a deep breath, reaching into my sporran for the velvet box that's been burning a hole there all evening. "Karina Peters, you've transformed how I see everything—business, relationships, authenticity, even viral humiliation."
Her eyes widen as she notices the box. "Callum?—"
"Let me finish. Two years ago, I met a woman in a Persephone costume who made me laugh. Three months ago, I fell in love with the real Karina—garden dirt, Armenian curses, fabricated credentials and all. Today, I'm asking that woman to consider a permanent merger."
I open the box, revealing a ring of rose gold set with a cushion-cut emerald surrounded by tiny diamonds. "Not because either of us needs completing, but because I'm better at everything when I'm with you. Even viral fame."
Tears shine in her eyes, but she's smiling—that full, unguarded smile I've come to treasure. "Are you proposing with corporate terminology?"
"Is it working?" I ask, suddenly uncertain.
She laughs, the sound mingling with barely contained emotion. "Yes, of course it is. It's working perfectly."
"So that's a yes?"
"To a permanent merger?" She pretends to consider. "I'll need to review the terms and conditions. What does your grandmother think?"
"She helped design the ring," I admit. "Though I drew the line at her suggestion of incorporating actual Scottish heather."
"And my mother?"
"Has been lighting candles for our union at three different Armenian churches for weeks, according to Dr. Finnegan."
She laughs again, joy spilling over. "Then yes. Absolutely yes."
As I slide the ring onto her finger, the distant sound of cheering reaches us from below.
We look over the railing to see our friends and family gathered on the lower deck, watching our private moment with undisguised delight.
"Were they all in on this?" Karina asks, incredulous.
"Not the proposal timing," I admit. "But they've been dropping increasingly unsubtle hints all evening."
"No wonder Connor kept directing me toward the stairs," she says, shaking her head. "Subtlety is not his strong suit."
We wave to our audience below, acknowledging their celebration, but neither of us moves to rejoin them just yet. Instead, I pull Karina into my arms, savoring this rare moment of semi-privacy.
"So," she murmurs against my lips, "now that you've successfully acquired a fiancée, what's your integration strategy, Mr. Abernathy?"
"Comprehensive and thorough," I promise, kissing her properly.
What begins as celebration quickly deepens into something more urgent.
Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as mine trace the constellations on her dress, finding the edges, the hidden fasteners, the warm skin beneath.
"Wait," she gasps as my mouth finds the sensitive spot below her ear. "We can't—not here?—"
"We absolutely can," I counter, gesturing to the secluded corner of the upper deck, hidden from view by decorative partitions. "I planned for all contingencies."
Her surprised laughter turns to something else entirely as I lift her, carrying her to the sheltered area where cushions and blankets await. "You really did think of everything."
"I tried," I admit, setting her gently among the pillows. "Though I'm finding strategic planning significantly more challenging with you looking at me like that."
"Like what?" she asks innocently, even as her fingers find the fastenings of my kilt.
"Like you're considering very unprofessional activities with your CEO."
"Former CEO. Now we're both directors of separate divisions. Practically equals."
"Practically," I agree, helping her with the surprisingly complex arrangement of buckles and pins.
"I love you," she whispers against my skin. "The controlled CEO and the man who wears a kilt for me."
"You're mine now," I murmur against her throat as I lower her onto the blankets, Seattle glittering around us like the universe itself is holding its breath. "The marketing genius and the woman who makes Armenian curses sound like poetry."
"I was yours before," she whispers back, pulling me down to her.
Our mouths crash together, messy and starving, all the restraint we showed earlier obliterated now.
She's tugging at the fastenings of my kilt with shaking hands, laughing breathlessly when it stubbornly resists.
"Jesus Christ," I growl, stripping it off and tossing it aside. "Next time I'm wearing fucking jeans."
"No," she gasps, pulling me back down by my hair. "Kilt stays. Non-negotiable."
I laugh against her mouth, already reaching for the condom tucked in the sporran.
Because even now, even while I'm burning alive with need for her, I'm not risking anything.
Not with her.
I tear the foil open with my teeth, rolling it on fast while she watches with eyes blown wide and dark, her thighs falling open like an offering.
"You’re so fucking beautiful like this," I rasp, dragging my cock through her slick folds, coating myself in her.
She whines, hips lifting shamelessly for more.
"Please," she breathes. "God, Callum, don't tease?—"
"Patience," I smirk, grinding the head of my cock against her clit, slow and cruel, until she's writhing under me.
"I just said yes to marrying you," she gasps, clawing at my back. "You owe me."
That shatters the last thread of my control.
"You’re right, sweetheart," I growl, fisting my cock at the base. "You said yes. Now I'm going to fuck you like you belong to me."
And then I thrust inside her—deep, thick, stretching her tight heat around me inch by slow, agonizing inch.
We both moan at the contact, clutching at each other like drowning people.
"Fuck," I groan, forehead pressed to hers. "You feel like heaven, Karina. Like fucking home."
She wraps her legs high around my waist, locking me in place, pulling me even deeper.
"Move," she pants against my mouth. "Callum—please—fuck me?—"
I draw back almost all the way, then slam in again, rough enough to make the entire deck shudder.
"Mine," I bite out against her lips.
"Yours," she moans, nails digging deliciously into my shoulders.
And I fuck her like it.
Hard. Deep. Raw.
The slap of skin against skin loud under the stars, the wet sounds of her body taking me inch after inch making me even harder.
Every time I drive into her, she gasps like she's coming apart.
Every thrust punches filthy little sounds out of her mouth—whimpers, sobs, gasps of my name—and I drink them all down like a fucking addict.
"You wanted to find out what I was hiding under that kilt?" I pant into her ear.
"You're feeling it now, sweetheart. Every fucking inch."
"Callum," she sobs, her entire body trembling.
"Tell me you love me," I growl, slamming into her harder, brutal and sweet.
"Tell me you're mine."
"I love you," she cries out, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I'm yours—I'm yours?—"
I catch one of the tears on my tongue, taste the salt of it.
Then I slip a hand between us, find her clit, and rub tight brutal circles against it.
"Come for me, Karina," I rasp. "Come all over my cock. Let everyone on this fucking yacht know you belong to me."
It’s her undoing.
She shatters beneath me with a sob that sounds like my name, her entire body clenching around my cock so hard it nearly drags me over with her.
And fuck, I can’t hold back either.
I slam into her twice more, deep enough to bruise, and then I’m coming, pouring into the condom with a ragged, filthy growl, burying my face in her neck.
For a long time, we just stay there—tangled, trembling, breathing each other in.
Our heartbeats hammer against each other’s ribs, thundering in time.
I pull out carefully, knot the condom, toss it aside, and then gather her into my arms like I’ll never let her go.
Because I won’t.
She’s shaking in my arms, still overwhelmed, but when I tip her chin up, she’s smiling through it all—this wild, wrecked, beautiful smile that feels like it was made just for me.
"I love you," she says again, like she needs me to hear it.
"You’re my whole fucking world," I whisper back, kissing her swollen lips. "And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it."
We curl together under the blanket, her head resting over my heart, Seattle’s skyline blinking below us.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel restless. I don’t feel like there’s somewhere else I’m supposed to be.
I have everything I need right here in my arms.
My woman.
My future.
My home.
In the shelter of blankets and each other, with Seattle's lights spread below us like earthbound stars, we lie together watching the party continue below, our absence apparently unnoticed—or diplomatically ignored—by our guests.
"What do you think the final hashtag will be?" Karina asks.
"Hmm?"
"Once we're married," she clarifies. "What will Alana and the internet decide is our ultimate hashtag?"
I consider this with mock seriousness. "#KiltedHusband? #AuthenticEverAfter? #PermanentMerger?"
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my skin. "#GrapesAndThistles," she suggests. "Armenian pomegranates and Scottish thistles."
"Perfect," I murmur, pulling her closer. "Though I'm not entirely convinced we'll ever escape #KiltedCasanova."
"It does have staying power. Though perhaps Alana will rename your CEO profile to 'Formerly Known As #KiltedCasanova.'"
"I think I prefer my new title," I tell her, lifting her hand to kiss her ring finger.
She grins. “CEO is still your title.”
"I meant 'fiancé. Soon to be upgraded to 'husband.'"
"Much better than 'viral sensation,'" she agrees, settling more comfortably against me. "Though we'll probably always be that too."
"As long as we're together," I say, finding I truly mean it, "the internet can call me whatever it likes."
Below us, the Halloween party continues in full swing.
Somewhere, Fiona is undoubtedly already planning our wedding with Nadine. Connor is probably drafting a best man speech. Alana is almost certainly crafting the perfect engagement announcement hashtag.
But here, in this moment, there's just us.
Authentic, imperfect…and finally exactly where we belong.