Chapter 8 #2
“What are you hiding, Paisley?”
She brushes him off. “It’s a romance novel, Leith. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Then why are you so eager to hide it from me?”
Her lips twitch, and then a giggle bursts forth as if she can’t contain it anymore.
“Welll…” She bites her lip and her eyes quickly flit to Islan.
Islan rolls her eyes and huffs out a breath. “Oh, for the love of God, it’s because the cover model looks like you, brother, but don’t fucking flatter yourself.” She yanks the book out from behind Paisley’s back and shows him.
Oh my. It does look like him. It’s almost uncanny. I look from the book back to Leith, then back again. I think I’m the one that needs to read that one.
Leith rolls his eyes heavenward. “I take back what I say about you two getting jobs,” he mutters. “Perhaps it would be a good thing after all. Cairstina, let’s go.”
“Oh, Cairstina, I’ll drop this off when I’m done later!”
“Have at it,” he mutters.
I can hear Islan talking to Paisley as we go upstairs. “Should’ve seen the two of them text-fighting.”
Is that what we were doing?
We get to the landing, and instead of going up a second flight of stairs, he points down the hall. “This way.”
He opens the door to a room, and I blink in surprise. It’s several rooms, a suite of sorts, and when we enter the room, the first thing I see is piles and piles of boxes and bags.
Are those… for me?
I don’t remember the last time I’ve had something new to wear, or to own.
There’s no way everything in this pile is for me.
Just one person? The Scots are known for being frugal, and my family is no exception.
We use our possessions until they practically fall apart, and nothing ever goes to waste.
My mother prides herself on making food last, and not throwing a thing out until she’s used every drop or scrap.
How could one person own all of these things?
And why would he give them to me if I’m to be a prisoner?
“Bloody hell,” he mutters. “They did what I told them alright, but I won’t easily bring these all upstairs.”
I text him. Would this many things even fit in that little room?
He growls as he reads it. “Not easily.”
I hate that I feel rejected, that he doesn’t want me here, but what more do I expect? I’m not his date. I’m his prisoner. Still, I dislike that he wants to eject me from his private life and sequester me in that room again.
“Well,” he mutters, hands on his hips while he looks at the boxes. “Let’s unpack them and be sure they all fit.”
A little blip of excitement skates through me at that. Will I… try them on in front of him?
When I don’t move, he waves his hand impatiently. “Go on, then. What are you waiting for?”
I hasten to the boxes and bags, and quickly begin to unpack them.
One bag has denim trousers, faded with little rips in the thighs, the trendiest thing I’ve ever touched.
Another has buttery soft leggings, and another a cardigan and jumper.
There are skirts and boots, tops to layer, in dark reds and various shades of pink, navy, and black.
My cheeks heat when I open a pink bag with dainty boxes in it, for when I open the boxes, I remove tiny scraps of silk and lace that I suppose are some sort of knickers, and pretty satin bras that look more expensive than my entire wardrobe at home.
I quickly tuck them back into the bag before he sees, but I swear I see a corner of his lips quirk up.
He leans against an overstuffed chair in his living room, perched on the edge.
“Go on, then,” he says in that husky voice of his. “Try them on.”
I hold the clothes up to him and feel my eyebrows rising.
“Aye,” he says, with an almost smile. “I said try them on.”
I look for a doorway to a bedroom or powder room, but he stops me.
“No, Cairstina. I want you to change right here.”
I place the clothes down on the sofa cushions so I can send him a text.
Excuse me? In front of you?
He reads the text, and his body tightens. A muscle ticks in his jaw as his eyes meet mine. “Oh, aye, lass. Did you miss the part about you belonging to me, now?”
I blink, then blink again.
Excuse me?
He reads the text, and his eyes darken.
He pushes himself off the sofa and stalks over to me. My heartbeat accelerates, but I make myself stay right here, to hold my ground. Have I pushed him too far?
When he reaches me, he laces his fingers at the back of my head, then flexes them around the nape of my neck.
“Did I bring you here as my prisoner?” he asks, but he doesn’t even give me a chance to respond. Weaving his fingers through my hair, he bobs my head up and down so I nod.
“And as my prisoner, are you expected to obey me?”
Again, he forces the nod.
“Good girl.”
My cheeks flame as my body heats from his touch, the masterful way he’s commanding this situation. He leans his mouth to my ear and whispers in a husky voice, “Then strip, lass, before I make you.”
They say curiosity killed the cat, but perhaps it killed Cairstina, too, for I really, really want to know what his making me would look like.
So I don’t obey, even though a part of me craves it.
I want to do something, anything to affect this man, to have some control over him, to break past his hardened exterior.
Something tells me it will be worth getting past that deep wall of anger he wears like a shield.
He hasn’t really hurt me yet, but done a lot of blustering and threatening, and even some of his threats have excited me for reasons I may never know.
A beat passes, then a second, and it seems it finally registers with him that I’ve no intention of doing what he says. He shakes his head slowly from side to side, but a glimmer of excitement lights his eyes.
“Did you say no to me, lass?”
I scowl at him, maintaining my position, and give one firm nod of my head.
He surprises me with what he does next. He buries his face in my hair and tightens his grip, inhaling deeply, as if to fortify himself.
Though his words are threatening, his voice is velveted steel, making my heart beat even faster. “You know what will happen if you disobey me, Cairstina.”
Do I? I don’t, though.
And I want to.
I try to swallow but I can’t, my mouth is dry and I’m somehow frozen in place.
“This is your last chance,” he warns. Does he not want to make me obey him?
But when his body presses up against mine, I feel the length of his erection, and I know. That’s exactly what he wants to do.
Will giving him a reason to punish me somehow satisfy him? Will it ease that crease in his brow, and the tightness that holds him hostage?
“Are you going to do as you’re told, lass?”
I shake my head from side to side.
“Fine, then,” he says, his voice hardening as he drags me over to the sofa. “Then it’s time you learned what happens to wee lasses who don’t obey.”
My legs tremble, but a new feeling altogether overshadows fear.
This is nothing like the paralyzing fear I feel when my brother comes home drunk and I know I’ll feel his wrath.
It’s nothing even like the fear I felt the night in the cemetery, not knowing what they’d do next.
This is a fear that thrills, that sets my heart beating faster and a strange, unfamiliar tingling low, low in my belly.
He sits heavily on the sofa, and though it’s sturdy leather, it sags beneath his weight. Will he tie me up, like he did the day before? Why am I not afraid of being hurt by him? And the better question is, why does my body hum with excitement?
“First,” he says, his accent thickening with the rolling r’s of the north. “I’ll remove this cumbersome clothing you so stubbornly refused to take off yourself.”
I swallow hard, my mouth so dry it feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. I quickly run over my options.
I could push him away, but that might make him angry. And something tells me I’ve only seen the very precipice of his anger, that it runs far deeper than I’ve witnessed. Or worse, still… he could stop.
And I don’t want him to stop.
But when his hands come to my waist and he begins to roll down my leggings, I begin to shake.
The moment’s so intimate, so undeniably erotic, I don’t know how to process what’s happening.
I’m shaking my head from side to side in a futile attempt to stop this, but he doesn’t even notice, he’s so intent on stripping me.
He’s whispering words in Gaelic… something about unwrapping a gift sent from above… that a man like him’s unworthy. And that? That makes me eager. Eager to please him. Eager to watch him. Eager to give him whatever it is he wants from me.
So when he lifts my leg to tug off my leggings, I help him.
I brace myself on his sturdy shoulders and lift my foot, then switch to the other foot so he can finish the job.
He tugs down my knickers next, and quickly divests me of those as well.
In no time at all, I’m standing before him in nothing but a bra.
He reaches for my back and nimbly unfastens the latch, so the silk falls to the pile on the floor like a string of pearls. I’m standing before him naked, but I’m not afraid. I’ve been fully clothed and more terrified than I am now.
I don’t understand why I’m not afraid at first, until I realize how deeply excited I am, how eager I am to see what he’ll do to me.
The threat of punishment and meeting his wrath is nothing like what I’ve experienced before.
And I don’t care why or how I feel this way.
My body is starting to overtake my mind, and logical assessment of the situation quickly flees when I feel his hands on my naked skin.
Yes.
Yes.
More.
He runs his hands from my shoulders, down my back, then palms my naked bottom hard, so it’s painful but sends an erotic pulse to my lower belly.
He squeezes and groans, such a soft sound but I immediately know he’s affected by me, exercising self-control.
He runs his hands lower to my upper thighs, and parts my legs.