11. Rory
My head drops lower over my second Scotch whisky. My favorite brand wasn’t easy to find in a city that favors microbreweries. It took four bars before I found it, and now I plan on sitting here for the rest of the evening, getting steaming drunk. The only way to ignore thoughts of Freya that have embedded themselves further under my skin than the ink of the Celtic dagger tattoo on my tricep.
It’ll be easier when I’m back home in Edinburgh tomorrow. But knowing she’s in the same city and not here with me hurts.
I really thought we could have been something. But I guess I was wrong.
My phone vibrates against the wooden bar with an incoming message. Angrily, I flip it over to read it. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone. But when I see it’s a text from Freya asking Where are you?, hope blossoms in my chest.
I immediately text back the name of the bar and add, Why?
Maybe we aren’t done?
Pathetically, I continue to stare down at my phone, waiting for her reply. But it never comes. Instead, I get a tap on my slumped shoulder. I recognize the scratch of that nail, and when a waft of her familiar perfume hits me, I spin on the barstool.
“Freya?”
“Is this seat taken?” She points to the empty stool beside me.
“It is now. Would you like a Scotch whisky or a beer?”
“I’ll have what you’re drinking,” she says, sliding onto the stool, the short dress she’s wearing riding up high and giving me a teasing view almost to the top of her thigh. She crosses one leg over the other, her booted foot tapping wildly to a silent beat.
I order her drink, then angle my body toward her. She avoids my gaze, intently watching the bartender pour her Scotch instead.
When the glass is put in front of her, she immediately picks it up and tips it toward mine. “Skal,” she says, the Icelandic word for cheers.
“Slainte Mhath,” I similarly respond in Gaelic. And we both knock back a gulp of the burnished liquid. It burns a familiar path down my throat.
When our glasses are back resting on the bar, I admit, “It’s good to see you.” I’m not sure what’s happening here, but I am happy to see her. I didn’t like the way we left things earlier.
Thankfully, this bar isn’t too busy, and they seem to believe background music belongs in the background so we can hear each other without shouting.
“Rory, I wanted to apologize to you.” The words rush out of her mouth. “I flipped out today after you met my father. It wasn’t your fault that happened, but stupidly, I made it about that. I’ve always been scared of people finding out about my lies. I didn’t—”
The torrent of words stops only when I seal my mouth over hers and swallow them. My tongue slips between her lips to check for more. I don’t want her apology. It’s not needed. I don’t even need any more explanations. It was enough when she told me why she hid her familial links. What I want is just to be with her. Here, having a drink, listening to her lilting voice telling me another fun fact about her city. Or stretched out on that fucking ridiculous waterbed, me holding her, because it doesn’t feel so ridiculous when she’s in it with me.
But first, I need to make something clear. I lean back, my palms remaining against her cheeks. “Freya, I don’t give a fuck who your father is. I just like being with you.”
“Thank you,” she whispers before hopping off her stool and coming to stand between my bent knees. I duck my head to kiss her again, and this time, it’s slow, deep, and full of promise. My hands hold her hips, and she links her fingers behind my neck, caressing the short hair there. The heat rises, and I lift her to sit on my knee. Her arms loop around my shoulders, holding her to me.
A voice clears loudly beside us, and we both look up. The bartender has his arms folded and is looking unimpressed.
Freya says something to him in Icelandic, and he moves away to the other end of the bar to serve another customer.
A chuckle rumbles up from my chest. “What did you say to him?”
She grins. “I told him we were just leaving.”
“Good,” I growl into the shell of her ear, and one shoulder hitches like it tickles. The thought that she might be ticklish is an interesting little fact that’s worth exploring later. There’s so much about Freya I’ve yet to learn, and it’s going to take more than the one night remaining of the weekend. But that’s a good place to start.
We finish our drinks quickly and leave.
Back inside the privacy of my room, I lead her by the hand to stand beside the bed. Our movements aren’t as frenzied as they were last night. Like the kiss earlier, I plan to seduce her slowly. Teasing the pleasure from her body. Freya is a woman to be savored, not rushed. She’s no weekend fling. Not to me anyway.
I place my free hand on her cheek, holding her gaze. When I did the same thing earlier this afternoon by the car, I was searching for the answer to a question. Does she feel this same pull in her heart?
Now, as she leans into my touch, her expression clears, and it’s like the sun has just come out from behind a cloud. The fact that she came to find me tonight tells me everything I need to know. I do mean something to her. My breath stutters out from my lungs, and the tightness in my chest finally releases, allowing me to breathe freely for the first time in hours.
I brush my lips over hers, then trail feather-soft kisses across her jawline to the long, slender column of soft skin at her neck. One of her fingers hooks into the waistband of my jeans, urging me closer.
“I don’t think I can wait. I need to be inside you,” I whisper near her ear, and her linked hand squeezes mine.
“Yes.”
Fuck, I must be the luckiest guy in the world to lose my luggage and then discover that this amazing woman was the one who had it. Maybe there is such a thing as fate.
I bring the hand I’m still holding to my waist. With both of mine free, I trail them down the side of her body and over the sweet curves I discovered last night. The soft mounds of her breasts, her narrow waist gently swelling at her hips, then further down until I reach her toned thighs. Slipping my fingers under the hem of her short black knit dress, I roll it up, peeling away the stretchy fabric inch by inch and revealing her soft creamy skin beneath.
With the fabric pushed up to her hips, I get a first glimpse of her pretty hot-pink-covered treasure. She’s wearing one of those sexy little scraps of lace that tormented me when I saw them in her luggage. I keep rolling her dress up, and it doesn’t surprise me when I find her braless. But I don’t stop until I’ve completely stripped the material off over her head. Seconds later, I’ve removed my T-shirt and sweater.
“How fond of these lace panties are you?” I ask, tugging on the thin band at her hip.
“Rip it,” she demands, and I do. The piece of lace falls at her feet.
Using both hands for speed, I unbuckle and unzip my jeans, dragging them off along with my shoes. We’re both standing naked before each other, her eyes wide, watching and waiting to see what I’m going to do.
I snatch up one of the foil packets still lying on the desk, leftover from last night.
Freya holds her hand out. “I want to do it.”
I love the breathy, needy quality of her request.
She wraps her fingers around my cock, giving it a couple of firm strokes before rolling the condom on. Thank fuck, because I need to be buried deep inside her. But instead of coming closer, she moves to the bed, turns, and flops back onto it. The resulting wave throwing her legs wide in the air.
Laughter splits the silence as she attempts to move further across the bed. I halt her progress, grabbing one foot still clad in a boot.
I tug it off and then the other. “We don’t want a leak,” I warn, and all the while, my gaze is glued to the slice of heaven between her thighs.
She hooks one finger in the air, beckoning me forward. “Are you going to stand there staring? Because I thought you mentioned something about wanting to be inside me.”
“No, I said I need to be inside you.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Her words are released on a series of pleading gasps.
I ease down over her. Her glistening pussy rises up to meet me as I position myself at her entrance. She’s so ready for me, but I still swipe a finger through her channel, coating it liberally with her desire. Another needy moan falls from her lips, and the northern lights in her eyes flare to life when I bring the dripping finger to my lips. I suck it clean, her gaze never wavering.
Sated by her taste, I inch closer. My cock sinks deeper into her soaking folds, filling her like I promised I would. Her hips rise up to meet me as I push down, every inch of me buried in her heat. This woman blows my fucking mind. We find our rhythm, and surprisingly, the waterbed works with it.
“Damn, that feels good,” I growl, pumping into her, bringing us both closer to the edge.
My thumb finds her clit, and I rub her sensitive bud. Slow, gentle circles at first. But as her voice rises, demanding more, I press harder, increasing the friction. She writhes beneath me, setting off a turbulent wave of water.
“Come for me, princess,” I beg, holding on to my own release by a thread.
I pump hard and deep, my balls slapping against her.
“Yessss … Fuck yessss,” she screams her release, her inner walls squeezing against my shaft. It’s impossible to hold on any longer, and I follow her off the cliff.
Drained, I collapse against her, both our bodies coated in a sweaty sheen. She’s a limp, languid hot mess, and I sound like I’ve run a marathon.
And all I want to do is hold her.