Epilogue
“C’mere, lass.”
Callum’s husky voice made me turn from the fireplace. He held his hand out to me, green eyes a shade darker now, more reminiscent of a lush forest at twilight than fresh-cut grass and sunlight. I slipped my hand into his and let him draw me close to his warmth, cradling the whiskey glass in my free hand to my chest.
“Did ye enjoy yersel tonight?” he asked as we swayed, bodies pressed flush against each other.
I nodded, dropping my eyes to the fire, the only light in the room—Callum’s bedroom, to be specific—and smiled. “I can honestly say it was one of the best nights of my life.”
Hogmanay in Scotland was unparalleled to anything I had experienced before. There was so much happiness, good energy, and well-wishing from complete strangers; I felt safe, loved and content, all wrapped in a bubble of good cheer. It was hard not to be hopeful, not with the jubilant townsfolk heralding in the New Year with song.
We’d held hands and sang Auld Lang Syne, as loud as our voices were able, before the bell chimes signaling midnight sent everyone in separate directions.
“They’re heading off to be first-footers. That or to welcome ‘em,” Callum had explained as we walked to his home.
“But what about your first-footer?” I had frowned, thinking of the checkboxes a first-footer needed: black bun, shortbread, whiskey, salt, coal, and a dark-haired man, all of which we were short on. “Don’t you need gifts and—”
“Dinna fash. Yer the best first-footer I could ask for.” Callum had kissed me, his fingers moving up to squeeze the back of my neck as we stood toe-to-toe oblivious of all the laughing people moving around us like a river. “Yer all the good luck I need.”
It had been hard to argue with his soft words, and before long we were in his home, a tidy rowhouse a block from the press. We’d been having a whiskey together when I’d felt the subtle change in energy. The easy conversation we had been enjoying shifted until I’d felt short of breath each and every time his hand brushed mine or our eyes met.
I’d been collecting myself by the fire when he called me to him, and now here I was trying to control my breathing and not lose my head over being in his arms.
Though, would it be so bad to lose my head over it? I bit my lip and looked back up at him to see him smiling down at me.
“What?” I asked, my voice coming out breathy.
“Just enjoying being here with ye,” he said, and I licked my lips. His eyes tracked the movement.
I wanted to make this man lose his head over me.
I tossed back the contents of my whiskey glass and set it down on the table beside us. Callum arched an eyebrow. “Needing liquid courage, are ye?”
I slipped my arms around his neck. “Kiss me,” I said, my eyes dropping to his mouth. I expected him to have a retort, to say something at my sudden order, but he didn’t. Instead, he did exactly as I asked and he kissed me. Slanting his mouth to mine, he licked the seam of my lips, asking for entrance, a request I granted with a moan. His rough hands moved up my sides until his fingers trailed, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, up my neck to cradle my face as we kissed.
“Callum,” I whispered, pulling at his coat. I pushed back from him to look him in the eye. “You said you were going to take your time with me.”
He nodded, chest rising and falling quicker as his eyes roved over me. “Aye, I did.”
“Is there time enough now?” I asked.
He reached for me. “Aye, there is. Is that what ye want me to do now?”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Yes, god, yes. Please.”
The heat of his touch warmed me through the tartan I still wore over my shoulders. “I cannae deny ye when ye ask so nicely, now can I?”
I shook my head. “No. It wouldn’t be civilized.”
Callum hummed and trailed his fingers down and into the folds of the tartan. “Especially with you wrapped up in my colors like a Christmas present come late.” He undid the pin holding the tartan in place and set it on the table beside us before he unwrapped the tartan from my shoulders with a shake of his head. “Seeing you wearing my colors tonight...I dinna think I’ve ever wanted a woman more.”
“Callum,” I said, my breath hitching when he let one corner of the tartan slide down my shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but with him doing it, I felt my insides go molten.
“Lovely lass,” he whispered, kissing my neck and shoulder. And finally, blessedly so, he set the tartan aside and moved his hands to the zipper at the back of my dress, dragging it down. “I need to feel you,” he said as the dress pooled around my feet.
There was an urgency, a senseless want, that drove my hands in their quest to undress him. But he was reverent in his touch, mapping out the planes of my body as he helped me step out of my shoes, and then lingerie.
At last, his body, all lean muscle and tattooed skin, stood bare to my touch.
