“I don’t…I don’t normally do this,” he says, “but if you want to get out of here—”
Images flash in my mind. His mouth. His fingers. His face over mine. Bedsheets in clenched fists and whipped cream.
I need to get out of my head. I need this escape, this break, somethinggoodbefore I have to go through with the rest of this trip.
And I want it withhim.
“I do.”
He releases a puff of air, a sound of relief, and that proof that he wants this, maybe hoped for this, makes me feel slightly tipsy. Giddy.
I pull back and excuse myself to the bathroom, trying to freshen up as best I can. When I return, we both close out our tabs, sneaking glances at each other as we pull out credit cards and sign our checks.
His foot swings back and forth, gently nudging mine.
And he grins, that same cheeky sort of look, when I nudge him back.
When we’re both done paying, he watches me, his expression holding a hint of a question. There’s want there, heat that he’s suppressing, but he’s patient, waiting for me to either change my mind or make the next move.
His eyes flare when I take hold of his fingers and gently tug him off the stool.
All the want on his face rises to the surface now, desperate and raw, and I feel it too, like liquid warmth coursing through me.
“Let’s go,” I say, one hand on my suitcase, one hand in his, not exactly sure where we’re heading, but anxious to get there as soon as we can.
2
His mouth tastes of the beer we both drank.
Dark, slightly bitter, but somehow still sweet. I slip my tongue between his parted lips, wanting more of it, and he groans, the sound vibrating through me.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I say, licking the corner of his mouth, “since you had a drop of your drink at the pub.” I travel lower, placing a kiss under his jaw, scraping my teeth against his throat. “Since I saw you swallow it.”
His hands curl against the curve of my waist, crumpling the fabric of my shirt in his fists.
“And I—” He stops, releasing a harsh sound when I press my open mouth on the other side of his throat, taking his skin between my teeth. “I’ve been thinking about getting you out of these wet clothes since the moment I saw you.”
He tugs at my shirt, and I lift my arms, helping him peel the clingy material off.
The air feels cool against my bare skin, and a shiver creeps acrossmy shoulders, but then his hands are there, rubbing up and down my arms.
“Not even for the normal reasons,” he continues. “Not at first. My first thought when I saw you was,I need to get her warm.I need to take her someplace dry. I need to buy her an umbrella.”
I laugh, my hands finding the buttons at the front of his sweater.
He shakes his head, a grin pulling at his mouth. “I mean, what kind of person travels to Scotland and doesn’t bring an umbrella?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, pushing his cardigan off his shoulders. “What kind of person would voluntarily choose to wear a sweater with elbow patches?”
“Why? Is it a turnoff?” His eyes shine behind his glasses, and he looks so…good. Handsome, yes, but it’s more than that. There’s something about him, about the way he looks at me, that’s guileless. Transparent. Pure and honest and just plain good.
“Not at all,” I say, my voice a bit hoarse, and he kisses me, the curve of his smile pressing into mine.
“Glad to hear it,” he says as his hands trail lower, traveling down the small of my back. “Because the cardigan’s a common occurrence with me, I’m afraid. Occupational hazard.”
“Yeah?” I say as I untuck his shirt from his pants, as he unbuttons the front of my jeans. “What does that mean?”
“Everyone I work with seems to wear one. I’m a—”
