Page 89 of The Tartan Thesis

“It’s no trouble,” Isla says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “My housemates all go out and get absolutely steamed on Burns Night, so we have the whole place to ourselves.”

“And we need to start preparing the haggis,” Thomas says, shaking my hand before pulling Isla away to the kitchen.

“Make yourselves at home,” Isla calls with that same smirk before disappearing around a corner.

I turn back to Torin, who’s still smiling while shaking his head. “Well, they weren’t subtle at all about leaving us alone, were they?”

A laugh bursts out of me. “Not at all.” I step in and give him a hug, the urge to touch him overwhelming my caution about his need for discretion. I just love seeing him like this. So self-assured. So sexy.

His hands linger on my back, and when I meet his gaze, he doesn’t look away, doesn’t scan the room, doesn’t check who might be watching. It’s like he’s forgotten where we are. Or simply doesn’t care. And something in me shifts, my heart warming.

“Shall we?” I ask, gesturing to the rest of the party.

“We shall.” He nods, a glint of mischief in his eye, as his hand slides the rest of the way down my back before he follows me into the crowd of colleagues.

He stays by my side, his hand finding my shoulder when talking about something I’ve said or accomplished, our knuckles brushing together as we mingle. I somehow keep my arm from going around him, to show everyone here that Torin is mine. And that I’m his.

And I am. The more I watch those green eyes sparkle as he enjoys himself with our classmates, the more I feel like I’m falling into them. The confidence in him tonight is drawing people in, but it’s drawing me in more, until I’m lost in it, half undone by how much I want to be the one standing beside him like this every time, at every event, in every room.

Maeve turns on a bagpipe recording of “The Star o’ Robbie Burns” as Isla brings out the haggis, the room breaking into cheers as she makes her way to the large table in the corner of the room.

Setting it down, she welcomes us and leads us in “Address to a Haggis,” a poem written by Robert Burns himself, Thomas sharpening the knife and stabbing the haggis at just the right moment.

Torin comes with me to get food, and we joke as we help each other fill our plates, my mind flashing back to the night I’d first tried haggis, the way his face had flushed when I told him nothing about me was small. That night had been a turning point for me and Torin. With the way he’s looking at me, eyes bright, I hope tonight will be one as well.

By the time we make it through the line, most of the seating has been claimed, so I motion to a large reading chair tucked in the far corner. I move to perch on the arm, fully intending to let Torin take the seat. Only he doesn’t sit. Instead he looks at me, one brow lifting. “What? I can’t sit in your lap again?”

And it does something to me I’m not prepared for. I swallow hard.

“Well,” I say after a beat, “this chair does look sturdier than the last one.” I grin, my entire core warming at the memory. “Let’s give it a shot.”

I sit, shifting back to make space, holding my plate to one side, and Torin doesn’t hesitate to settle that perfect ass onto my thigh. I grip the plate tighter, wonder and excitement and lust pulsing through me. He shifts. Fuck. I drag in a breath as I send up a silent prayer of gratitude that his legs are blocking the view of my expanding bulge. I’m one move away from dragging him closer and not caring if we have an audience. I’ve never been this hot for someone before.

Around us, the room carries on, laughter and music as we eat, but it all fades to a soft blur. A few of our classmates glance over, seeing us cuddled up in the corner, but I don’t mind how they smirk at each other. I’ve needed this. Not just to touch Torin again, but to know he’s interested enough to let our classmates in on whatever’s happening between us.

Torin eats, gesturing as he talks, telling me more about Robert Burns and the various traditions of the evening. His excitement about Scottish history never wanes. I should probably be paying more attention. I try, but my focus keeps slipping. To the curve of his mouth. To the way the light catches his eyes when he looks at me. To his ass in my crotch.

We finish our food and set our plates to the side. I assume he’ll want to get up, put some distance between us now the excuse is gone. But he settles in, leans back against my shoulder, fitting there like he’s decided to stay.

If he’s good with this, then I sure as fuck am, too. I put an arm around his waist and hand him his whisky with the other, then grab my own. We clink glasses and sip at all the appropriate moments during the traditional Burns Night speeches, but I hardly hear what’s said. All I can think about is Torin’s body against mine and how much I want to make him feel good.

The longer he stays, the harder it is to sit still. Every small movement of his only makes it worse, the way he shifts without thinking, or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly what it’s doing to me.

An ache of need grows between my legs, and I hope my patience for casual has a coat because it has gone out the window. I finish my glass and set it down, buying myself a second, then let my hand rest on Torin’s thigh, as if it’s nothing. He sighs and relaxes even more into me. There’s no way he doesn’t feel it, my cock throbbing against him.

We all remain seated in the cluttered space to sing “Auld Lang Syne,” which is good. I don’t think this erection is going away any time soon.

Torin sits up and drains the last of his whisky. “Do you want another drink?” he asks, his gorgeous eyes locking with mine before flicking down to my lips and back up again.

I swallow hard and make up my mind. “Sure,” I say, knowing damn well I’m not having any more alcohol until I take care of something.

Torin subtly adjusts himself before rising, and I miss the feel of him against me already. I sort myself out and follow him toward the kitchen, but as we round the corner, I catch his hand and pull him up the stairs instead.

“Where are we going?” Torin asks, breath uneven, fingers tightening around mine.

“To find a bedroom,” I say, feeling his hand tremble. I squeeze it reassuringly and open the door at the end of the hall, pulling him in before closing it.

I press him against the door, and we stare into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Torin fumbles for the doorknob and engages the lock before pulling me to him. My mouth is on his in an instant, all the restraint of the past few weeks snapping clean. I’m so goddamn hungry for him.