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Fuck. A drop of my whisky had trickled down her bare thigh.
I growled, rolling the liquor around my glass. I sipped the malt and then, coughed. It was simply awful; dank and musty, like liquid mouldy socks.
She let her napkin drop and waved to the tumbler in my hand.
“Told you so.”
I gaped at the drink. This was definitely not ours. George had switched bottles somehow. My five-year-old single malt, a recipe I’d crafted myself, with a new combination of ingredients, had tasted nothing less than glorious from the barrel; smooth with overtures of smoke and oak, hints of vanilla, dried apricot and spice.
I tried it again and winced.
“If you think this is good whisky,” she chuckled, standing up. “Maybe you should stick to Moscato tonight.”
Well, ouch.
More patrons surged through the crowd behind her, knocking her stool into her legs. She stumbled, both hands bracing against me. I pressed myself against her palms, wanting to feel as much of her touch as possible.
“Who are ye?” I rasped.
Her eyelashes fluttered as her fingers flexed against me. I felt branded from the heat of her hand.
“I… I should go,” she whispered.
“You could stay. Ye shouldnae be out walking by yourself at night. I’m thinking of your safety here.”
“I’m quite capable of looking after myself. Done it for years.” She stepped back as she pushed her stool away, removing her hand. “Besides, you’re a stranger. Shouldn’t I be afraid of the Beast, too?”
I took a step closer, towering over her, taking my time to look over her face and down her body. I made no attempt to hide my hunger.
Her breathing became more rapid, eyes darkening under my heated gaze.
“Are ye scared of the Beast?” I reached out and trailed my fingers slowly down her bare arm. Her eyes fluttered closed with a sigh.
Christ, her skin was so soft. I wanted hours to explore her body and make her giggle, sigh and moan all night.
Words I’d been memorising this past week burst from me, suddenly finding their muse in this woman.
“‘Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest. Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest. Thine be ilka joy and treasure. Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure.’”
Fuck. I just recited poetry. Whisky-making, investment-planning, ex-rugby-playingme.
“What was that?” Her voice was breathless, as if she had finished a long run. “Did you make it up?”
“I wish. But it’s Robert Burns, the Scottish bard.”
She tilted her head, looking mystified.
“Robert Burns, the most famous poet in Scotland,” I explained. “Those lines were from his poem called ‘Ae Fond Kiss’. I’m reciting it for Burns Night in two weeks.”
“I’ve heard of Burns Night, but not the poem. It sounds like, although he’s saying good-bye, he’d rather be with her, kissing or...”
“Fucking,” I whispered.
Her tongue darted out, licking her red lips.
“Please,” I said, stifling a groan. “Will ye stay tonight for peace, enjoyment, loveandpleasure?”
My heart raced at the idea of never seeing her again.
