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I brush my nose against hers. "Thank you for the key."
"Ditto."
"I'm already planning my surprise for you." I grab a condom from the table. "What have you got in mind for me?"
"Something wicked your way comes."
"A Shakespearean girl, eh?"
Erica wraps her arms around me. I push inside her with deliberate slowness, relishing every sensation and the look on her face. This woman is more than bonnie. When she's aroused and reveling in the pleasure of our love-making, she looks more exquisite and erotic than any work of art. No one has ever made me feel this way, like I could leap off the tallest building in the world and land on my feet, unscathed—all because she wants me.
Aye, Erica Teague means more to me than a fling. I need her to care for me. Why else would I do everything I can think of to make her smile and to show her I'm not a bastard? I need her to feel the way I do whenever I'm with her.
I need her to love me. But I can't risk that again. I won't do it. After what Aisley did to me, I know I can never again give all my trust to anyone.
One more week, and then I'm gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
For the next three days, I avoid Erica as much as possible. My revelation that I have deeper feelings for her than I'd realized has left me raw and edgy. I do not love her. I can't. My wounds go far too deep to ever be healed, not even by the love of a good woman like Erica.
Does she love me? I pray she doesn't, because I will break her heart.
Every evening, I stop by to say good night to Erica. She always invites me to stay, with or without sex, but I decline. Distance from her is what I need, but keeping away makes me even edgier. When she asks me what I'm "up to" all day, alone in my house, I inform her I have important video calls to take care of, via something called Skype, and I don't have the time to entertain her.
She winces when I use the word entertain.
I've hurt her feelings, but I can't help that.
Twice, my mobile rings with the caller ID announcing it's Aisley ringing me. I don't answer. Instead, I block her number and delete it from my contacts list.
My video calls are real. I've been consulting with Rory that way, which was his idea. He claims he needs to see me and make sure I haven't become "a recluse who doesn't bathe or bother with clothes anymore." I dress the way I always have, and I shower every morning.
"But you sound grumpier than everyone says I do," Rory tells me on the second day since I started hiding from Erica. "Are you competing for the title of Ogre of Loch Fairbairn?"
"I don't live in Loch Fairbairn, but even if I did, I could never take that title away from you."
"But you are fashed about something, Lachlan."
"Donnae be telling anyone else that. I'm fine."
We say goodbye, though Rory refuses to accept my claim that nothing is fashing me. I can't tell him I've done the one thing I swore never to do again. I've gotten entangled with a woman.
On the third morning, Rory and I have another video call. During every call, I have paced the width of the living room while behaving like the ogre Rory thinks I've become. Maybe I have been acting like a selfishbod ceann, at least where Erica is concerned.
Rory's investigator has been having trouble rooting out the reason for the "clerical error" that's cocked up the divorce proceedings. Rory has repeatedly assured me he will sort the mess. But today, on the third morning of my voluntary incarceration in Gil's house, Rory has news.
But it's not what I want to hear.
"Aisley is taking advantage of the clerical error," Rory says, "to renegotiate the divorce settlement."
"What? She cannae do that."
"Relax, Lachlan. We will sort this, but it might take time."
"Time? I gave her twelve years of my life. That's all she gets."
Rory sighs. "I don't suppose I can convince you to tell me what happened between you and Aisley."
