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One word is all I can speak. Her eyes, aimed straight at mine, glimmer with an emerald fire that transfixes me.
"You're not a firefighter," she says.
Is she barmy or just fixated on firemen? Makes no difference to me, because this lass entrances me like no other woman I've ever seen. "I didn't realize American women are so specific about what they want."
"As long as you look good without your clothes, you'll do."
No clothes? What sort of party has she come from? I'd prefer a private session involving nudity, but I can be flexible.
"You're direct, aren't you?" I say. "Yes, I've been told I look quite good naked."
"Naked?" Her brows lift, and she glances down at my kilt. "Please tell me you're wearing a G-string under that thing. That's the protocol, isn't it?"
"A G-string protocol?" I can't keep from laughing as I shake my head, confused and enchanted at the same time. "You're adorable, but I'm beginning to think you're off your head."
"Are you calling me crazy?" Before I can respond, she raises a hand to silence me. "Never mind. Come with me."
The bonnie wee bampot turns away, crooking a finger to beckon me to follow.
How can I refuse her? This girl is a mystery, a sexy one, and I plan on examining every clue she offers me. All night. Naked. In a back room of this club if necessary. I need to have her, one way or another.
"Ah, lass," I purr, "I'll follow ye anywhere, even if ye are a bampot."
"Whatever, just hurry up."
She leads me toward the double doors. I drink in the view of her round little erse shimmying with every swing of her full hips. Dear God, but she has curves in all the right places. The sort of curves that make a man want to explore every one of them with his hands, his mouth, and aye, his cock sunk into her sweet flesh.
The woman I intend to marry glances over her shoulder at me.
I hit her with my signature smile, a slow and sensual expression that leaves no doubts about my desire for her. "After the party, may I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink. Not morally opposed or anything, but I've never tasted an alcoholic beverage I liked."
"Water is a drink, you know." I would offer her a glass of mud-puddle water if it keeps her close by, but instead, I peer down the hallway past her. "Where are we headed?"
"The party, of course." She scrunches her eyebrows in the sweetest way, then waves for me to pick up speed as she does the same. "Come on, they're waiting."
"They?" Although she had mentioned a party, I still have no bloody idea what I'm walking into, but I'd meant it when I said I'll follow her anywhere. Especially if I get to admire that beautiful erse along the way.
"It's a party," she says, sounding a bit peeved. "Just come along, will you?"
"Aye." As we push through the swinging doors, I move up alongside her. Gazing down at her smooth shoulder, I can't resist gliding a hand up her arm. The silken feel of her skin makes the desire flickering inside me flare into a bonfire. "I'm yours to command."
"Um…" She stumbles to a halt, sweeping her gaze over me. Her breathing has grown heavier, and she loosely bites her lower lip. Clearing her throat, she shakes my hand off. "Where were you, anyway? I've been looking everywhere."
She'd been looking for me? Well, I've been searching for a woman like her all my adult life. Does she feel the same attraction I do?
Please, merciful heaven, make it true.
"Have ye, then?" I ask.
"Yes." She seizes my arm, hesitating for the briefest moment. Her eyes flare wide like she's surprised, or maybe aroused, by my biceps. Then she tugs my arm. "Get a move on."
"Lead on, lass. Lead on."
She hauls me straight to a room inside which women's voices laugh and shout. My future wife releases my arm and hesitates with her hand on the knob. "I hope they're not too disappointed you aren't a firefighter."
"Is it really that important to every American woman?" Lachlan hadn't mentioned this trait of American lasses. Had Erica been so specific? Do women in this country make lists of the exact qualities they want in a man, including desirable professions?
