“You aren’t dressing my dog,” Dair asserted.
Now Blake had put down the bouquet and she was rubbing his girl with both hands. “She and I disagree.”
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
She straightened and demanded, “Show me your house.”
This he did, with Sorcha trotting along with them.
He ordered Blake to leave her carry-on where it was, they wandered around, and he ended the tour up in his attic bedroom with the slanted roof, so he could deposit her bags there. All of them.
His bedroom had a king bed shoved against the short wall. A skylight over it. Hardwood floor. Gray walls. White baseboards. Gray and white thin-striped sheets. Red and white thick-striped euros. And red desk lamps on both nightstands.
“I’m impressed,” Blake told him. “With all of it.”
“I had a designer,” he told her.
“She’s good,” she observed.
“Aye. He is,” he agreed. “Bathroom through there.” He indicated.
She wandered that way.
“Closet next to it,” he shared. “I cleared some drawer and hanging space for ye.”
She stopped peering into the bathroom and looked to him.
Sorcha sat down and leaned against her.
Absently, she scratched his dog’s head.
Oh, aye.
This was going to work.
“We’re domesticating very fast, Dair,” she purred.
“Ye a woman who lives out of suitcase?”
“Absolutely not.”
As he thought.
“So I’m just looking after you.”
She moved his way.
Sorcha moved with her.
She put both her hands on his chest, so he put his to her hips, she leaned into him and said, “You seem to do well with that.”
His voice was rough when he asked, “Do ye want me to feed you or fuck you, darling? Because if you’re hungry, and ye pick fucking, you’re going to have quite a wait.”
Her eyes flashed, but she said, “I’m actually really hungry.”
“Then let’s get some food in ye.”
With that, he, his woman and his dog headed down the stairs.
