His lips twitch, eyes still closed. “Lie better, sweetheart.”
The endearment makes my stomach flip. I immediately yank the sheet up over my face. There is no universe where Patrick’s first fully conscious impression of me includes morning breath and whatever my hair is currently doing.
He rolls towards me, still half-asleep, and that’s when I’m assaulted by a massive, unapologetic erection pressing hard against my hip. Announcing itself like,Good morning, Georgie, cancel your plans and climb aboard.
I try to ignore it. Truly. Then it twitches against me.
Heat rushes through me, pooling low and fast.
Oh God. I’m late.
“I need to get up,” I mumble into my sheet shield. “I promised Fee I’d go to the Fairy Pools this morning.”
Except the Fairy Pools do not contain Patrick McLaren’s cock, which suddenly makes them feel like a very poor use of my time.
One eye cracks open, so blue even half-asleep. “I’ll drive you.”
“What? No—you don’t have to—”
“I said I’ll drive,” he cuts in, rolling onto his back like the matter’s settled. His shoulders stretch, muscles tightening as he moves, and his cock’s still unapologetically there, tenting the fabric. “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”
“Oh.” My heart swoops. I want to giggle into the sheet. “Okay then.”
He wants to spend more time with me.
I beam up at him, fully besotted, not even pretending otherwise. One car ride and I’m mentally carving our initials into a tree. Pathetic.
“Why is there so much fairy-related stuff on the island anyway?” I ask. “Fairy Bridge, Fairy Glen, Fairy Pools. Do Scottish people actually believe in fairies, or is it just excellent marketing?”
“Aye, of course they do.”
“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re being serious because your delivery is impeccable but the content suggests you’re taking the piss.”
“Never say you don’t believe in fairies on Skye. Bad luck.” His mouth curves. “My gran swore fairies kept watch over the island. She used to leave bread and milk out for them.”
My jaw drops. “You’re telling me you’re a billionaire CEO who flies helicopters, manages hotel chains, and also believes infairies?”
“I’m a rational man.” He stretches again, glorious shoulders flexing. “But if Gran said the fairies needed feeding, then they bloody well got fed.”
I snort-laugh into his chest, but the sound dies in my throat.
Because at the tail end of his stretch, his big hand drags casually down over me—over my collarbone, over the swell of my breast. His palm spreads, thumb catching my nipple with a slow, deliberate drag that makes my breath stutter.
Like it’s just another part of the stretch.
My nipple hardens instantly against his palm.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t pretend it’s accidental. He just leaves his hand there like he owns the territory. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to wake up, stretch, and grope me in the process.
I try to laugh, to cut the tension, but it comes out shaky, because behind me, Patrick’s cock is pressing heavy against my ass.
The giggle dies a swift death. The room shifts. The air thickens.
Without a word, he rolls me until my back slots against his chest. One thick arm clamps around my waist, locking me in place. The other drifts lower, palm flat over my stomach, sliding down, down—until his fingers find exactly where I’m throbbing.
I gasp as his thumb circles my clit, slow and deliberate, sending a hot rush straight through me.
Instinct takes over. I push back against him, legs parting under the sheet, my body offering itself up likeYes, please, ruin me.
