Chapter Thirteen
In which there is conversation and Christmas Dinner.
Mala…
There’s a giant, heavy body lying on top of me and I have no desire to move him, the weight and warmth of him are so comforting. Cormac’s shaft is still inside me, and we’re both panting.
I didn’t know a man could come like that - makemecome like that - and instantly be ready for sex again. He’s thirty. Is this normal? The second time was greedier. He took me soft. Then he took me hard. I pulled on his hair the first time, but he wrapped mine around his fist, pulling my head back to kiss me when he slid into me from behind on the second. He spanked me. He called me more wonderful, filthy things, his bad girl, his filthy princess, hisSionnach beag, little fox.
To my shock, I came even harder the second time. Twice.
Sliding his fingers into my mouth now, he rasps, “Lick your pussy from my fingers.” I blush wildly and do it and he kisses me, his tongue tasting me again.
Pulling out with a groan, he watches my face, and I can’t hide my wince. “Sorry, I should have been more careful. You were a tight fucking fit. Hold still.”
After pulling a quilt up over me, he disappears into the little bathroom, brazenly naked and I admire his perfect, sculpted ass as he walks away. Cormac is from a different time, I swear. With his intimidating height and that sense of barely contained menace, he looks like he should be a pirate, plundering a ship somewhere or one of those burly mountain men who disdain society and wrestle bears.
He’s back after a moment with a warm, wet cloth, spreading my legs again with a stern look as I tried to close them. “Let me take care of you, lass.”
The words hit me like a punch to the heart. When was the last time anyone said that to me? My mother died of cancer when I was only twelve, leaving me with my brothers and unloving father. I manage to hold still as he cleans me with a gentleness that I don’t expect. But when he looks up at me with a smile, my stomach twists. He’s too warm. Too kind and I can’t let my walls crumble. Not yet.
“I have to use the bathroom,” I whisper, trying to smile back as I make my escape from the bed. The door is closed and the water is blasting in the sink before I let myself cry. Tears at home earned me a slap across the face, I learned to hide them a long time ago.
By the time I compose myself and wash my face, the bedroom is empty and Cormac’s plaid robe is laid out on the bed for me. Chuckling, I put it on, rolling the sleeves up so they don’t hang over my hands, and wrapping the robe around me nearly twice to make it fit. I can hear him in the main room, dishes clinking and the wonderful smell of roast beef.
“I could never be a vegetarian,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “I wanted to, back when I volunteered at an animal shelter, but I missed meat too much.”
He offers me a juicy bit of roast, holding the fork to my mouth. “Try this.”
“Omigod,” I groan a little. I didn’t eat all day, too nervous about the party and the roast’s flavor explodes on my tongue, juicy, slightly smoky. Divine.
“The beef is from our farm near Cairngorms National Park,” he says, slicing off another small bite for me before covering the roast. He opens another pot on the old stove where carrots and potatoes are simmering.
“Even for you, this is an enormous amount of food,” I sit down at the farm table as he pours me a glass of wine.
“Fucking you into submission took a lot of energy and I’m starving.” He watches me choke on my first swallow of Shiraz.
“You can get gourmet delivery service from the dining hall at any time,” I manage to cough up the rest of what is a very good wine. “But you went to all this trouble? You must have started this roast before the party.”
“I like to cook,” he shrugs, plating up the roast and vegetables, grilled mushrooms, and a pretty salad that I suspect he threw together just for me since he doesn’t take any. “I prefer to know where my food is coming from.”
“This is amazing, thank you for sharing your… dinner? Midnight snack? Early brunch?” I laugh. He has all my favorites here on the table and the only thing that would make it better is if he took his pants off again. Actually… wincing slightly as I gingerly adjust myself in the chair, maybe I need a little break.
“You have a surprising range of talents for a man who spends his time teaching students how to kill people,” I say. “Do you have any other hobbies not related to murder?”
“I play golf.”
“Really?” For some reason, that is the thing my brain refuses to accept, the vision of this beast of a man in plaid golf shorts, warming up on the green.
“What? Scotland is known for our golf courses.”
I smother my giggle with a bite of potato.
The rest of the food is just as spectacular as the roast, and we eat in comfortable silence as the falling snow tries to stick to the windows. The cottage is really just one big room, the kitchen on one end and a comfortable seating area with a big stone fireplace on the other, the tiny bedroom and bathroom wedged in like an afterthought. I did learn enough about the MacTavishes to know he’s a billionaire, like the rest of his family. But Cormac seems comfortable here, in a cottage far less grand than my own suite.
“I never told anyone about you,” I say abruptly, “not even Willow and Tatiana, who were there with me that night at the Carnival in Southbank. They just knew your first name.”
“Why didn’t you talk about us?” he asks, absently swirling his wine.
