“How can I not?” I moan, half delirious. There’s another orgasm barreling up my spine and it feels like too much, like something so out of my control that it will pull my soul out of me through my pussy.
And then… A white-hot shock makes me scream in surprise, my fingers digging into his arms. Ethan kisses me. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you baby? He slaps that huge mitt of his against my clitoris again. The burn turns into a tingle and I am seconds away from doing exactly what he wants.
His hand lands on my pussy one more time and it’s like the detonations that day on the roof. Earth-shaking, everything inside me overwhelmed and riding the wave as I explode, biting into his shoulder to keep from screaming again.
“So good,” he groans, “so good for me.” He floods me with heat and the twitch and swelling of him inside me makes another little orgasm shiver over me. “Who knew I could make ya come so hard from slapping your sweet little clit?”
“Not me,” I slur, “and I own one.”
Ethan laughs his spectacular ass off, wrapping his arms around me gently to keep from jolting my ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which Ethan lives up to the MacTavish men's tradition, which is less romantic than one might like and far more irritating.
Ethan…
Two days later…
I’m knotting my tie in the mirror and smiling at the little song Sloan is singing - off-key - and sounding very happy about it. She refused my offer to join her in the tub, which disappointed me, but at least I know she’s contained and safe.
Not safe enough.
My next step will put me back to square one with her, but I have no choice. Pretending there is another option is a waste of time I can’t afford.
“There’s a dress laid out for ya on the bed,” I call into the bathroom. “Let me know if I can help ya get dressed.”
Her laugh is raucous. “The last time you ‘helped’ me get dressed we were naked for the next three hours.”
“I dinna recall ya complaining at the time, lass.”
There’s much splashing, meaning the floor will likely be soaked. For a girl who loves taking a tub so much, Sloan has apparently never been acquainted with a bath mat.
“That’s nice,” she says, sauntering into the bedroom wrapped in a tiny towel and making my dick thicken. “Blame the victim.”
This time, I do laugh. “Would that be before or after ya were riding me like the prize steed at the Grand National Horse Race?”
“I… was not myself,” she says haughtily, “you mesmerized me with your massive dick and seductive eyes.”
“I’m glad I shaved before this conversation,” I say dryly, “or I woulda’ cut my own throat laughing.”
“Don’t rule it out,” she snaps back.
God, I love this woman’s sass.
“Where are we going?”
Sloan’s doing her touristy thing, darting between windows so she can catch all of downtown Edinburgh. When the SUV turns onto a quiet, shaded lane, she watches the apartment buildings and shops disappear to make way for iron gates guarding enormous houses.
A church on the corner soars up over the rest of the lavish homes, the Gothic architecture making it look brooding and stern. A “feck ya, I’m here to stay,” kind of vibe.
The courtyard is in the center of three buildings, a parish school, a community center, and the chapel. I used to be in awe of the place, with all the ancient stained-glass windows and the sense of peace that came from being there. But now my hands are stained with blood, enough to seep into my DNA and make me amonster. If there is a God, the only reason he hasn’t sent down a bolt of lightning to incinerate me for stepping foot in here is that he has a dark sense of humor.
A short, round priest is kneeling at the altar, lighting candles, his lips murmuring in a silent prayer.
“Father Hamilton?”
He looks up, a big smile wreathing his face. It’s a welcome change from the last priest who tended this parish. Father Barclay’s final years were filled with a deep and abiding dislike of the MacTavish Clan.
