The girls all find this hilarious and keep laughing as Michael and the bodyguards herd them back to the lift.
He throws an arm over Catriona’s shoulders, guiding her unsteady steps. “C’mon, ya tragic drunk,” he says, “let’s get ya home.”
The lift doors close, cutting off their calls of “Goodbye!” and “We’re gonna do this again soon!”
When Sloan turns back to the silent apartment, she deflates a bit, but the smile stays on her pretty lips.
“I’m guessing ya enjoyed yourself?”
“I did,” she says, as if a bit surprised by it, “your cousins are so nice! They were very welcoming.”
She looks so pretty in that blue sweater and all I can think about is sucking her nipples through the soft wool and peeling her leggings off and fucking her over the arm of the couch. Slap her arse. Slap her clit. That made her go off like a firecracker the last time.
Feck. Now I’m hard again. It seems to be a perpetual state when I’m around my bride. “Do ya need any painkillers?”
“No, I feel much better,” she says, “though if I ever see another bottle of tequila my internal organs will liquefy and drain out of my pores.”
“Aye, there’s always that bad night that sets you off the liquor responsible for life,” I agree.
“Really? What’s yours?” she asks, settling on the couch with a box of takeaway.
This is a rare moment, she’s comfortable in our space, and she’s asking questions and making conversation like we’re a normal couple. I’m concerned that I like it so much.
“Vodka,” I shudder slightly. “We were celebrating a new alliance with the Turgenev Bratva in St. Petersburg. Twenty-five shots of vodka. Twenty-five. I would have been in better shape the next morning if I’d just drank gasoline instead of the vodka.”
“Why didn’t you stop?” she asks, trying not to laugh.
“No Russian is ever gonna outdrink a Scotsman,” I frown, “it’s just not done.”
“How did the Turgenev guys look the next morning?”
“Like hammered shite,” I smile at the memory.
“Well done. You upheld the honor of the Scots,” she says.
The moment is so light and feels so normal that I dinna want to move. “What’s in the box?”
“These!” she says, holding one up like the mighty sword of truth. “It’s a teacake? We have something similar at home but this is so much better.” She peels off the foil wrapped and bites into the chocolate sphere, moaning happily.
I dinna know it was possible for my cock to get harder, but it’s passing uncomfortable and it’s trying to break through myzipper. I want to kiss her, lick that chocolate smear off her lip. That marshmallow could coat my dick and she could have sex and dessert together.
Her chewing slows. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you have another one of those?”
Her hand presses to her chest. “You like sweets?”
Sitting next to her, I look in the takeaway box. “Who doesn’t? I canna have them often, but no one turns down a Tunnocks.”
“Oh, my god I’m so relieved to hear you say that!” Her cheeks are bulging as she tries to swallow a mouthful of marshmallow and goddamn if that doesn’t make me even harder. My zipper’s rubbing all the skin off my dick at this point. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d consumed a carb in this century.”
“I usually trade off sweets for a glass of whisky,” I admit, taking a big bite.
She’s eyeing my legs, I’m still in a loose pair of gym shorts because Michael and I were working out. “Yeah, you have the crazy Wolverine-like muscle definition.” She flushes and stuffs the rest of the teacake in her mouth like she’d not expected to say that out loud.
We need to talk about her brother. I canna help her unless she tells me what Masters has done. But… the sun is shining through the window, lighting her face, and making her look radiant. She’s smiling shyly as we finish off our Tunnocks.
For right now, I dinna want to push her. My wife needs a normal day, a happy one.
