“Dinnae forget becoming a catering server,” I add, bumping his shoulder.
“How could I forget?” He kisses my shoulder again, pulling the neckline of my shirt down. “I love this little constellation of freckles on your shoulder, love, the shape of a crescent moon.”
“I used to connect the freckles with a pen when I was bored, pretending it was a tattoo.”
“This wee crescent moon is as pretty as ye are.” He traces my freckles with the tip of his tongue and the cool night air hits my skin, making me shiver. “You’re waxing, Arabella MacTavish, my little moon. Growing brighter every night.”
I canna say how it happened, but he’s tearing off my borrowed jeans with a clumsy haste that is unlike him, straddling the bike and lifting me over him.
“Hold my cock,” he grins, pulling out a condom from his pocket.
His thumb is circling my clitoris and suddenly, I am desperately, greedily wet for him. I squeeze his shaft, feeling it throb in my grip. His pupils flare as I help him roll the latex down to the piercing at the base of him. He notches himself inside me and my thighs are shaking. “Slide down, Bella. Ride me.” He nips my crescent-shaped freckles and I do, moaning at the stretch of him as he pushes in inch after thick inch.
“Look at ye, my greedy wife,” he growls in my ear, “fecking yourself on my cock, getting yourself off. Be selfish, baby. Take what ye want.” His hands leave my waist for a moment and I barely notice, sliding up and down on him. “That’s right, ye rub that clit against my piercing, it’s yours. Make your wet little cunt come for me.”
I feel the rumble of the bike starting up and I freeze, my feet backwards on the foot pegs. His booted feet are braced on the ground as he squeezes my breasts, then my arse. “Hang on. We’re going for a ride and I’m not stopping until ye come all over me.”
“Logan!”
My shriek is lost in the roar of the engine as he takes off, our helmets knocking against each other as he kisses me. The dirt road is bumpy and it’s doing all the work, bouncing me up and down on him and the seat vibrating against my arse and we’re probably gonna die and it’s hard to care because the only thing in the world is this thick, hot muscle inside me and the engine between our legs and we dinnae make it far before I throw back my head, screaming into the night.
I hear him groan, his cock swelling painfully, impossibly wide and he stops the bike and the jolt pushes him deeper inside me.
The wiring for pleasure and pain in my head get crossed and I dinnae know there could possibly be any more room to fit him as he comes, growling and squeezing my arse and slapping it pink and I come again, maybe more than once but all I know is this reckless, unhinged man inside me, arms wrapped around me, his tongue in my mouth and my name on his lips.
Blathering - Scottish slang for chattering.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In which Arabella meets The Grandparents.
Arabella…
In what I have quickly learned is typical Logan fashion, he saunters into the house a few days later with a dress bag slung over his shoulder and tells me that we’ll be going to the symphony.
“When?”
“Tonight,” he gives me a kiss on my throat, and I yelp, pulling away before he can turn it into a hickey. I’m wise to his ways now.
“I must admit, I dinnae see ye as the patron of the fine arts type,” I say.
“I’m the most high-class bastard you’ve ever known.” He hands me the garment bag and piles a couple of boxes on top of it. “Go make yourself hot as feck. Though with ye, it dinnae take ye much of an effort since you’re always the finest woman in the room. I’ve got a video call with the uncles; I’ll be in the study for a while.”
“Is this because of the Costa Cartel and may they all burn in hell?” Dread curdles my gut. “Or Anselm’s people?”
Logan had told me what he could about his fact-finding trip to the Mediterranean when he returned. The targets he’d been searching for had already disappeared, though he’d rounded up a couple of who he’d called “suppliers.”
“What did ye do with them?” I’d asked.
“I made an example out of them.” His face was expressionless, but there was something glowing in his hazel eyes that reminded me a lot of what I’d seen in his Uncle Lachlan’s. Something feral.
Now though, he’s giving me his rakish pirate grin. “The Costas. We have a few ideas. We’re setting up a few surprises that Big Daddy Costa isn’t gonna enjoy.”
“I admire your seamless ability to juggle two monstrous, murderous criminal groups at the same time.” I’m going for sarcastic and not fearful, but there is a bit of both.
“Trust me lass, we’ve juggled far more arseholes at once. Ye just go get ready.” He kisses me and strolls down the hallway, whistling.
We’re supposed to be at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall in less than an hour, and I’m compulsively smoothing down the front of my dress, over and over, certain that I look stupid and terrible and that this is a bad idea.
