“He dinnae know about that wee birthmark on your left hipbone.”
“What? How do you know about my birthmark?” She tries to pull away.
“My joggers were slipping down your slim hips on the jet. A pretty mark in the shape of a sickle moon.” My mouth’s getting dry. I can smell her- tart like grapefruit, sweet like vanilla, a little bite of something spicy. Fecking delicious. “Such a bonnie thing, ye are.”
She tries to scoff and laugh, what comes out is more like a snort. If possible, my bride looks even more anxious. “I can’t.” Pulling away, she runs her hands through her thick, glorious hair. The dark color glows in the low light of the lamps, the silver and blonde bits shimmer as her fingers work through her curls, as if she’s self-soothing.
Murder Mittens isn’t here. She needs something to pet.
Suddenly, the desire for the thing that she pets to bemehits like a punch to the face. Her soft skin against mine, fingers running through my hair and stroking the back of my neck.
I’d lose control, though, the need to take herwould be too much. I’d wrap all that hair around my fist, pulling her head back sharply as I bite her neck, feeling the moan vibrate up the thin skin of her throat…
Stepping back, I take a breath, feeling that goddamn flame slyly coil up and down my spine, flickering eagerly, like a snake’s tongue. She’s watching me, her bay blue eyes wide.
Taking a deep breath, I push the blaze back. She’s not ready for me. She wasn’t ready for any of this.
Picking up her hand, I kiss her wedding ring. “I know,Luaith Bheag,Little Cinder.”
“Murder Mittens is home alone.”
Of course, she’d be worried about the damned beast.
“My cousin Sloan already checked in on her to make sure she had enough food,” I say. “She says MM bit her when she tried to pet the wee fiend.”
“Oh, crap. Please tell her I’m sorry. Murder Mittens isn’t very friendly.”
“I’m aware,” I say sourly. I can still feel her vicious claws digging into my chest.
“Maybe I can send Sloan some flowers, or…” Scarlett’s face drops. “What am I thinking? I don’t have any money.” She drops onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands.
Lifting her, I sit down and put her on my lap. “What’s mine is yours, wife.” She relaxes slightly against me and I run my fingers through her hair. It is as silky as I thought, long burgundy curls wrapping around my fingers.
“I don’t want to spend your money.” Her voice is muffled against my chest.
“It’s yours too. Dinnae ye worry.”
Putting my finger under her chin, I lift her head, making her look at me. Having her on my lap is a mistake, a mistake that I’m sure she can feel growing hard against her hip.
“You’re a MacTavish-Taylor now. Ye canna spend a fraction of our wealth, no matter how many cars ye buy. Buy a helicopter. Find an island and I’ll get it for ye. I dinnae care.” Shifting her gently, I get her perfect, round arse away from my stonner. “When ye turn twenty-three, we’ll get your trust returned to ye. By then, I suspect there won’t be any Wicked Stepfamily left to protest it.”
“I’ll pay you back,” she whispers.
With a groan, I stand, lifting her with me and carrying her into the bedroom. She lets out a startled little “meep!” wrapping her arms around my neck. Her fingers slide under the collar of my shirt and I know she can feel it. The bumpy, raised skin of my scars. She dinnae pull her hand away as I expect, her fingertips cautiously, gentlystroke over them.
Putting her down quickly, I hold her arm as she sways. “Take a bath, relax.” I step back, heading for the door. “I’ve got some work to do; I’ll have dinner sent up. Be a good girl and dinnae leave the suite.”
“Wallace, wait.” I turn to see her standing by the lavishly draped four poster bed. “You don’t have to leave, I…”
“Ye need food and sleep,” I manage to keep my tone calm when all I want to do is stalk back over there, bury my fingers in her hair, and kiss her.
Bite her.
Mark her skin.
“We’ll talk in the morning.”
I called in a favor from my cousins Kai and Logan and when they let me know they were in the lobby, I left, jamming my hands in my pockets and walking down the Royal Mile, sideswiping drunk tourists and ignoring the blaring of horns as I cut across the street.
