The welcome smell of bacon greets me as I head back downstairs, freshly showered and in a pair of blue joggers and a t-shirt, worn soft from a hundred washings. Sophie’s darting like a butterfly between the stove and the counter, piling a plate high with the promised pancakes.
“You look much more relaxed,” she says approvingly, putting the plate down in front of me, along with another covered with strips of crunchy bacon and a pitcher of maple syrup.
“This looks grand, thank ye.” I dig into the pancakes, they’re crisp on the edges and soft in the center, perfect. “Do your culinary skills extend beyond dessert and breakfast, then?”
“Of course,” she says haughtily, sipping her coffee. “Who do you think helped Mom make your family’s meals all these years?” Her shoulders droop, likely recalling that her mother is now on house arrest in the cottage behind my parent’s mansion.
I smile to soften the mood. “Even when we all couldn’t stand the sight of each other, we’d all make it home for your mum’s dinners, they’re that addictive.”
“Couldn’t stand the sight of each other?” She shakes her head. “You’re the tightest family I’ve ever met, extended family, too. All the cousins are as close as brothers and sisters.”
Crunching on a strip of bacon, I push back a surge of unease. My people, I’d trust them with my life. But this avalanche of disasters is making it feel like the enemy is already within the gate.
Who’s betraying the clan?
Sophie’s lounging on her stool, long legs crossed, watching me with that concerned little furrow between her brows. “I get the feeling last night was frustrating,” she volunteers. “I hung out at Arabella’s with Sloan and Maisie. Everyone wanted to wait up for you guys to come home but we gave up around 2am.”
I knew where she’d been, Arabella texted me, asking if it was okay to have Sophie over. “Did ye have a good time, butterfly?”
My bride’s smile is huge, and her beautiful eyes are glinting silver under the warm light of the kitchen. “Yes! I got to hear Arabella and Sloan’s stories of how they met Logan and Ethan.” She’s giggling, trying not to spill her coffee. “No one will ever accuse a MacTavish man of a boring ‘meet-cute,’ that’s for sure.”
Leaning closer, her sugar-cookie scent is wrapping around me and now… I am feckingravenous.
“Did ye get any sleep, butterfly?”
Her eyes widened. “Uh, yes?”
“Good,” I say hoarsely. Sliding my hand through her hair, I pull her to me, finally having what I wanted all night. Sophie, in my arms, my mouth on hers and hearing the little sigh escape her lips before I kiss her again. The feel of her… soft curves fitting with my hard angles perfectly and when her arms hesitantly go around my neck, I scoop her up and head for the stairs.
“The true mishanter of last night,” I murmur between kisses, “was not finishing what we started. I get a taste of ye and nothing more? Unjust, it was.”
Her legs wrap around my waist, and I know she can feel my stonner rubbing against her center as they tighten, her heels digging into my arse.
“I know you’re fond of your lists, little butterfly,” I say hoarsely. “I have quite a lengthy list of items for ye to check off.”
Sophie bursts into a round of giggles and damned if it isn’t charming. “Oh? I’ve never heard it called that before, but…”
With a growl, I throw her on my bed, hard enough to bounce twice and sending the pillows flying.
***
Mishanter - Scottish slang for disaster.
Stonner - Scottish slang for an erection.
Chapter Eighteen
Sophie…
“Your to-do list, butterfly…”
My back barely hits the bed before he's over me, his pupils flared, his eyes narrowed. The Michael I know is gone. This is the beautiful face of a predator.
He runs his nose very softly along the side of my neck and his shoulders relax slightly and I let out a cautious sigh. Now, we're somewhere in between Michael the protector and the predator.
“Number one: raise your arms,” he murmurs, placing a kiss along my jawline, tasting my skin with his tongue. I obey, he pulls my T-shirt off. His rough fingertips are running down the skin between my breasts and he unfastens the clasp of my bra there in seconds. Reverently, he lays each side of the fabric back, exposing me. My hands flutter up like frightened birds for just a moment before he catches them with one hand, holding them over my head.
"No, butterfly. You're too beautiful to hide," he says, before closing his mouth over one nipple, circling it with his tongue, and then the other. My hands jerk when he very lightly nips my skin, but his fingers tighten, holding me where I am. "Do you know where my mobile is?" he says, his gaze returning to mine.
