“I threatened to walk away because o' yer attitude, trying to get ye to be honest with me, but when ye started crying, I called things off. I dinnae mean to hurt ye, lilla du.”
“You didn’t. I thought I ruined everything. I thought you were going to leave me. Because everyone leaves me.”
As if I dinnae feel bad enough, I’d triggered the boy’s fear o’ abandonment.
“Ye’ve ruined nothing, but we need to discuss our dynamic. Flesh out limits and such. I’ve risked us both in not doing so before now. I’ll nae do it any longer.”
Realization dawns on his face at my meaning.
“But…”
“Nae, mo ghille donn. I’ll nae be swayed. Ye and I have got ourselves into a fankle and we’ll hash out a better understanding before we play again.”
“When?”
“When we get off this plane and are safe in Scotland.”
He glances down at his dick, and I chuckle. “Ye’ll live, pojke. As will I.”
“Nooo!” he yells, flopping over on the bed. The look on his face is one I’ll never forget. The outrage is one o’ hilarity.
A smile spreads across my face as laughter bubbles from within. I crawl over him. “The brat is back, I see.”
He stops wailing at the loss immediately. “You won’t leave?”
“The brat wasnae the issue, lilla du. It was ye nae doing as ye were told. I’ve told ye once before, I like a brat. I especially like to whip a brat’s arse.”
“Can we do that?” he asks, his face wreathed in the light o' want and hope.
Laughing at the boy, something I’ve done more o’ since meeting him than I had in all the years since Simon died, I say, “Nae. No playing.”
“What about fucking? Can we do that?”
“That’s playing, ghille.”
Wailing as if I’ve robbed the lad o' all the fun in the world, Tavish flops back on the bed, his hands covering his face. I kiss his forehead and nose, then pull him into my arms, tucking him under my chin.
For hours, we lay in bed talking about everything and nothing, learning everything we can about one another. I tell him about my love o' fishing, about my parents and grandparents. He, in turn, tells me about his mother and Mack, their groundskeeper, whom he loved and who loved him.
“What happened to yer family’s estate?” I ask, curiosity getting the best o' me.
“I don’t know.”
“Ye said that the Order, that Owen only wanted yer dad because they wanted ye. So, was it kept in trust for ye?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the will.”
“Aye, I dinnae think ye’d seen yer mother’s, but what o' ye father’s?”
He shakes his head. The boy has truly lost it all. Robbed o' every bit o' his identity and heritage. I sigh. Instead o' chasing my elusive, most likely dead sister, I should look into Tavish’s family and their history. With the boy being a Buchanan and a Callaghan, he is likely heir to a substantial inheritance.
Nae that he’ll ever need it. I’ll never let him want for anything in his life. Even if he wises up and chucks me out o’ his life, I’ll always be there on the sidelines, cheering him on,watching over him, and making sure he has a life filled with love and happiness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TAVISH
The plane touchesdown in Scotland and I’ve still not gotten dicked down. And let’s be honest here. I always need Draven’s big dick.
