‘Keir,’ I supply. ‘Just Keir.’ She’s thought about it. Thought about me. I wonder if her interest extended tome timemasturbation, too. ‘And truthfully, I’m not sure. All I can say is an attractive woman waved me over.’ I shrug again. ‘I followed my feet.’Or my dick.
‘Your feet, huh?’ With a knowing smile, her gaze turns to the happy couple.
‘You could almost believe in love,’ she says softly. ‘Listening to him sing.’
Her tone is even, but something in her posture belies her words. The way her fingers are almost white around the stem of the glass, and the slight shimmer of moisture in her gaze, one I’m sure isn’t a reaction to watching the newlyweds shuffle around in front of us.
‘What’s his name again?’ I turn and give her my full attention; for the first time in a long while, my interest is piqued.As well as other things.
‘H-his name is Robin Reed.’
‘Aye, I’ve heard this one on the radio. It’s all right, I suppose. A wee bit like soup.’ She coughs a little on her sip of champagne, her blue eyes lifting to mine.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The fella’s music is a bit like soup. You know, the stuff you feed people who are ill. People who can’t handle anything excitable.’
She brings her hand to her mouth to cover an indelicate snort. When was the last time I made a woman laugh? And more to the point, when was the last time a woman’s laughter made me feel like that? Warmed internally. Accompanied by a familiar, though often ignored, tugging in my balls.
‘People love his music,’ she challenges with a cock of her brow.
‘I’m sure some people do,’ I reply like a kid seeking an adult’s attention. ‘Boring people. Soup’s not very exciting, hen,’ I add, mockingly serious.
‘Hen?’ She looks down at her outfit—a fitted midnight blue gown, knotted at one shoulder and leaving the other bare. Her dark hair is worn off her neck in a crown of loose braids. There’s something a littlesexy milkmaidabout the style, the artfully curled loose strands further giving the impression of her having recently enjoyed a roll in the hay.
Imagine that.
And I do.
Right now, I’d fucking join her.
‘That’s right.’ My gaze joins hers, examining her clothing. Her curves. The full heaviness of her breasts that would be a handful in a large man’s hands. Her tiny waist and rounded hips made for holding. I suck in a deep breath of air, shaking my head infinitesimally. Maybe I can blame the whisky for being this barefaced.
‘Or are you going to tell me that being calledhenis too familiar? That I should call you something gender neutral or insist I call youMs?’
Christ on a bike. I sound like a right cock.
‘No, not at all.’ Her words are a cool relief I don’t understand. ‘I’ve just never been called hen before.’
‘It’s Scots,’ I reply. ‘And maybe it’s because I wouldn’t mind rufflin’ your feathers.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Her words are more breath than anything else, her cheeks heating as she fights a smile, giving me her profile again. ‘You can’t say things like that.’
‘Why’s that?’
Her eyes dart sideways, then immediately back again. ‘We’ve only just met.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say. ‘We had coffee together. Talked about anal and saw dick.’
‘You really are the worst,’ she says, giggling.
‘The worst... company?’
‘The worst kind of tease,’ she qualifies.
I send her a knowing smirk, not trusting myself to speak. I can’t reply to her assumption because it would be in a completely different vein. A tease? I’m a fucking tease, all right. The kind who’ll have you on your back for hours, licking and sucking every inch of your skin all while you sob for release. Or at least, I used to be.
With a short sigh, I thank the Lord I’d worn a heavy hunting kilt tonight. Because no Scotsman worth his name wears anything under his kilt. Except maybe lipstick, if he’s had a lucky night.
