I come until I’m boneless. Until I can’t even open my mouth to speak, much less move. I can’t even think.
There's nothing but me, Tate, and bliss, all wrapped up in a bubble. I come until every drop of pleasure is rent from my very soul. Dramatic, maybe. But it sure feels that way.
"Now, are you going to do what I tell you? "
"I don't know.” I grin. “Maybe you ought to do that one more time just to be sure… ow!”
I squeal when he tweaks one of my nipples. He shakes his head from side to side. “You’re fuckin’ incorrigible.”
“Me? You’re the one who teased me on the edge of orgasm for days.”
“Dramatic much? It was like ten minutes.”
“Days!”
He reaches for a blanket and shakes his head, lifting it up and tucking it in over me.
“We’ve had an exhausting few days.”
“Tate… we don’t have to fuck, you know. I can… well, there are lots of things I can do to take care of you, too, you know.”
His eyes darken, and he sobers, all traces of humor gone. “Trust me, babe. I’m well aware.”
He pushes himself out of bed, and I can’t help but notice his rock-hard erection. “But there will be time for all of that. Get some rest.” He strolls toward the bathroom, glorious and beautiful and utterly masculine wearing nothing but faded trousers and a massive erection. “We’ve got work to do tomorrow.”
He pads off into the bathroom and a few seconds later I hear the shower turn on. I want to stay awake until he comes back for me, but my eyes are so heavy. So, so heavy. The blankets are warm, and it’s cozy in here. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep.
I wake the next day to the scent of coffee and woodsmoke. There’s a fire in the hearth, just a small one. It looks as if it’s dying down. Was I that tired that I never heard him build it?
I look beside me, and he isn't there. There's no sign that he ever spent the night in this bed last night, although I was so exhausted, I probably wouldn't even know. It makes me a little sad that he didn't sleep beside me. I mean, this is his bed after all, and I saw no other beds in here. I can’t imagine it was comfortable with his huge body sleeping on a sofa.
That isn't what makes me sad though. I don't like that there's a distance between us. I don't like that there could be so much more, but that my choices and our statuses are the only things that are keeping us apart.
I yawn, surprisingly well rested, and go over the events of the day before.
I told him everything. I told him I’m the writer, that there's another book coming, and that we're gonna have to get it out of the hands of my publisher. I told him I have spies, and that I have people that I work with, including the mob in Wales and another mob here in Scotland. I don't know what today's going to bring, because I just revealed one hell of a lot of baggage.
I almost bloody forgot about my head injury, until I go to sit up and the room spins. It’s less pronounced than it was before, though.
I’m hungry, achy, and emotionally distraught. I take in a deep breath and square my shoulders and tell myself it's nothing a good strong cup of coffee won't fix. I push myself out of bed, aware of the way that my ass aches from the punishment he gave me. Aware of the fact that I'm still naked, and my arm is stillsore from the accident. I reach my fingers to my head, and wince when I feel a slight bruise.
God. I'm a fucking mess.
I'm not too keen on the idea of walking around stark naked, so I walk over to his dresser. Predictably, the T-shirts are neatly arranged in tight little packets, all folded and smelling slightly of clean laundry and man, a scent I quite enjoy.
I tug a gray tee out and snap it open. AC/DC. I smile to myself. Tate might be a feared mobster, but he’s got decent taste in music anyway. I tug the T-shirt on and start humming Highway to Hell as I head out to meet him. I’m not as lighthearted as I might seem, but sometimes you have to fake it to make it, and AC/DC’s good medicine.
Bailey trots over from the sofa to say hello to me when I walk out of the bedroom. I don't remember Bailey coming home with us, so maybe he trotted down to visit earlier this morning. What time is it, anyway?
I yawn again, so widely my eyes water. Groggy.
I pause before I go much further. From here, I have a vivid view of the snow-capped landscape outside this window, the early morning sun radiant and near-blinding. I spy a bird on a nearby tree and squint. I smile to myself. A crested tit, one of the fearless birds of the Highlands that doesn’t mind the brutal cold. They’re adorable, all gray and black with a little feathery tuft of feathers on top, a little bit of color against white. I can see Bailey’s paw prints leading to the front door.
“Mornin’.”
I look to the kitchen to see Tate smiling at me, a mug of steaming hot coffee in his hand as he leans a hip against the doorframe.
Oh, Lord, I was not prepared for this.
