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As it turns out, I don’t get to do any of these things because Iona takes control of the situation. She climbs onto the bed and straddles me. “Where were we? Oh, aye, I was going to give you a hug.” She places her hands on my chest then rubs her pussy along my length, from base to tip and then back again. She lets out a soft moan.

I shiver. Fuck, I love it when she uses my cock like this, for her own pleasure.

“Is this okay?” she asks, continuing to move against me. “As hugs go, I mean.”

“Er . . . mmm . . . a-aye,” I manage to mumble, sounding like a caveman discovering fire for the first time.

There’s something incredibly hot about lying back, doing nothing, and letting her do all the work. The problem is it turns me on so much that I always get this primitive desire to grab her hips and grind against her—or when I’m inside her, to thrust. In theory, I’m happy for her to take the lead, but my body just won’t allow it—it never does. As the mood takes over me, instincts kick in, and I have to be in charge. Luckily, that’s exactly how Iona likes it.

Already my hands are gripping her curves, pressing her more firmly to me, dictating her movement and her speed—although I’m sensitive not only to my needs but hers too. I want to make her moan again, and when she does, it nearly has me losing control of myself. Despite the layers of clothing between us, I can feel the heat radiating from her, and a dampness too.

“Bloody hell. If we keep this up much longer, I’m going to make a mess in my boxers. Can I put a condom on, push those expensive panties to the side, and fuck you?”

She lets out a soft chuckle then bends over and kisses me. “Of course.”

Later, we lie cuddled up under the covers, both naked, Iona’s lingerie finally discarded. We’ve had sex twice. The first time was fast and frantic—neither of us could hold back after a month apart. Our second session, though, was slower and more deliberate. We savoured every touch and sensation.

I reckon we’ve got one more round in us, maybe two, but for now I’m resting my head against Iona’s warm breasts, using them as a pillow while she runs her fingers through my hair. I don’t think there’s anything more relaxing than snuggling up like this after we’ve both come.

By the sounds of it, outside the weather has got even worse—rain batters my window—but in here I’m snug and content with Iona. It’s as though we’re in our own private world.

Until, that is, a flicker of light catches my eye. At first it’s faint through the curtains, barely noticeable. But soon enough it becomes persistent and intrusive, flashes of blue breaking through our sanctuary. I lift my head and squint against the brightness.

“What is that?” I say, as much to myself as to Iona.

“I’m not sure,” she murmurs. “Maybe you should check?”

“Aye.”

Reluctantly I pry myself from her warmth and climb out of bed, the cool air nipping at my bare skin. As Iona props herself up on one elbow, I pad over to the curtains and open them a crack, just enough to peek through.

Down on the street, a police car is parked outside the hotel, its blue lights pulsing rhythmically, illuminating the pelting rain.

The shiver that courses through me has nothing to do with the cold. Something is wrong. There’s no other reason the police would show up on a night like this.

What’s happened?

CHAPTER TWENTY

LEWIS

Now

I woke early after a restless night and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I’m already down in the kitchen preparing for breakfast, cutting fruit for the continental selection and chopping mushrooms and tomatoes for the hot options. Elspeth may be the head chef for dinners and lunches, but I’m the breakfast chef and have been for years—it’s a role I started long before becoming hotel manager. Getting up early has never bothered me. For some reason I enjoy setting things up while everyone else in the building is still asleep.

It’s been two days since Richard dropped by to ask me what the deal is between me and Iona. I haven’t seen her since the Pheasant, when I stupidly admitted I’d never get over her. That’s not what kept me awake last night, though.

Jamie traipses into the kitchen, yawning, also up earlier than usual.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” I say.

“Nah. But don’t worry, when the guests come down, I’ll plaster on a smile and pretend everything is sunshine and roses.” He rubs his eyes then pours himself a cup of the coffee I prepared earlier. “She’d have been fifty-nine today.”

I let out a small sigh. “I know.”

The last time I saw Maw, I was literally shoving her out of my room. She’d been so looking forward to gabbing with Elspeth about me and Iona, but . . . she never got the chance. The car she, Da, and Jamie were travelling in came off the road and crashed into a tree. Maw died. Da too. Jamie, in the back, survived, although his injuries dashed any hopes of him ever playing rugby professionally. He doesn’t even watch the sport now. I reckon he finds it too painful—maybe because it was how he and Da bonded.

Me, though? I was fine. Because I faked an illness that night.