Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) (5 page)

I can only growl in response. I stride over to her, feeling nothing inside me but hot blood and pulsing veins and the deep, deep need to ruin her. I created this gorgeous creature and now I’m going to defile her, revel in my power as creator.

And even deeper than that, I feel nothing but love for this woman who holds me in such regard, who always wants to help, even when I can’t help myself.

I grab her by the waist and force her down to her knees while being careful she’s not about to crunch any Christmas lights. Then I spin around her as she gets on all fours and I push the tinsel away from her arse. I knead her cheeks with my hands, sliding along the chocolate, spreading them and bringing them back together.

Then with one hand around her small, tinsel-covered waist, I unzip my jeans and bring out my cock, hot and pulsing in my hand. I know she’s wet, I can practically smell her, and I press the purple head of my dick into her slickness, pushing in with a tight but easy thrust.

I groan, taking a moment to let the silky, hot feel of her envelope me.

Nothing on earth feels as good as this.

As her.

My Kayla.

My glowing queen.

Mine.

Then, after a long, teasing pause – in and out – I let loose.

The carnal, animalistic side of me takes over.

The side we both love.

I leave claw marks down her back, on her ass, on her thighs.

I spank her.

Defile her.

Call her the dirtiest names.

I pound her so hard that her head bobs from the impact, that the lights shimmer and shake and I feel like I’m fucking a bloody supernova.

It gets messy – hot chocolate and silver tinsel everywhere. It gets hot.

It gets harder, deeper, stronger.

I fuck her like I’ll never see her again, have her again. I fuck her like I’m trying to leave a part of me inside her, one she’ll never lose, no matter how hard she might try.

I fuck her until I’m coming hot and loud, the lights in my eyes, my cum shooting inside her, pumping out every last bit of me and she calls out my name and I call out hers.

We come together, as one, always one.

And when I have nothing left to give, I kiss up the mess of her back, her neck, her cheek as she turns her head and offers it to me. We’re both breathing hard.

We’re both such a mess.

And so bloody meant for each other.

CHAPTER THREE

Kayla

I wake up covered in tinsel.

Like, I know I’m totally naked, but I still resemble the tin man thanks to fragments of the stuff sticking to every inch of me. Shine a spotlight on me, spin me around, and I’m a veritable disco ball.

Jesus. Who knew Christmas could get so kinky? Though I suppose it was my idea for him to decorate me like a Christmas tree.

And my idea had worked, too. I could tell when he came home yesterday from meeting Brigs that he was having a tough go. It totally didn’t help that bringing up Brigs led me into my own downward spiral of sorrow, sadness, and shame. I know I’m adding extra weight on Lachlan when I really don’t want to. I want to be strong, I want to handle everything by myself. I want to make my mother proud, to fight through the grief on my own.

But fuck, it’s hard. Lachlan’s been so patient even though he’s battling his own problems.

So I decided that maybe I needed to distract him more. Hell, let’s be honest here, this is about distracting myself, too. If I’m not grieving my mother and fretting over my move here, I’m worrying about Lachlan or the job I badly want to get (which I should hear about any day now). And while our sex life doesn’t need any improvement, the more we do it, the clearer our heads and hearts get. At least it seems to do that for me.

“Baby?” I call out, easing myself up in bed.

“Yup,” I hear him say from the other room, and I sigh in relief. He pops his head into the bedroom, cup of coffee in hand, and eyes me, biting his lip with a smile.

“We made quite a mess,” he says, coming forward and handing me the cup of coffee. “Here, I just poured it. I’ll make myself another.”

Before I can protest, he’s leaving the room. I take a sip of the coffee then smile down at my silver self. I don’t even have the decency to cover myself up. I’d walk around naked all the time if I could.

When he comes in with another cup for himself, I ask him, “Did you already go boxing?”

“Actually, no,” he says, sitting on the corner of the bed. “Was feeling too lazy. Slept in for a bit and took the dogs for a walk. Was planning on going later. Did you want to come?”

I’ve never seen Lachlan box. I’ve been to rugby practices twice now since coming back, but he usually goes to boxing so early that I’ve never had the opportunity, even though he’s invited me more than a few times.

“I’d love to,” I tell him. “Do I get to fight you?”

He grins. It lights up his whole face, making him look boyish. “If you want. Or you can just watch, though I’m not sure how entertaining it will be for you. It’s basically me sparring with Jake, my trainer, or taking it out on the bag.” His eyes skirt over my body. “Did you want some help in getting that all off?”

“I wouldn’t mind getting a good scrub down,” I admit, straightening my leg and running my toe down the side of his thigh, an attempt at seduction. “Turns out cum and chocolate and tinsel create some kind of super paste.”

“Who would have thought?”

We both finish our coffees in record time and end up in the shower together. I can hear Emily pawing at the door, something she does whenever the both of us are in here.

“You know,” he says as he slides the shower puff down my arms, brow furrowed in concentration. “If you don’t get the newspaper job…” I stiffen and he pauses, looking me in the eye. “I said ‘if.’ If you don’t, you know you always have a job at Ruff Love.”

I sigh, closing my eyes. Ever since I came back to Edinburgh, hoping to find a job, Lachlan has been offering me a position at his animal shelter. And I know, I know it’s stupid that I don’t just accept it. I guess it’s just my stubborn pride that keeps winning out. I don’t want to feel like I owe him anything, and even though the position would be legitimate, it’s a bit weird to have your boyfriend paying your salary.

“I know you don’t want to,” he says softly, “but Amara needs the help. We’re taking in more dogs all the time and we could make such a bigger difference if we had two of you on board. You wouldn’t just be doing admin work, you’d be doing so much more and I know you’d be so good at it.” He pauses, licking his lips as the water runs down his face. “It doesn’t have to be the only job you do. And I’m not offering it to you because I’m in love with you. I’m offering it because I think it would make you happy.”

It’s funny. When I first visited the shelter, I thought there was no way that I could work there. Seeing all those sweet, abandoned dogs day in and day out, knowing that some of them would have to be put down in the end, that they would never find their forever homes, was heartbreaking. But after I went back a few times and really got to know Amara, the girl that runs it for Lachlan, I saw the hope in it all. The difference Lachlan’s love, his organization, was making.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him, as I always tell him. “I just really want to make it on my own, you know?”

“I know.”

The only problem is, I’m trying to make it here by getting into the writing business. I built up a pretty good portfolio back in San Francisco. And I know the jobs aren’t easy to come by, especially when I’m not a resident here, and if anything I’ll end up freelancing. But if I could just get this job writing for the free daily newspaper, 24 Hours, it would not only provide me with something steady and (hopefully) permanent, but I’d feel like I accomplished something. Quitting my job at the Bay Area Weekly was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, though it had to be done. I just don’t want to regress backward.

After I’m sparkling clean without an ounce of cum or tinsel on me, we get dressed and pile into Lachlan’s Range Rover, heading to his gym.

I’ve seen a lot of boxing movies so I thought I knew what to expect. You know, a seedy, dark warehouse-type setting with lots of greasy, angry guys wearing hoodies and punching a speedbag while trainers yell at them and call them names, impromptu matches in the ring that ends up with someone being knocked out, countless taunts and insults. The usual.

But that wasn’t the case here. Yes, it’s in a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, but inside I’m surprised to find it bright and airy. There aren’t many people about, just a couple sparring in one area while another grapples with each other on a wide mat, like a mild version of UFC.

“So this is where the magic happens,” I say to Lachlan.

He grunts something in return while shooting me a humble smile. I know he likes to downplay himself but he’s been boxing for quite a while now and knowing the way he throws himself into something 100 per cent, he’s going to be good.

And he is.

I sit down on a bench while his trainer, Jake, comes out and introduces himself to me. I think I was expecting Ernest Borgnine, you know, fat and old, ready for Rocky, maybe even Nick Nolte. But he’s younger than both of us, very Scottish and surprisingly tanned.

Lachlan talks to him for a moment about things I can’t quite hear or understand and then takes off his shirt, unveiling that taught, toned torso and all those tattoos. He adorns boxing gloves and heads off toward a punching bag in the corner, listening intently to every word his trainer is telling him.

I don’t think I’ve seen a sexier sight than watching Lachlan have a mean, hard go at the punching bag. I mean, I’m not sure how that can even be possible after last night, or maybe life with Lachlan in general, but at the moment it’s true. He’s completely in the zone, that brow of his furrowed in deep concentration as he hits the bag over and over. It’s like nothing else exists for him and he gives every ounce of himself, his muscles taught like strung wires, sweat pouring down his forehead and body. He hits with so much force I can practically feel it shake my bones.

He’s only with his trainer for about 45-minutes, some of it sparring, some of it doing sit-ups and kicks, but it’s more than enough. When he’s done, he grabs a towel and starts wiping his brow, sauntering over to me. His smile, his eyes, everything about him is relaxed, so similar to the way he is after sex.

“You,” I start to say, running my fingers over his shoulders, down his arms, not caring about the sweat one bit. “You were amazing.”

He gives me a dry look. “I was weak today. I’ve been quicker.”

I shake my head. “You have no idea, do you?”

He frowns at me and picks up a bottle of water, quickly screwing off the top before downing it. Nope. He has no idea at all what an amazing man he really is. His ego wouldn’t even let that fact settle in.

Lachlan opts to hit the showers back at home, so we get in his car and are about to drive off when he gets a text from Thierry, his rugby teammate and friend, wanting to go out.

“He wants to go to the Christmas market tonight,” Lachlan says. “But I’m okay with telling him no. We have a lot on our plate.”

I like Thierry, even though I never got a chance to know him that well. He’s French and oh so handsome and charming. But more than that, I like seeing Lachlan around his friends, just as long as we don’t end up hanging out at a pub. I can tell though, that this is why Thierry suggested the market. It’s neutral ground and even if we were there last night, I don’t mind going back. It’s Christmas, after all.

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Really. Maybe this time we can go on the damn Ferris wheel.”

However, when we go to the market later that night to meet Thierry, the line is just as long as before.

“How about ice skating?” Thierry suggests, nodding in the direction of the ice rink which looks equally as packed.

Here’s the thing about ice skating. I hate it. My balance is pretty non-existent, which was one reason why I used to do my fencing lessons back in San Francisco – it helped stabilize me. The one time I made it onto the ice, back when I was in grade school, I spent the whole time on my ass, while my crush, Billy Ga-Ga Green, made fun of me. It was mortifying and I never went skating again. Nor did I talk to Billy ever again.

But I’m not about to tell Lachlan this, even though he’s eying me intently in that way that makes you want to give up all of your secrets.

“Not a fan?” he asks.

I give him and Thierry a tight smile. I don’t want to seem whiney and no fun, especially in front of his friend. “I’m just not very good at it,” I say simply.

“Well I’ll tell you something,” Lachlan says, lowering his voice and leaning in slightly, his breath hot on my cheek, “I’m not very good either.”

“Bullshit. You’re good at everything.”

“No, it’s true,” Thierry says quickly, his Parisian accent making it sound so dramatic. “Believe him. The team had to do a photoshoot with us skating once and Lachlan was terrible. Just terrible.”

Lachlan rolls his eyes. “It didn’t help that you were a figure skater in a past life.”