Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5) (7 page)

Once she begins breathing hard, swaying her hips for more, I keep her pressed back against the castle wall and bring up one of her legs, hooking it over my shoulder. She grabs the top of my head for stability, her fingers sinking into my hair as I leave soft, wet kisses from the side of her knee all the way up her inner thigh. My lips and tongue tease her mercilessly, one of my favorite things to do.

Her body tenses and relaxes from my touch, and I grab hold of the sides of her hips, hard, as I bring my face between her legs. My lips meet her swollen ones and I tease her clit with the tip of my finger before sliding my tongue along her cleft and plunging it inside her.

Jesus.

So hot, so tight, so wet.

She’s nothing short of a tonic.

Her exquisite, heady taste dances on my tongue, reaching deep inside of me and igniting this primal layer, the caveman at my center. I want to devour her until there’s nothing left. I want to make her scream and squirm and moan into oblivion.

I want to be all there is for her.

She cries out, her fist in my hair hard as she sinks further into me, hips rocking for pressure, for purchase. I give it all, my fingers going in deeper, sliding along the right places, my tongue working her clit overtime until she’s nothing short of a ripe pear, juices running down my chin.

I’m not sure I can ever get enough of her. Of this.

I’m doomed in the most maddening way.

She’s close to coming now and I swear, somewhere in the distance, beyond the crashing waves and the wind, I can hear a woman yelling that the castle is closing early.

It doesn’t matter. Kayla’s already done.

She comes hard into my mouth, her clit pulsing beneath my lips, and I drink her all in, keeping her coming until she moans for me to stop.

I pull my head away and look up at her serene, pleasured face, wiping my lips with the back of my hand.

“You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” I say thickly.

She smiles at me, then her eyes flit over my shoulder and widen.

“Hey, what’s going on in here!” a woman yells and I turn around to see the woman who took our tickets looking at us through the window, face red and sweaty and somehow angered by what she’s just seen.

“Bloody hell,” I cry out as I scamper to my knees and help Kayla yank up her pants. I grab her hand and we start running through the castle, looking for a way out in which we won’t run into her.

We nearly trip over a ledge but then we turn a corner and a doorway opens up to the expanse of green lawn. The two of us run like hell across it, all the way to the walkway and to the car.

We don’t even have time to catch our breath. We get into the car and burn off, leaving the castle in our dust. It isn’t until we get onto the highway that we both start laughing our arses off.

That’s probably the last time we’ll ever be allowed at Dunottar Castle, but dear god, it was worth it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kayla

I can totally understand why people become sex addicts. Or any addicts really. But mainly the sex part. The wonderful endorphins that float through your veins and that warm, smooth feeling of “everything’s going to be all right” that only an orgasm high can bring had lasted from the walk (well, we were running from the woman, let’s be honest) to the car, for the next thirty minutes and all the way through Lachlan’s mini-tour of the city of Aberdeen.

It lasted while I
ooohed
and
ahhhed
over the stone buildings, the uniform look of the city houses and streets, how utterly charming and festive it all looked dressed up in Christmas gear. That feeling of peace was centered inside me. Like all the sharp claws you sometimes feel dragging you down from the inside out had been polished down to shiny nubs.

But the high – that beautiful distraction – only lasts so long. And as Lachlan drives us out of the city and we pull down a long country lane to his grandfather’s house, I’m back to being a neurotic mess and then some. It’s not just that I’ve been extremely nervous about spending Christmas with his family, wondering how they really view me, if they’ll really accept me, particularly the grandpa, it’s having to deal with the crushing blow from earlier.

I think in the back of my head I kind of knew I wouldn’t get the job. I don’t know why but it was always there, this niggling feeling that things wouldn’t work out so easily. After all, I’m here on a visitor’s visa and technically can’t work anyway. But even so, it didn’t stop me from being utterly disappointed and let-down. I just thought that if I got it, it would solidify that I made the right choice to come here. It would mean that I was better off, not only being with the man I love but with a career I’ve always wanted.

Now though, I’m back to feeling those doubts about everything. I know I’ll be okay and in the end I know Lachlan will take care of me, but I just really wanted that as the last resort. But the doubt over my career is still there. I don’t want to just work somewhere to work somewhere. I’ve spent most of my adult life doing that. I want a career. I want to finally be a part of something that I believe in, that I’m good at.

And of course, no one likes to feel rejected. I don’t take it very well. And apparently all the hot castle sex in the world isn’t enough to erase the fact that I, Kayla Moore, just wasn’t good for that newspaper. What happens if this is only the first of many rejections? What if I’m not good enough for any company in this country, regardless if I’m allowed to work here? What if I’m not good enough for this country at all?

“Easy, love,” Lachlan says to me gently as he squeezes my hand, the car coming to a stop in front of a picturesque stone house with a wreath on the door. “You’re going to do fine.”

Whether he means with his family or my career, I don’t know, but I’ll take either one at this point.

I exhale slowly and try and calm down, forcing my brain into a different space. I concentrate on the fact that at least his grandfather lives in a very magical place.

All around the house are sloping fields, covered with a deep layer of snow. In the sunlight it sparkles like insane glitter, nearly burning your eyes as the world around you lights up like the heavens. The house itself looks quite old though it’s very well taken care of, from the glossy finish of the wood door, to the way the window panes shine. Lachlan tells me it’s been in the McGregor family for centuries and it’s the right thing to say because suddenly I’m marveling at how old everything is over here, how much history there is between simple walls, especially when compared to America. Suddenly I feel a flash of gratitude and excitement that I took the chance to come over here.

With the snow crunching beneath our boots, we gather our gifts from the backseat and I cringe at the way I did mine late last night. The best I could, but still a bit crooked and lumpy, with mismatched tape.

Before we can make it to the front door, it swings open and Jessica comes rushing out, throwing on a coat as she comes.

“Let me help you,” she says in her adorable brogue, hands out to take some gifts from Lachlan’s hands but he playfully shoos her away. She comes to me smiling. “Kayla, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says before pulling me into a quick embrace, my nose filling with scents of jasmine and amber.

Jessica is stunning, the type of woman I want to be when I’m her age. Her skin is flawless, her makeup subtle, her sleek grey bob done just so while her all-black pantsuit under the camel coat looks effortless and chic. Even the velvet slippers she seems to have shoved on to come outside look elegant on her.

“Thank you for inviting me over for Christmas,” I tell her, straightening my shoulders and trying to look somewhat respectable. For a horrifying moment I’m afraid that maybe my shirt is unbuttoned or my fly is down or I have pieces of castle dirt and dust in my hair and I wait until I’m following them into the house to check. So far, so good. Though now, of course, I’m blushing at my memories.

In the foyer Donald is waiting, holding a steaming mug and smiling wryly at us. He looks a lot like Brigs, maybe even Bram, and has this very professional, unassuming way about him.

“You made it,” he says to us and though his voice is stern, his eyes behind his glasses are soft. “Thought we’d have to send out a search party.”

“Sorry,” Lachlan says, giving him a hug. I get such a kick out watching this big, hulking, tatted man embrace his prim and proper adopted father. “I wanted to take her to Dunottar Castle.”

“Oooh,” Jessica says, taking my presents from me as I pull off my coat. “What a special place. Must have been very cold though, that wind.”

“Actually it was fine. Even quite hot at times,” Lachlan says casually and I can feel my face going red again. I quickly turn to hang up my coat. Normally I don’t get bashful over innuendos but around his parents is a whole other story.

We make our way into the rest of the house, which is slightly more modern than the outside and bigger than I thought. The floors are carpeted with dense, patterned rugs, ones that maybe Jessica picked out. They seem her style and I have no problems believing she may have had a hand in decorating the place.

There are pastoral paintings of Scottish landscapes on the walls, framed by deep wood and antique side tables crammed with photos. I pause, glancing them over. In one picture I see Brigs in his graduate attire, probably from when he got his masters or PhD. I see a faded photo from the eighties of two young boys in school uniforms, one with golden brown hair, the taller one with dark, cheeky smiles on both of them.

Lachlan nudges me.

“Linden and Bram,” he says.

I smile and decide to take a picture of it later to send to Stephanie and Nicola.

Funnily enough though, I don’t see any pictures of Lachlan, at least not at first glance. I thought perhaps Lachlan was exaggerating about the way his relationship with his grandfather is but maybe not.

We’re ushered into the kitchen, a nice homey room with a low ceiling and a brick backsplash where Jessica hands us mugs of mulled wine with cinnamon stick stirrers.

“No thanks, I’m okay,” Lachlan declines, his shoulders stiffening.

“It’s non-alcoholic,” she says brightly. “From IKEA.” She picks up a bottle of the stuff from beside a simmering pot on the stove and waves it at us.

Lachlan visibly relaxes and takes a sip. Honestly, I’m so jumpy and nervous right now that I’d love to spike mine with something but if Lachlan can handle it, so can I.

“Where’s George?” Lachlan asks.

Jessica nods upstairs. “He says he didn’t sleep well last night. He’s taking a nap.”

I have to admit, I breathe out a sigh of relief at that.

“Come on, let’s go into the drawing room,” Jessica says. “You two must be starving. I spent the last two days baking but only one batch wasn’t complete rubbish.”

We head into the drawing room, which is warm and welcoming with Christmas music, a giant, gorgeous tree, and an ancient-looking stone fireplace complete with stockings and a roaring fire. Lachlan and I settle into a worn leather couch, adorned with throws while Jessica shows off the spread on the coffee table. Christmas cookies that look so unbelievably perfect that I can scarcely believe she made them, mini crustless sandwiches and scones with clotted cream adorn the table, along with a pot of tea and fine china.

“Jessica,” Lachlan says to her. “It’s just us. You really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, it’s all for Brigs,” Donald quips and we laugh.

“When is he coming here?” I ask.

“Not until tomorrow,” Jessica says. “He’s driving up in the afternoon.”

“Well he better get that car of his prepared,” Donald says. “If it snows again, he’s going to be in some trouble.”

“What kind of car is it?” I ask, having never seen Brigs’ car.

“It’s gorgeous is what it is,” Lachlan says to me. “Though far too high maintenance for me. After all, I already have you,” he adds slyly.

I love it when he puts his brooding attitude away and starts to joke. I manage to refrain from smacking his arm. “You jerk.”

“Brigs has had the car forever,” Donald says, adjusting his glasses. “It’s a 1978 Aston Martin.”

“That’s a James Bond car!” I exclaim.

“Yes, well, James wouldn’t drive this one,” Lachlan says. “It’s a V-8 but it runs like a tired old horse. It gets him around and looks pretty but the thing ends up in the shop once a week. He rarely drives it now.”

“Though I do think if his new teaching position falls through, he can always get work as a mechanic at this point,” Donald says.

“So you know now,” Lachlan says to them. “That he’s moving to London.”

Jessica and Donald exchange a look before Jessica says quietly, “He told us the other day. It will be a shame to not have him so close but…he needs this. He really does. He needs to put everything behind him and I just don’t think he can do that until he moves on, even if just to another city.”

Donald nods. “Besides, we love London. We might end up taking the train down every weekend. Poor boy might see us more than he does now.”

Watching them talk about Brigs and all he’s gone through, not to mention everything that Lachlan has had to endure, really hits home that this family has walked through their share of fire. It makes me realize that perhaps the last thing they are judging is me and I shouldn’t be so worked up over it. I think Jessica and Donald are just happy that their two sons are doing so well now, crawling out of the mounds of ashes and into the light. At least, that’s what I’m going to keep reminding myself.