“Not a relationship,” I fill in, even though something shifts in my chest when I say that.
He squints at me for a moment. “No. So what do you say?”
“Well, of course I want to go,” I tell him, putting my hand over his, partly to make a point, and partly to stop his nervous fidgeting. It’s almost adorable.
“You don’t think it’s odd? To go off with me?”
Hell, I’d follow you anywhere. But of course I don’t say that.
“It’ll be fun,” I tell him. “So long as we get more than enough time to ourselves.”
“My cousins will have to drag us from our room,” he says, and his expression is still so sincere that I know he means it. He lifts my hand up, flips my palm over, and kisses it, his lips so full, soft. and wet, his gaze never leaving my face. I love that he does that. Not the back of my hand, always the palm, the love lines, where my skin is delicate and my nerves ignite.
After we sit by the water for a bit, watching the cars on the bridge and the reflection of the lights on the silver water of the bay, we head back to the apartment. It’s still relatively early and we fall back into his bed, our bodies finding each other again. His hunger for me just doesn’t seem to abide, and I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill. We fuck and fuck again, every way we can, until it’s after midnight and I know, I know I have to go home.
Somehow I force myself to leave him. I kiss him goodbye as he stands naked in his doorway, not caring at all who might walk past. His eyes are soft, that beautiful peace he gets from sex, as he watches me go down the hall to the elevator. Not smiling, just watching.
Maybe wishing, just as I wish, that we didn’t hear that clock ticking in the back of our minds.
Counting down.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kayla
I am completely obsessed with Lachlan McGregor.
And not in the good way, in the coy, polite, restrained, never giving into my urges kind of way like most proper girls are. Oh no, not me. I’m obsessed in the can’t stop furiously masturbating every moment I get because I can’t get him out of my head way. I can’t stop seeing his hips as they drive and drive and drive into me, I can’t stop feeling his lips on my skin, the way he refers to my cunt in that overly Scottish way, the way he looks at me sometimes like he can’t believe I’m there. I can’t stop picturing his beautiful face, his tattoos, and the parts of him they represent, the parts he locks away and rarely shows. I can’t stop obsessing over every detail of his existence.
Because it makes me happy. It makes me so fucking happy that I think I might be going insane. My heart is permanently swollen, like a red balloon, and the more it pushes at my chest, as if my body, my soul, isn’t big enough to contain it all, the more alive I feel. My head is just this fuzzy, warm, sparkling place, and I’m walking through the moments of the day in a dream. A beautiful dream that doesn’t end.
Before today I could hide my obsession. I kept it inside. But now that he’s gotten inside me, I can’t will it away. It has people in my office asking me if I’m on drugs. It has me smiling, beaming, at strangers on the street. It has me wondering if I should be committed, because feelings like this aren’t normal and aren’t to be trusted, but I feel too good to even care.
Unfortunately, going mental doesn’t mean that I can just forget about my current life. I’m just about to head over to Lachlan’s after work for some hot fucking sex, when my mother calls.
It’s a hammer to the gut.
She’s sounding weak. Tired. Sad. Her voice reaches into my head, my heart, and lets the air out.
As much as I’m addicted to Lachlan, to every single fucking thing about him, I love my mom, and I can’t, won’t, push her aside for a man, no matter how good the sex is, no matter how infatuated I am.
I tell my mom that I’ll come over and make dinner for us. She sounds so relieved that I know I’m doing the right thing.
I text Lachlan to fill him in, hoping he didn’t have anything major planned. Last night, even the appetizers and wine surprised me. The last thing I expected from a big, burly, rugby beast was something romantic.
He answers back with an Okay, no worries.
And for some reason it absolutely breaks my heart. I have such little time left with him. I stare at my phone, thinking, while the rest of the office empties out. I want him to text back and suggest we meet up after. Then I realize he might be waiting for me to say that.
Fuck, I’m not used to this. I didn’t really care about how I came across to all the guys I was seeing and screwing before. If they didn’t seem interested anymore, I moved on lickety-split. But Lachlan is a game-changer.
I suck on my lip and bite the bullet.
I ask him what I really want to ask him.
Want to come with me and meet my mom?
I press send and hold my breath, waiting. He’s going to say no. He’s going to be weirded out. He’s going to gracefully untangle himself from my grip. And me, I’m going to pretend it doesn’t hurt, tell him that we’re different, that there are no rules right now. He’s leaving, and that means we can get away with murder until he goes.
I’d love to.
The text across the screen makes my face split in two.
I tell him I’ll come by to get him in five minutes. Then I have a mini-debate over telling my mom that I’m bringing a man over, the first man she’s ever seen me with since Kyle. I decide to keep it a secret—no use in freaking her out beforehand, especially as she’ll get her hopes up that he’s something more than he is. You know, like permanent.
On the other hand, she’s fairly conservative. She may see all his tattoos and his beard and pass out.
We’ll have to play it by ear.
Soon I’m pulling up to Lachlan’s apartment and he’s striding from the doors to my car. I watch him, my mouth hanging open just a little, totally in awe. He must have gotten changed at the last minute because he’s in black dress pants, a black dress shirt, and his hair is slicked to the side, looking utterly presentable. All his tattoos are even covered.
He opens the door and gets in, giving me a quick glance with bright eyes.
“Hi,” he says, putting on his seatbelt.
“Hi,” I say, rather breathlessly. “You look nice.” And by nice, I mean so handsome I want to cry.
He scratches at the back of his neck and side-eyes me through dark lashes. “Wasn’t going to let a chance to impress your mother go to waste.”
But isn’t it going to waste? Still, I bite my lip, totally thrilled that he made the effort. I would have been thrilled either way, since the fact that he agreed to come is fucking crazy in itself.
I stare at him for a moment and he looks right back at me. I mean, he looks at me in that way only he can, and time just kind of locks down on us. It’s heavy and persistent, and I know I’m wondering if he’s going to kiss me. As if that’s a thing we do now, as if there’s a we.
He leans in and I lean in, and it’s all slow motion from here on out. All over a kiss.
But it’s more than a kiss. Everything seems more when it’s with him.
His lips meet mine, mouth opening, sucking on my lower lip for one wet, hot moment before deepening all the way through. I am so amped up and fileted at the same time, one kiss undoing me before we even have a chance to begin.
Somehow I manage to extract myself and drive, though my lips still burn from where he just was, and I’m tempted to run my fingers across them, to keep the friction going.
He adjusts himself in his seat, legs splayed, trying to fit his body in my small front seat, and I’m reminded of after the rugby game, when we were both wet and muddy and coming back to his place for the first time. That feels like ages ago. Of course, back then he wasn’t trying to play down an obvious erection in his dress pants.