I didn’t just want Lachlan’s muscles, his lips, his endless skills beneath the sheets. I wanted him, every part of him. The dark bits that were hidden away and only hinted at by tattoos. I desired all of him, like a dying man desires one more breath.
I’d wanted to bring Lachlan to his knees, and while I could feel him yearning and yielding to me, I was going to my knees first. I had no idea how I was going to pick myself up in three weeks. No idea at all.
“What are you thinking about?” he whispers into the top of my head, his fingers playing with my hair.
That you’re the first for everything, I think to myself. “Nothing,” I say.
“Ah,” he says. “I see.”
“I guess I’m just trying to get my head on straight.”
He squeezes his arm against me. I love it when he does that. I feel absolutely protected.
“If you’re anything like me, it’s going to take you a few days to adjust to the new time zone. I remember when I first traveled abroad to Australia for the Rugby World Cup, I was an absolute wreck. Couldn’t even tie my own laces. No wonder we lost.”
I smile against him, then turn it into a kiss, my lips brushing the side of his chest. “I have a hard time believing you could lose at anything.”
He grunts. “Then I shant ruin the pedestal you’ve placed me on, darling.”
I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat, his rhythmic stroking of my hair. I’m almost falling asleep again, dreams coming at me in dark flashes, wanting to bring me under, when his alarm goes off.
“Can’t we ignore it?” I mutter.
“We can ignore the alarm,” he says. He adjusts himself just as Lionel jumps on the bed, shuffling his way between us. “But we can’t ignore him.”
“I just want to sleep,” I say, seconds before I get a paw to the face.
“Aye,” he says, “but we have a big day.”
My tired brain jogs over the plans we’ve made. Or plans that he has made for me. He has rugby practice at two, and he wanted to bring me to the shelter beforehand and introduce me to the people that work there. I guess he feels bad about leaving me in the apartment with the dogs all day, though I honestly wouldn’t mind. Lionel is just a big suck and Emily is warming up to me more and more.
Plus Lachlan’s apartment is absolutely stunning. I never pegged him as someone who would live in such a gorgeous, airy, historical place, but even after glancing out the front window and gazing at all the other stone houses on the street, it’s obvious everyone here lives somewhat like this. It’s kind of like living in a sexier episode of Downton Abbey.
But Amara, who I met briefly yesterday, seems nice enough, albeit a little quiet, and I know Lachlan wants me to feel important and involved. The last thing I want is for him to worry.
Somehow the two of us manage to remove ourselves from bed. Lionel is running around the living room like a crazed beast, mouth open in a permanent, gummy smile. While Lachlan slips on running shoes, loose black drawstring pants, a white t-shirt, and a baseball cap, to take Lionel and Emily out for a quick walk, I putter around his sparse, elegant kitchen trying to figure out how to make a pot of coffee. I find a cupboard overflowing with stashes of tea, a small bag of coffee, and finally, a French press.
I sigh loudly in relief, putting the kettle on and taking a moment to take it all in. There’s usually so much you can tell about a person judging by where they live, but Lachlan’s apartment doesn’t give me much. He told me he’s been living here for about five years now, but to be honest, it’s not that much different in terms of personal touches than the short-term rental he had in San Francisco. There’s some art on the walls, vintage concert posters framed extravagantly in the living room, and subdued modern art in the dining room, but none of that really seems to reflect his personality. The same goes for his furniture. While it’s all very nice, the only thing that seems to have any reflection of him is the wood dining table, with its knots and grains and imperfections.
The bookshelves hold mainly hardcover non-fiction books ranging from memoirs to travel, but there are just a few items and photos held on the shelves and on top of the fireplace mantel. The photos are of him and Edinburgh Rugby, one of him and Lionel, and then one of him and, who I’m guessing are his adopted parents after a game, his hair matted, barely smiling in his uniform. If this was my house, I would have my shit cluttered all over the place. All you need to do is walk inside, look around, and you immediately know that Kayla Moore lives there.
If I’d met Lachlan on the street, and by some good fortune strolled on home with him here, I’m not sure I could glean anything from his home that I didn’t already know. That said, his flat does have a nice feel to it, just as he does. I’m sure over time it will become more and more comfortable. I’ll adapt to it and it will adapt to me.
When he comes back from his walk, I hear him in the hallway talking to the dogs in a happy, playful tone. The coffee is ready, so I lean against the counter, slowly sipping from the cup while he walks into the kitchen.
“Wow,” he says when he sees me, stopping by the door to look me up and down, shaking his head slightly.
“What?” I ask, wanting to know why he’s staring at me with such awe.
He runs his hand over his chin. “You. Here. In my kitchen. In nothing but your knickers.”
I raise my coffee cup. “And with coffee.”
“Dream woman, that’s what you are,” he says, sauntering over to me with that ever present swagger. While he may be wowed by the sight of me, I’m equally wowed by him, particularly by the way his drawstring pants hang so low on his waist, showing that perfect V and giving me one hell of a dick imprint. I’m glad I can continue to wow him in every way possible.
He comes over, bracketing me in between his large hands, his body pressed up against mine. He gazes down at me through his lashes, eyes roaming my face, the smallest smirk on his lips. “I think I can get used to this,” he says, voice low and husky and reaching inside me. My spine liquefies at the sound of it, my skin dancing with anticipation because I know, I know, he’s going to touch me and my body is in constant need.
“What time do we have to head on out?” I ask him, closing my eyes as he leans down and kisses my neck.
He groans, sending shivers through me. “Where do I have to go again?”
“To practice,” I remind him. “And you’re taking me somewhere first. To your work. Though I suppose we could do that another day,” I add hopefully.
He sighs. “No.” He pulls back and peers at my face. “I wish, but if I don’t go back, I’ll be in big trouble.”
He doesn’t have to tell me. I know rugby is his career, and I know how important it is to him. The last thing I want is for him to feel guilty about it.
I decide to lighten the mood. I run my hands down his taut waist and gaze up at him sweetly. “What happens when you get in big trouble? Do the other boys pull down your shorts and give you a spanking?”
He raises his brow. “Filthy, filthy creature,” he murmurs.
I run my thumb under the waistband of his pants, feeling his warm, soft skin. “Well, don’t spoil my fantasy now.”
“Right. Well, yes, of course we pull down each other’s shorts and take turns beating each other with sticks. Sometimes we rub butter all over each other and have one big tackle.” He pauses. “Actually, that happened once, but I think we all had a bit too much to drink. It’s not easy to tackle a naked, oily man. Was good practice though.”
I study him, unable to figure out if he’s serious or not. “Rugby is a very weird sport.”
He reaches around me for the mug I set out for him. “You’ll come to practice sooner or later and see for yourself.”