The Highland Fling(50)
“To the cottage, where else?”
“You could be taking me to your sex dungeon.”
“Nah, you’re not sex-dungeon material.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Her voice rises in defense. “You saw me stroking that triangle. I was really good at it.”
“Really good is a stretch.”
“As if your finger digging was any good.”
“I wasn’t digging. Jesus.”
She stumbles over a rock when we get to the driveway, and I hold her up. Seems like I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “Why are you taking me to the cottage? I wasn’t done drinking.”
“You were done. Just seconds ago you said you should go home.”
“Who made you the boss?”
“God?” I ask, really unsure who made me the boss at this point.
“Oh no, there is no way God would make you the boss.”
“Do you like to disagree with me just to fight?”
“No.” She smirks just as we reach the cottage.
That smirk is dangerous.
That single smirk could make me do something stupid.
Something really stupid . . . like kiss her. Because she’s the kind of girl who can dig under your skin, make you want more, and I’m not sure I’m mentally ready for that kind of battle.
So, to avoid any poor decisions, I throw the door open and push her inside. “There. Now, good night.”
I’m turning to walk away when she calls out, “The minute you’re gone, I’m going back to the pub.”
I pause, and my back stiffens as I turn around to face her. “The hell you are . . .”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BONNIE
Beers consumed: Feels like at least twenty-five.
Days since last male-induced orgasm: Who’s counting anymore?
Hairy chests hand is playing with: One.
Uhh . . . why is my hand on a hairy chest?
What is that delightful smell?
Why am I so warm?
Am I petting a chinchilla?
I squint my eyes open. The sun is too bright, and my head is trying to crack itself open. But despite the scrambled eggs my brain is transforming into, I notice one thing that isn’t right . . . there is a man in my bed.
Not just any man . . .
Whispers
Kilty McGrumpyshire.
Gasp
My hands quickly fall to my body—I feel my breasts first.
Exposed.
Oh my God, why am I naked?
“Why am I naked?” I shout, sitting up in bed and startling the hell out of Rowan. He rolls off the bed, just as I realize I’m not naked—I’m still wearing my dress. My boobs have just fallen out of it like little escapees.
Just as Rowan pops his head up, I clap my hands over my boobs and turn toward him. His shirt is unbuttoned, but the rest of him is covered.
Did I unbutton his shirt?
Ugh. I forgot about his tattoo.
And his perfectly proportioned nipples.
Even in the morning, fresh off the booze train, he’s gorgeous.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, pressing a palm to his eye.
“Why are you in my bed?”
He glances around. “Hell if I know.” He blinks a few times. “Why are your tits out of your dress?”
“They went rogue last night. It has nothing to do with you.” I turn away and stuff the stubborn ladies back in. Dignity and all. Once I’m tucked away, I turn back around to find the smallest of smirks on his lips, and good God, my loins practically throw themselves at him.
Deadly. He is positively deadly with a smirk.
Trying to control myself, I say, “Your chest hair is really soft. What little chest hair you have, that is.”
He glances down at the small patch between his pecs and then back up at me. “I put leave-in conditioner in it.”
“Really?” I didn’t take him for a leave-in conditioner kind of guy, although his hair is luscious.
“No.” He stands, and that’s when I see his jeans are unbuttoned, revealing a peek of his black underwear.
Of course he’d have black underwear. I don’t know why that’s a turn-on for me, but it is. So are the abs carved into his taught stomach and the little patch of hair right above his waistline.
“Checking me out, Bonnie?”
I cross my arms over my chest and look away. “I’d rather burn my eyes out with acid.”
He chuckles, and just like that . . . my nipples are hard.
“Good to know.” He grabs his shoes and moves around the bed, through the cramped room, and down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I ask, chasing after him—for God knows what reason.
“Home. I need to wash your stink off me.”
“I don’t stink,” I scoff as we make it into the living room. He sits down on the couch and puts his boots on, his fingers flying through the laces. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone tie their boots that fast.
Why is that something I’m noticing?
I blame the hangover.
When he stands, he tilts his head to the side, studying me as he slowly buttons up his shirt—a total detriment to society. He might drive me crazy, but his body was made to be naked at all times.