Chapter Eight
Angus
I’ve made my decision.
Isla had sent me the terse text half an hour ago. I’d sent her back an equally terse text, telling her I was sending my driver to pick her up and drive her to my penthouse, where we could discuss the matter.
I was pretty sure I knew what her answer was, but even so, I was aware of a buzz of nervousness in my stomach. Or maybe it was anticipation. I wanted to see her again, wanted to see her with an eager feeling I hadn’t experienced for a long time.
Once again I wondered what it was about this particular young woman, why I wanted her specifically, rather than the dozens of other lovely women who’d ecstatically accept my proposal. But I shoved the question to the back of my mind for now. I wanted her, and that was all there was to it.
Regardless of why, there was no question that I wanted to impress her. So I was cooking up a light meal—raw oysters for an appetizer, and steak and potatoes, with a salad on the side. A Baccarat decanter full of Latour Bordeaux sat on the counter to breathe. I have a very good French chef in my employ, and he generally turns out spectacular culinary masterpieces for me when I entertain ladies. But tonight I’d given him the evening off. For some reason, it was important to me that Isla knew I was a good cook.
The doorbell rang, and I knew my driver had escorted her up my private lift and left her in the marble-floored anteroom. I strode from the kitchen, across the apartment, and opened the door. And there she stood, in worn jeans and a blue NYIT T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and the nervousness in my stomach grew, because she didn’t look like a woman who planned to say yes.
“Thank you for coming.” I took her hand in mine and drew her in, closing the door behind us. She looked around, blinking, and I tried to see the apartment through her eyes: the original art on the walls, including an enormous Jackson Pollock canvas that dominated one wall of the living room; the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined most of the apartment, with the dark rectangle of Central Park directly in front of us, and the lights of the city all around it; and the comfortable, classic modern furniture. I’d tried to make my apartment as homelike as a penthouse could be, but it was also unmistakably grand.
Her hand rose to her ponytail, self-consciously, and I knew what she was thinking: I don’t belong here.
But she did belong here. Somehow, seeing her here in faded jeans and an old T-shirt, I was more certain of that than ever. I couldn’t explain how, but I knew that she fit my apartment and my life.
She fit me.
“It’s beautiful,” she said at last.
“Thank you. Come on out to the kitchen. I’d better get back to my steak.”
“Steak?”
“I thought I’d make us some dinner.”
She blinked up at me for a moment, then one corner of her mouth tipped up in a small smile.
“Good thing I was too nervous to eat earlier, then.”
I escorted her into the kitchen, and she perched on one of the stools, leaning both elbows on the marble countertop. I turned back to the huge, copper-trimmed La Cornue range and looked over my work. My fillet steak—what Americans call filet mignon—was almost ready, and so was my Madeira sauce.
“Just a moment longer,” I said. “In the meantime, would you care for a few oysters?”
She lifted an eyebrow at me, and I knew she was thinking of the old notion that oysters are an aphrodisiac. But she reached out, took one of the half shells, and tipped it into her mouth, swallowing appreciatively.
“That’s very good.”
I swallowed one too. It was salty, tasting of the sea, calling to mind images of seagulls calling and waves crashing against the sand. I watched her lift another to her lips, watched her throat work as she swallowed, and something in my gut tightened. I turned back to the range.
“I think it’s ready.”
She sniffed the air appreciatively. “It smells heavenly.”
I pulled the beef off the grill and began to slice it, serving it on antique Spode plates with mashed potatoes and the sauce, with mushrooms and green beans on the side. I placed it in front of her, along with a small salad, and picked up the decanter to pour her a glass of wine.
“We can eat in the dining room if you prefer,” I said. “But it’s a little large for two people. I usually eat in the kitchen.”
“This is fine.” She looked at her plate with a skeptical expression. “Did you really cook this all by yourself?”
“Yes. I gave my chef the night off.”
She speared a mushroom, popped it into her mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “Somehow I hadn’t imagined you as the domestic type.”
I hadn’t imagined myself that way either, until recently. But I judged it best not to say so. I put on my native accent like a shirt I hadn’t worn in a while and grinned at her.
“Och, lassie, there’s much ye dinna know aboot me.”
She chuckled and dove into the steak with enthusiasm. She ate like she did everything else—devoting her full attention to it. Unlike a lot of women I’d met, she didn’t nibble at her food and pretend to be disinterested in eating. She looked like she was enjoying it whole-heartedly.
I liked that about her.
We spoke of inconsequential things for a while—whether she’d liked the stretch Rolls I’d sent for her, the terrible traffic on this side of town, the gathering tang of autumn in the air. I don’t know quite how I got back round to the topic, but before long I found myself talking about Braehaven again.
“Parts of it are crumbling,” I told her. “It’s a fine old house, but it’s needed attention for many years now. It’s practically crying out for attention.”
She glanced around the apartment, looking into the living room, where silver-gray upholstery and chrome furniture sat, ruled over by Pollock’s gaudy splatters of paint.
“It sounds lovely,” she said, “but not really the sort of place I’d imagine you’d want to live. Not really.”
“Ah, but I’m going to modernize it.” I took out my phone and began paging through the photo app, showing her a sketch I’d done of the floor plan, and then one of the elevation I’d drawn. “See how it still has the grandeur, the historical flavor? But I want to integrate the medieval parts of the castle with the more recent additions a little better and add a few touches of my own. I’d add in this glass room overlooking the walled garden, something like a modern conservatory. And I’d alter the front, like so, enlarging the windows and curving this wall to soften the look of it. When I’m finished, the house will look friendlier, more approachable, more modern.”
“More like a home,” she murmured, looking at it.
“Exactly.” I took a deep breath. “And to get that home, I will need a bride. What is your answer, Miss Blizzard? Will you do me the honor of granting me your hand in marriage?”
It sounded significantly less sarcastic than I meant it to. She lowered her eyes, and her cheeks flushed that lovely rose color.
“Yes, Mr. Scott,” she said softly. “I will marry you.”
The words took my breath away as if she’d hit me right in my solar plexus. I tried to cover my reaction with a wry smile.
“I’ll have a contract drawn up and send it to you to sign within two days,” I said. She glanced at me from behind her long, long lashes, and I thought I glimpsed… disappointment? Of course, she understood this was a business arrangement, just as I did, but I supposed it was hardly surprising that talk of a contract was not the first thing a woman who’d just been proposed to would hope to hear. I hastened to correct my error. “You won’t regret this, Isla. And I promise you, I won’t forget the favor.”
She still didn’t look at me, her brilliant eyes hidden behind a black fringe of lashes, and I sighed, knowing I’d made a misstep. “Speaking of favors…” I drew her to me and kissed her, as gently as I could manage. “I feel like I should start showing you my gratitude, right now.”
I kissed her again, with more intensity again, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me back. Her lips parted, and I let my tongue sweep into her mouth, brushing against her tongue, exploring boldly. Her tongue touched mine almost timidly, and to my shock, I heard myself groan.
It wasn’t like me to make any noise during sex, not even at the moment of climax. To groan like that at a kiss—well, it was out of character, to say the least, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Maybe it was the thought that she would be mine, even if only for two years. Maybe it was the idea that she could be carrying my baby inside her right now. Or maybe it was just that she was young and beautiful and sweet, and that I ached for sweetness in my life.
Whatever it was, I couldn’t seem to stop groaning into her mouth.
I needed her. I needed Isla Blizzard, more than I’d ever needed anything. I rose to my feet and swept her up into my arms, bridal-fashion, making her giggle. She was light enough that I could carry her easily across the apartment, and I did, shoving my bedroom door open with a shoulder.
My bed is huge—emperor-sized, which is big enough to have an orgy in, if one is so inclined. In the private space of my bedroom, I had eschewed modernism and chosen pieces that reminded me of the furniture I’d grown up with. The bed had been enlarged from a Jacobean tester bed, with a magnificently carved headboard, heavily embellished posts, and a massive wooden canopy above. The oak was nearly black with the passage of years, but the heavy lines of the piece still projected an aura of strength and stability, and the ornately-carved wood remained a beautiful, sculptural work of art.
The bed was so enormous that when I gently placed Isla onto the hunter green duvet, she looked small, dainty, fragile in comparison. Her skin looked paler than ever against the sea of green, and her hair spread out around her like an ebony halo.
I pushed up her NYIT T-shirt, seeking the soft skin beneath, brushing my lips over the toned planes of her stomach until she giggled and moaned. As I kissed her, I mused that I’d never met a woman self-confident enough in what she was to step into a Rolls limousine, then walk into one of the finest penthouses in the city, clad in jeans and a university T-shirt. Most women I’d known would have felt self-conscious in this situation and would have wanted to impress me with their sophistication and world-weariness. Any other woman would’ve hidden her true self behind heels and glamorous fashion and makeup. But not Isla.
I liked that about her, too.
I kissed her everywhere I could reach, letting my lips trail over her abdomen, then higher. Beneath the T-shirt, she wore a delicate, lacy, shell-pink bra. It was a lovely, feminine contrast to her outer clothing, and it made something inside me tighten.
Isla was tying me up in knots.
I let my mouth explore her through the lace of the bra, while she squirmed beneath me, making soft noises of pleasure. At last, I unfastened it (thank God it opened in the front, as I felt so fumble-fingered I wasn’t sure I could manage a back clasp) and tossed it and her T-shirt aside.
She was half-nude beneath me, and I remembered last time—how we’d been too desperate to get all our clothes off. Perhaps she remembered it too, remembered how I hadn’t even taken time to remove my shirt, because her hands fumbled at the polo shirt I wore, trying to tug it off over my head.
I didn’t object. In fact, I cooperated with enthusiasm, helping her pull it off, and throwing it onto the floor too. Being completely naked with this lovely woman seemed like the best idea I’d ever heard.
She tugged me down onto her again, drawing my head to hers and kissing me. I liked her effort at assertiveness, and I liked the way her bare breasts pressed against my chest as well. Heat flooded me, and I found myself shifting between her legs, rutting against her hungrily. Both of us were still wearing jeans, but all of a sudden it didn’t seem to matter all that much. I hadn’t come in my jeans since I was seventeen, but Isla had a way of making me feel young and out of control again.
Her hands slipped down my back as if she were exploring my muscles. Her nails were short—an eminently practical choice, considering how much she used her hands in architecture—but I could nevertheless feel the sharp edge of her nails scraping my skin as they trailed over my skin. The light, caressing touch of her hands made me shudder, and my hips bucked.
Her hands moved even further down, cupping my arse, pulling me against her, and I moaned. I was lost, completely lost in the scent of her, the feel of her, the sound of her voice whispering in my ear.
Panting, I thrust against her harder. I felt my cock twitching in my jeans, my balls tightening, and I knew I was seconds from losing it completely. But I couldn’t seem to hold myself back.
Just before I reached the point of no return, her hands tightened on my hips, asking me wordlessly to slow down.
“I hoped to do this without any clothes in the way this time,” she whispered.
That still sounded like an extraordinarily good idea. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to regain control of myself. Breathing unsteadily, I reached down to unfasten my jeans, but her hands caught mine.
“Let me,” she said, sounding breathy.
Her gentle, deft hands unfastened my jeans, unzipping them, and then pushed them and my silk briefs carefully over my cock. I hissed with relief as I was released from my denim prison, as the air of the apartment cooled my overheated flesh. It felt good, and a second later it felt even better, because her hand wrapped around me, and experimentally stroked downward
My hips spasmed. Unable to prevent my response, I thrust into her soft palm, sighing with nearly intolerable pleasure.
The cautious, tentative touch of her hand was incredible. She was clearly not an expert, but she seemed more than willing to learn. She stroked me, slowly at first, then more steadily, quickly picking up on what I liked best. Within half a minute I was a moaning, gasping mess, my cock pulsing in the warmth of her hand, so close to a climax I couldn’t stop shaking.
“Isla.” I didn’t sound like myself to my own ears. My voice was harsh, desperate. “I can’t—you need to stop—or I’m going to—”
She released her gentle grip on me, but her fingers began tracing the head of my cock, which was slick and wet with precum. I was almost unbearably sensitive there, and I couldn’t stop myself from groaning deep in my chest. When her fingers trailed carefully through the little slit at the tip, I jerked, crying out.
“Oh,” she murmured as if she’d made a major discovery, and did it again.
I knew that if she didn’t stop touching me, right now, I was going to come all over her hand. The thought sent a thrill through me, but that wasn’t quite what I wanted. Not right now, anyway. Tonight, I wanted us to come together.
I pulled back from her, just a little, and struggled out of my jeans and boxers. At last, I was completely bare, and when I looked down at her, I saw that she was pulling her jeans off, too.
She tossed them aside and lay looking up at me, dressed in absolutely nothing but a tiny scrap of shell-pink lace that only accentuated the sweet curve of her hips and the soft, womanly mound of her sex.
I took a deep breath, trying to regain control of myself. At last, once my breathing had steadied, I bent, very slowly, and began brushing kisses over her lovely nipples. They were rosy pink and erect, and they hardened even more beneath my ministrations. She moaned beneath me, her back arching, her hips rising and falling helplessly.
Her scent filled my head—the sweet fragrance of flowers and sunshine, along with the spicy scent of her arousal. I knew she was already wet, that she was creaming her pretty lace panties for me, desperate for my cock, and I wanted more than anything to sink inside her hot, slick body and make her mine. But I wanted to make this good for her, so I had to take it slowly.
I moved down from her nipples, kissing my way down her flat belly, making my way toward that little scrap of lace. She squeaked and tried to press her knees together, but I caught her thighs, one in either hand, and pushed them gently apart.
“Let me, Isla.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then relaxed, surrendering to me, and when I brushed a kiss over her mound, she whimpered. The sound seemed oddly muffled, and when I glanced up, I saw that she’d pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
“I want to hear you,” I told her.
Obediently, she dropped her hand away. I kissed her there again, and she moaned.
“Oh—ohhhh—”
I teased her through the material for quite a while, kissing and nuzzling, until she was writhing beneath me, until her hands dug into my hair, begging for more.
“Please… please…”
“Say my name,” I said softly.
“Mr. Scott. Please.”
“My name, Isla.”
“Angus,” she whimpered. “Please.”
I peeled off the silk and lace, and lowered my mouth to her, finding her most sensitive flesh easily. Her clit was swollen, and the first stroke of my tongue over it made her wail. She tasted of passion and need, and I couldn’t get enough of her. I stroked her, slowly, relentlessly, until she was crying out, begging me for release.
I reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a condom, and rolled it on. Then I moved over her, settling between her legs. She wrapped her thighs around my hips, and I slid into her glorious heat, inch by inch. Both of us groaned with pleasure.
When I was as deep inside her as possible, I froze, letting myself indulge in the tight heat that surrounded me. She felt incredible, and she was already so close to the edge that I felt her hot pussy contracting around me, squeezing me.
“Angus,” she whispered again, and my control evaporated. I began moving hard, pulling almost all the way out, and then thrusting so hard that my balls slapped against her. She cried out, her fingers digging into my arse, her head falling back. Her spine arched, and she cried out my name as her body shuddered with the force of her climax.
I’d wanted to make love to her all night, but the way she trembled and sobbed my name was too much for me. I came hard, groaning as I came in long, hot spurts, my vision flaring white.
Afterward, I rolled off her and pulled her into my arms. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I pressed my face into her hair, inhaling her fragrance, breathing her in like she was oxygen, necessary for my existence.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I got carried away. I really wanted to make love to you all night.”
She thought about that for a moment. Then she tilted her head up and looked at me, her mouth curving into a warm smile, her green eyes shining with mischief.
“The night’s not over yet.”
I grinned back and lowered my head to kiss her.