Carefully, I walk up behind him and run my hand along his bare back to let him know I’m here. His muscles tense under my touch, but he quickly relaxes beneath my hand.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nightmare,” he answers honestly. “About Callum.”

  “Oh, Rowan, I’m so sorry.” I move under his arm, positioning myself between him and the counter. I lift up his head and catch a glimpse of his distraught eyes as lightning flashes outside. “It’s because you talked about what happened, isn’t it?”

  He nods. “Yeah, always happens when I bring him up. Haunts me. I relive it. Every sound, smell, and then . . . silence.” He swallows hard. “I was hoping it wasn’t going to hit me as hard as it usually does, but it felt more intense tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I made you talk about it.”

  “You didn’t make me do anything.” He wraps his hands around my waist and carefully lifts me up onto the counter, pressing his body against the cabinets so he’s between my legs. I savor the ease, the intimacy of this moment, as my hands float up to his shoulders.

  “Still, I feel awful for bringing it up.” One of my hands climbs up to his jaw, and I stroke his sandpaper scruff. What would this feel like between my legs? Probably amazing. Beard burn is a guilty pleasure of mine.

  “Don’t, no need to feel bad, lass,” he says. His hands move over the shirt I borrowed and slowly inch beneath the hemline, where his palms scorch my already-warmed thighs. “Did the thunder wake you?”

  I nod as his hands climb higher. “It’s probably the loudest I’ve ever heard,” I say just as another crash sounds. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  “I used to love the storms here. Now, well . . . it’s truly the one thing I’d change about Scotland, if I could.”

  “Because they remind you of your brother.”

  He nods.

  “Is that why you stayed in last night? You knew it was going to storm?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I stayed in because I knew you were going to find me and finish the conversation from the coffee shop.”

  “You did not know that.”

  He nods. “Aye, I did, and you proved me right.”

  I chuckle. “Am I that transparent?”

  “I wish.” He sighs and moves his hands up until they reach my hips.

  His brow rises, and his eyes meet mine. “Are you wearing knickers?”

  It was only a matter of time before he figured it out. “No, I’m not. I was wearing a thong and didn’t feel like sleeping in it.”

  “So you climbed into my bed bare-arsed?”

  I laugh and poke at him. “Wishing you kissed me now, huh?”

  “Wishing I did a whole lot more.”

  “Then, what was the holdup?”

  “Wasn’t in a good headspace,” he admits, and everything clicks into place.

  “You don’t want our first time to be clouded by memories of your brother.”

  He nods. “Aye.” One hand comes up to my cheek, and his thumb pulls on my bottom lip. “You’re special, Bonnie. Annoying and irritating and stubborn—”

  “Uh, is this going to take a turn down Niceville? Because those aren’t compliments.”

  “If you’d let me finish,” he snaps, making me laugh and rest my head on his chest. Still grumpy, will probably always be grumpy. “As I was saying . . . irritating, stubborn, sassy, but you also have a warm heart, and I hate to admit it, but you’re funny too. You deserve a kiss that isn’t just something to do on a rainy night, but because it’s backed up by a special moment.”

  “Like right now?” I ask, wrapping my legs around him and pulling him in even closer.

  His eyes search mine, indecision weighing heavily.

  Right now could be perfect.

  Middle of the night.

  Confessions falling past both of our lips.

  The need to be close.

  The air seems to stand still.

  His eyes caress mine.

  His breaths are short . . . yearning.

  And right when I think he’s about to pull away, he lowers his head, drawing closer, making my heart lurch in my chest.

  Please don’t let this be fake, please let this be a moment—the perfect moment.

  Lightning flashes, and there is only a breath between us.

  Thunder booms, shaking everything beneath us.

  Then, his lips press against mine.

  I suck in a sharp breath and instantly run my hands up his neck to his cheeks, where I hold him, not wanting him to pull away but to stay locked like this, his soft lips moving gently over mine, exploring, testing . . . tasting.

  For such a brute of a man, he kisses with impressive intention. There is no sloppiness or driving need to prove something. Instead, he’s careful but intense.

  Hunger sears through his lips as they move against mine, and his grip on my cheek and the soft press of his body against mine belie his outward calm. His tongue swipes across my lower lip, asking for more, and I oblige, opening wide for him. When his tongue meets mine, I groan against his mouth and grip him tighter.

  Achingly incomplete until this moment, I get lost in our fervent passion, in his heavy breaths, in the low and sensual groans floating past our mouths.

  Kissing this man is everything I hoped it would be.

  Ardent.

  Needy.

  Consuming.

  Overpowering.

  World changing.

  Another flash of lighting illuminates the room, but this time the thunder takes seconds longer to boom, heralding the storm’s retreat.

  His kisses slow, his grip loosens, and with one final press to my mouth, he pulls away and rests his forehead on mine.

  “Hell,” he mumbles.

  “Yeah . . . agreed.”

  His eyes connect with mine, and a lopsided smile tugs on his lips. “I think you’re trouble.”

  “I think you might be right.”

  Picking me up again, he lowers me to the ground and says, “Let’s head to bed.” He takes my hand in his and guides me to his bedroom. I slip into bed, and he lies down on the other side, flat on his back. He sticks one hand behind his head and wraps the other around me, pulling me in close to his side.

  I settle into him, and as my hand travels to his chest, the tension that had laced his muscles is gone—he’s relaxed.

  The storm quiets outside, and Rowan does too, his breathing evening out. He’s drifting off to sleep, but I’m buzzing. Desire pumps through me, need consumes me, and before I can stop myself, I allow my hand to roam his bare torso, lightly dragging my fingers over his abs, taking in every perfect indent, every curve. His stomach is carved as if from granite, and it’s such a huge turn-on that I find the ache between my legs increasing with every swipe.

  I need to stop.

  Right now.

  But instead, my hand travels down to the waistband of his boxer briefs. I glide my fingertips over the elastic, wondering what he’d do if I just moved my hand a little farther.

  What would I find?

  Would he be hard?

  He hasn’t shifted or moved since I started touching him.

  His breathing hasn’t altered.

  What would happen if I just . . . slowly . . . moved . . .

  His hand that’s wrapped around me tugs at my shirt, exposing my skin as his large palm slowly grips my rear end.

  Oh . . . dear . . . God.

  I bite my bottom lip as my arousal spikes.

  I don’t move.

  My breath is held captive.

  My pulse feels like a jackhammer in my throat.

  And then he glides over my backside, feeling, exploring, his palm rough and calloused, making the pass of his hand that much more heady . . . luxurious.

  Taking a deep breath, I lower my hand an inch, and my fingertips connect with his thick girth. My eyes nearly roll to the back of my head, and for the first time since I started my exploration, I feel his breathing hitch and grow shallow. Quickly in, quickly out.

  His reaction grants me more courage as I cover his erection with my hand.

  Big.

  He’s so big.

  I wouldn’t expect anything less from such a mammoth of a man, but it’s still a little shocking and intimidating.

  My hand fully grips his girth, and he sucks in a sharp breath as his hips jut forward.

  I need more. I want to feel him without a barrier. So without giving it a second thought, I slip my hand under his briefs and circle his entirety in my palm. A contradiction of soft, velvet skin and stone, he feels amazing.

  “Fuck,” he grumbles softly as I start to ever so slowly pump up and down.

  I drag my hand to the tip and pass my thumb over the head a few times. His grip on my ass tightens, and his legs spread. I take that as my cue.

  He wants more.

  I want more.

  So much more.

  I sit up and push the covers down, my body buzzing with anticipation. I grip the waistband of his briefs and drag them down his legs, discarding them on the floor. In the dim light, I take in the gloriously delicious outline of his cock jutting up against his stomach. I shift my hair to the side so it’s out of my way but so he can still see my face as I lower myself, lifting his shaft and bringing it to my lips.

  I start at the tip and slowly suck him into my mouth.

  “Jesus,” he mumbles with a sigh, his hand finding the hem of my shirt again, his fingers gliding up and under the fabric. The connection brings a level of intimacy to what I’m doing, a touch I never realized I needed.

  Slowly, I lower my mouth around him while my other hand grips his base tightly. With every descent, I spend a few seconds sucking hard, enough time to get him breathing harder and harder, until I open all the way and take him to the back of my throat.

  “Fuck,” he hisses as I swallow. I do this a few more times until I pull all the way off and release my hold, barely keeping his cock held in my hand. He tightens under my touch, and precum forms at the tip. His cock is so hard, so ready, that I know he’s only moments away. “Bonnie, lass . . . ,” he gasps.

  Oh, he’s really close.

  His eyes are squeezed shut and his chest rises and falls so rapidly that it would be impossible to count how many breaths he takes in a minute. But I hold still.

  He thrashes.

  His cock juts up.

  His hand grips the sheets.

  His teeth pull on his bottom lip.

  And then . . . a feral groan.

  With that, my mouth descends again, and I maneuver him all the way back before I pull up hard, sucking the entire time.

  “Fuck, I’m coming!” he shouts as his hips drive up. I take him easily, reveling in his pleasure until he’s completely sated. He’s breathing heavily, disbelief morphing his face as he gazes down at me. He lifts a hand and strokes it tenderly through my hair as he slowly comes back to life.

  And then . . . determination laces his features.

  He lifts up, his abs tightening, contracting, before he flips me to my back and spreads my legs wide enough for his large body to fit between them.

  “Rowan,” I breathe out heavily. “You don’t have to—”

  “The fuck I don’t.” He pushes the hem of my shirt past my belly button but doesn’t go any farther. It makes me lose my mind—until he hooks one of my legs over his shoulder and lowers his head.

  Giving pleasure is just as much of a turn-on for me as receiving, so I’m ready for him as his lips meet my inner thigh. My body is already sensitive, thrumming with need as all feeling focuses down to my core, lighting me up with anticipation.

  He trails scratchy, luscious kisses along my sensitive skin, moving closer and closer to my center before he pulls away and moves to my other leg. He pays tribute to each side, worshipping with his mouth and driving me crazy.

  My pelvis lifts up, seeking any kind of connection, and when his mouth pulls away, excitement booms deep in the pit of my stomach—until he turns to the other leg.

  “Oh my God, Rowan,” I say, the ache so strong that I feel like I might cry. “Please.”

  “No,” he says and then goes back to trailing kisses along my thigh, drawing so close, right to where I need him, then pulling away and moving back toward my knee.

  Devil of a man.

  I shift beneath him, angling to get him to touch me, but he’s strong and holds me down, drawing out this delicious torture until the throb is so intense I cry out.

  “Please,” I beg. “Please, Rowan.”

  He draws his tongue out and laps it down my leg, closer and closer, until his tongue meets my hip. He circles it over my hipbone and runs it down to my pubic bone, right above my slit. There he plays with me, teases me, drawing circles over and over again. I feel my arousal pool, my need so great that I might come without him even touching me.

  “I want to come on your tongue,” I say, not holding back.

  “Are you close?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I breathe out. “Don’t you feel me shaking for you?”

  “Aye,” he says, his voice such a deep rumble that I nearly come right there.

  His eyes find mine as he lowers his tongue an inch, just to the very top, and he slips it in and out, making the ache grow more intense.

  “Rowan,” I say in desperation just as his hand spreads me and his tongue presses against my clit. “Oh God,” I cry out, my chest heaving up toward the ceiling, my hands falling to my sides, gripping the sheets.

  His tongue stills for a few breaths, and then he starts flicking it along my clit, using just enough pressure to build me up hard and fast.

  An intense calm washes over me as a pulse beats through my veins, stiffening my muscles, pulling toward my center.

  Every thought, every feeling, every emotion, they all pool together, sending a wave of numbness through my limbs.

  My body tenses.

  My stomach bottoms out.

  Nothing exists besides Rowan’s tongue and the way he’s moving it along my clit, until he presses down hard and flicks over me so fast that my orgasm bursts through me, powerful and satisfying all at once.

  “Oh my God!” I yell as he continues to move his tongue, my hips gliding up and down, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until there is absolutely nothing left.

  When he moves away, I reach for him, pulling him up along my body and pressing a kiss to his mouth. “You have no idea what you just did to me,” I whisper, gazing at him in the near darkness.

  “I’m pretty sure I have a good guess.”

  “No . . . you just ruined me.”

  “Lass, your mouth on my cock—that ruined me.”

  “Why does it smell so good in here?” I ask, walking into Rowan’s kitchen with one palm pressed against my eye, trying to wipe away the sleep. Waking up alone to a chilly, foggy morning was not exactly what I wanted after last night’s activities, but that’s all washed away when I catch Rowan, shirtless, standing at the stove, making me breakfast.

  “Made some tattie scones,” he says, flipping off the stovetop and putting a pan of eggs on a trivet. He turns toward me and beckons me with a finger. I shamelessly walk over to him, unable to suppress the grin tugging at my lips. He loops one arm around my waist and quietly says, “Mornin’, lass,” while pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

  Be still my heart.

  “Good morning.” I trail my hand up his chest and then lift up on my toes and kiss his jaw. His hand falls to my ass, gripping it tightly through my shirt. And if it weren’t for the amazing-smelling breakfast, I would be climbing this man like a tree right now. “Do you always make breakfast for the ladies you have over?”

  “Nay, I kick them out of bed once they’re pleasured. Consider yourself lucky.” He smirks and releases me before serving up two plates of food.

  The table is charmingly set with a butter crock and jam jar, mugs of coffee, and a beautiful hand-thrown vase of wildflowers. God, could he be any sweeter?

  I take a seat at the table and marvel at the shirtless hunk of a man serving me a plate of delicious food.

  “This looks amazing. I’ve never had a tattie scone. What should I do?”

  He reaches over to my plate and picks up one of the flat, triangular pastries. “I prefer them with a light coat of Brodies butter—it’s the best; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—and then a wee bit of homemade jam.”

  “You make your own jam?”

  “Aye, me maw and I make quite a few batches every year.”

  “Do you sell them?”

  He shakes his head as he hands me a scone. “’Tis for the town. We hand them out every summer.”

  I take a bite, and good God, where have these been my entire life? “Wow, Rowan.” I give the scone a good inspection. “These are so freaking good. Does Isla sell these?”

  “Nay, she focuses on shortbread, Dundee cakes, and savory pies—and occasionally empire cakes and puddings. Have you tried her sticky toffee pudding yet?”

  “No, but I’ve been trying to steer clear of the bakeshop. I’m in danger of gaining another solid two pounds on my hips alone.”

  His gaze meets mine over the rim of his coffee mug. “Shouldn’t be worried about that, lass. I like something to grip onto.”

  My face reddens, and memories of last night flash through my mind. His tender teasing. His grunts. My moans. Our explosive orgasms. I don’t think I’ve ever had a night like that, and we didn’t even go all the way.

  “Thinking about last night?” he asks before shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

  “Maybe.” I take another bite of the scone, savoring its soft texture, perfectly combined with the tart jam and subtle butter. “Does this mean you’re going to ask me out on a date?”

  He eyes me but doesn’t say anything. Those eyes—so intense, but playful at the same time. “Not sure yet.”

  “Rowan.” I nudge him under the table, making him laugh. “After everything that happened, you’re really not going to ask me out?”

  “Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His smirk is almost unbearable.

  “But you’re not confirming that you are.”

  “Like to keep you on your toes.” He pushes at my plate. “Eat up, lass.”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “And you’re beautiful when you’re annoyed.”