Spoken For (5 page)

There’s no edge to him in this moment. He’s not irritable at having shared his family history. He’s not laying down any more ground rules or preparing to deliver a lesson.

He’s just a man looking at me with the unmistakeable depths of want and exposed hunger in his eyes.

The air thickens, that heated look stretching as he closes the distance between us in two slow steps. Every second tightens another thread of desire pulling low in my stomach.

I know what he sees in my eyes. The hot mess of my own want, need, longing.

His hand lifts, his fingers feathering through my fringe and down my temple, over my cheek, beneath the line of my jaw with a firmness to keep my chin nudged high although I have no inclination to drop it whatsoever.

The back of my knees soften.

My lips feel swollen and he hasn’t even lowered his mouth a fraction.

He presses the pad of his thumb to the corner of my mouth, dragging my lower lip slightly down. “I’m not going to kiss you, Ms. Lynch.”

The words aren’t spoken harshly, but they have a finite ring. This isn’t a rejection. The grey in his eyes has turned to silver fire. He wants to kiss me, but he will not. The decision has been signed and sealed, boxed and stored.

“Why?” A moan of frustration and disappointment escapes me. “Why not?”

“Because I think you would be very…” That thumb drags over my lower lips, then falls away, “…very bad for me, Ms. Lynch.”

I’m
the bad influence in this relationship?

What relationship, Keegan?!

This is what Roman does to me. He melts my body and turns my head inside out.
He
is very, very bad for me. But I don’t have his iron self-control. I could make the decision, that’s the easy part, but there is no way in hell I’ll resist the next time he traps me alone.

9

A LIGHT DUSTING of snow covers the ground the next morning. The view from my bedroom window looks over the courtyard and stretches up the dramatic slope of a mountain that disappears into the black, churning sky. The promise in those heavy, burdened clouds triggers my happy mood. I’m pathetic when it comes to snow.

I slip into jeans, a fresh long-sleeved tee, and a thick jumper that creeps up my throat to cuddle my chin. My boots are the opposite of sexy, but fur-lined and toasty on my toes.

Roman Rocchi can bite my butt.

That’s the big decision I make while I dress.

I don’t expect that decision to stick, and there’s not a chance it will if Roman does actually bite my butt, but it’ll keep me for now. I have a job to do and a couple of days to enjoy this magical retreat.

I bounce out of my room to bang on Liam’s door and yell, “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” he grunts, my cue to barge inside.

He shoves himself up against the headboard, mussing his hair further as he runs a hand through it.

“We’re touring the distillery this morning,” I remind him. “Connor indicated he’d like to start bright and early.”

“Your friend Connor was the one who insisted on that second game,” he grouses. “Damn, that brew he makes is potent.”

When I’d left them to come upstairs last night, the two men had been hunched over the chessboard with a half empty bottle of Kleighnorm whiskey for company.

“Do you need me to kick you out of bed?” I ask sweetly.

Liam flips me the finger. “You always make the sweetest offers, but I can manage, thanks.”

“Kee, wait,” he adds as I turn to go. “Stay a minute.”

He pats the spot beside him.

“What is it?” I come fully inside and sit, squaring my knee on the bed between us.

“You and Roman.” His brow creases as he looks into my eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on and you don’t have to tell me, but just be careful, okay?”

I don’t dismiss his concern out of hand. Liam needs to be genuinely worried if he’s saying something. “There isn’t much to tell, Liam.”

“Not yet, maybe, but…”

“But…?” Suddenly my mind’s working overtime. “Did Connor say something?”

“No, it’s just…” His brow creases deeper into me. “I don’t like the man, okay?”

“Okay,” I drag out through my teeth.

Liam likes everyone.

And it’s not as if he knows anything about my private encounters with the frustrating man.

“What exactly don’t you like about Roman?”

“Fuck, Kee, how should I know?” He scrubs his bristled jaw. “There’s something off about him.”

“Not off,” I say defensively.
As if Roman needs me, anyone, defending him.
“Just complex.”

“Potato,
potatah
.” He rolls his eyes. “Call it whatever, it doesn’t mean you won’t end up getting hurt.” He reaches for me, his hand folding over mine. “I’m scared he’ll hurt you, Kee, and that you’ll let him because you think you deserve it.”

The breath pinches in my lungs.

This is about Lucy and Kyle and the accident. About the guilt that consumed me for years, and still occasionally lurks in the shadows. I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but I am the reason they’re dead.

“That’s not what I do,” I say softly, giving his hand a squeeze.

Yes, there were times when I wished I’d died instead of them. Died
with
them. But I don’t expect I’ll burn in hell and I certainly don’t intend to walk through hell on earth.

“I’m not punishing myself.”

Liam doesn’t look convinced. “If you say so.”

I do.

My screw-ups aren’t about the guilt or believing I don’t deserve love. It’s much simpler than that.

My heart is spoken for.

My body is for living, but my heart will always belong to Kyle. It’s the only thing keeping him here, with me. If I release that love, then he’ll be gone, truly gone from my world.

That’s not something I’m able to accept.

I slide from the bed to my feet, smiling down on Liam. “Have I ever lied to myself?”

His brow finally clears.

That’s how well he knows me.

10

CONNOR’S TOUR TAKES up most of the morning. The distillery has been in his family for over four hundred years, but his passion runs deeper than mere tradition. That is clear in the way he brushes his hand over the pair of swan-necked stills as he explains why they’re made from copper.

The aging is done in the smaller barn and when he flicks the lights on, I’m again struck by the limited scale of production and the exclusivity of the product we’ll be branding. Each charred oak cask is nestled in its own space like rows of baby cribs.

I find it all incredibly fascinating, although that doesn’t stop my gaze and attention from drifting to Roman far too often.

He’s completely disbanded the office look today. His faded jeans are snug, treating me to an eyeful of his hard backside and muscled thighs. His chunky jumper is navy, not quite a polo neck, but reaching midway up his throat. He hasn’t shaved, either. His jaw is darkly bristled and his hair is messed from the battering we took in the strong winds as we tromped through the pine forest to get here.

We’ve hardly spoken a word.

I feel his intense gaze on me every now and then, but every time I look, it’s gone. Or maybe I’m imagining things.

He’s made no effort to drown my senses in charm once this morning. He isn’t unpleasant. Merely polite and distant.

I don’t mind all that much.

My earlier decision is still holding by a thread.

When we make our way to the house for lunch, snowflakes flutter from the pine boughs above to dance in the gusts of wind. Roman strides up ahead with Connor, their heads down, probably engaged in the conversation they started in the third barn—the work shed.

I’m not sure what else is left to do.

We’ve toured the inner workings of the distillery. We’ve absorbed the feel of Kleighnorm.

I suppose we could toss a couple of initial concepts about with Connor, but that is Simone’s department. We really should have postponed this visit until she was well.

Access from the house to the distillery is via a side door that opens into a room used for muddy wellington boots and coats. As we break through the pine coverage to approach that entrance, there’s no sign of Roman or Connor.

The door stands open and the paved stone out front is packed with freshly fallen snow. The temptation is irresistible.

I bend to scoop up a handful of snow, patting it into a ball.

Liam is a step ahead of me. His snowball, hard and wet, wings my shoulder.

“You’ll regret that!” I swirl about, aim and fire.

And miss.

He dashes behind a tree and I streak after him, scooping up another ball as I go. My next shot hits him square on the forehead. Luckily for Liam, I’ve a weak arm.

He wiggles his fingers at me in a
Come and get it
gesture. I keep my wary eyes on him as I squat to re-arm. I’m not wearing gloves and my fingers are frozen, but this is too much fun. A wicked grin slashes his jaw, but he’s still gesturing so I know he doesn’t have a snowball primed.

He’s not a total idiot, though. We’re out of the treeline again, and he’s taking small steps, unobtrusively moving away from me.

“Come on,” he challenges. “Give me your best shot.”

I saunter towards him, my arm locked to fire, taunting him with a couple of mock throws. He twitches, only ducks left once. He’s good, which is why I have to get a little closer.

When I throw for real, I’m less than three feet from him. He swerves, but I still get a good whop on his shoulder.

I’m grinning like mad until I realise he’s lured me to this spot. He raises his arm to give a hard tug on a low hanging branch, showering us both with snowflakes.

“Bastard!” I grab more snow and throw myself on him, intending to rub it into his face and hair. Before I get that far, he slips out from under me and we land up sprawled on the soggy ground.

Liam doesn’t pause to catch his breath. He flips and straddles me, cuffing my wrists above my head with one hand, his other hand gathering a pile of muddy snow. “What was that you were going to do?”

“Liam,” I warn. “Don’t you dare.”

“Fair chance.” He climbs off me and closes his eyes. “Run and hide.”

I scramble to my feet with a giggle and do as he suggests. I run. Because he will catch me and then I’ll be eating snow-mud.

I don’t see Roman standing in the doorway, arms folded, scowl darkening his expression, until I almost slam straight into him.

He steadies me, then crosses his arms again. “Are you fucking Mr. Rearedon?”

The low growl demands an immediate, honest answer.

Ha!

He towers over me in my flat boots, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his scowling eyes, my gaze passing over his firmly drawn mouth along the way. A mouth that will not kiss me, because apparently
I’m
bad for
him.

“How is that possibly any of your business?” I snap. Now that I’ve stopped, every inch of me is frozen, wet and irritable.

“Ground rule number five, Ms. Lynch.”

Oh. My.

My big decision shatters as my knees turn butter soft.

“There’s an actual rule for that?” I batter my lashes at him. “
Thou shalt not fuck Liam Rearedon?
”

“Fraternization between colleagues.” His hard gaze bores into me. “On the company dime.”

“You’re confusing your numbers,” I shoot back. “Isn’t that ground rule number three?”

“Trust me, Ms. Lynch, you could never begin to imagine what goes on in my playground. I’d offer to show you, but that would be breaking ground rule number three.”

“Not in the least.” He lowers his head, lowers that thoroughly unamused mouth until his breath warms my frozen lashes. “Ground rule three is something altogether different.”

His scent wraps me. Male. Musky. Earthy.  The damn man smells of pine forest and bottled sexual arousal.

Hot shivers prickle my skin as I wait for the lesson that always follows one of his ground rules.

A lesson that will have to wait, because right then Liam
finds
me.

11

THE LONG HOUR of lunch is either torture or heaven. I’m in no state to tell the two apart. I’m literally squirming in my seat.

Roman sits directly across from me. I can’t meet his gaze. My entire body is a tingling mess of raw nerves. My clit is swollen. If I look into his stone cold eyes, if I see the slightest indication of intent stamped on his hard jaw, I will come.

I’m not the least bit hungry, but I can’t afford the attention and so I pick at my plate without tasting. I feel the imprint of his hand on my backside, the stinging slap, the sensual massage. I feel his palm dragging up my thigh, his finger dipping inside me. I can’t imagine where this next lesson will take me, take us, and that’s part of the thrill.

And what the hell is ground rule number three?

Halfway through lunch, it occurs to me.

Is this lesson number three?

The anticipation?

He could have followed me, after all, when I rushed upstairs to change out of my wet clothes.

Lunch finally ends and we’re rising from the table when Connor says, “Will you be wanting to collect the Lam today? I need to drive in to Dingwall anyways.”

“Not with this snow on the roads,” Roman says. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”

I wrinkle my nose at the conversation. “The lamb?”

Connor’s eyes shift to me. “Special edition Lamborghini Aventador.”

“A Lamborghini fucking Aventador?” Liam spurts, then gives Roman a worried look. “Sorry, Mr. Rocchi, but do you even know awesome that baby is?”

Roman’s lips hitch at one corner. “I have a mild idea.”

“Roman kindly lent it out to the Dingwall Annual Motor Festival,” Connor tells us. To Liam, he adds, “You like your sports cars, then?”

“What’s not to like?”

“If you take that drive with me, we’ll see about stopping in at the show grounds,” Connor says. “The festival only ended yesterday and most of the cars will still be there.”

Liam doesn’t need to be asked twice and a few minutes later, it’s just me and Roman left in the dining room.

Before I can move or think of anything to say, Maggie pops her head in. “Coffee?”

“Thank you, Maggie, we’ll be in the library.” Roman waves me ahead with a hand. “After you, Ms. Lynch.”

Fresh waves of desire roll through me as I walk a step in front of him. I’ve changed into black woollen leggings and a tunic that rides my thighs, and that’s where I feel the heat of his gaze, high up my thigh, just below the curve of my butt cheeks.

Inside the library, Roman drops into a leather armchair beside the fireplace. The charred logs from yesterday have been swept away and replaced with a new stack, ready to be lit.

I’m too antsy to sit. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace before I turn to stand in front of it. My cheeks are flushed. My lips are stung. What will I look like when Roman…
if
Roman ever lets me achieve an actual orgasm?

His elbows are planted on the armrests, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His hooded gaze rests on me, his thoughts shuttered.

The uncertainty loses some of its appeal. I relish not knowing what he’ll do next, but now the possibility of him doing
nothing
seems more likely.

When Maggie brings in the pot of coffee, Roman stands to take the tray from her. Once he’s set it down on the table, he follows to close the door behind her.

He stays there, his back pressed to the door, his arms folded. “You haven’t answered my question yet.”

“About Liam?”

He doesn’t affirm. Doesn’t nod. Just looks at me.

“No, we’re not sleeping together,” I say. Except, my instincts tell me that Roman is a man who deals in absolute truths. “I mean, well…”

“You’re not sure, Ms. Lynch?”

“We have slept together,” I admit. “Just the once, more than a year ago.”

“You seem close.”

“Liam is my closest friend.”

He digests that, standing there, studying me.

“Why do you ever care?” I puff out on an exasperated breath. “It’s not as if you want to do anything with me.”

His arms unfold and one hand goes behind his back.

The click of the latch on the door locking pulses to my core.
Oh, okay…

He approaches in long, slow strides. “Turn around, Ms. Lynch.”

I do as he says.

My eyes connect with his in the mirror as he moves into position behind me. He takes my hands. His body folds around me as he stretches my arms to press my palms flat to the mantelpiece. My feet shuffle closer with the stretch, but the grating of the fireplace sticks out and I’m left tilting slightly forward, my eyes cast downward.

His hands cover mine over the mantelpiece, his bristled jaw scraping my cheek, his chest a slab of muscle against my back. His heat and scent fills me. The front of him is pressed all along the back of me and then he’s rocking up against my backside. Slow. Firm. The long, hard, definitely aroused length of his dick strokes the crack between my butt cheeks and my blood turns molten.

The rocking and the pressure of his strokes along my crack stop.

“Now do you understand the difference,” he says huskily at my ear, “between not doing and not wanting to do?”

Yes, I understand.

But what happens when I admit that out loud?

The lesson ends.

Instead, I meet his gaze in the mirror. “What is ground rule number three?”

His hands leave mine to slide up my arms and curve over my shoulders. His eyes pierce me, as if he’s trying to read my mind.

Trying?

I’ve had want and longing written all over my face, etched into my bones, before he even came near me.

He sees what he needs to.

“Very well, Ms. Lynch.” His voice is silk braided with steel. “If you insist.”

My pulse quakes.

My blood is so thick with lust, my eyes close with the heaviness. I’m already so close to coming, and it’s only worse with my blinded senses focussed on his touch.

I hear and feel him unzip the front of my tunic all the way down to my belly button. He drags one half over my shoulder and then his thumb snags the lacy cup of my bra and pulls down, bunching it below the plumpness. That breast is pushed out, fully exposed, my nipple erect and throbbing.

One palm cups my breast while the other slips beneath the hem of my tunic and flattens low on my stomach. My tunic rides up my backside, and now there’s only the wool tights covering my crack as he rocks into me again, stroking my crack with his dick.

My clit is a mass of swollen nerve endings. My panties are wet from my building orgasm.

“Open your eyes, Ms. Lynch.” The palm at my breast massages, the pad of his thumb teasing my sensitive nipple even harder, longer.

My eyes flash open on him with a moan that starts deep inside my throat.

“No, not on me.” His thumb and forefinger pinch my nipple in a gentle squeeze. “Look at yourself,” he commands. “Watch what I’m doing to you.”

Oh, God.

But I don’t hesitate.

My eyes are glazed with desire.

I hadn’t realised I’ve dragged the corner of my lip between my teeth.

The pinch on my nipple tightens and the tingle spreads over every inch of my skin. My breath is small pants. His thumb and forefinger presses harder, harder, the squeeze no longer gentle. The tingle deepens into a pulsating burn that originates at the tip of my nipple.

“There is a special kind of pleasure to be had from a little pain.” There’s more steel in his voice, less silk. “A pleasure I will not introduce a woman to until she wants it and is ready.”

He doesn’t stop increasing the pressure at my nipple. Not once. Every shallow breath I pant out is on a harder squeeze, my erect, aching nipple clamped tight between his fingers.

“You don’t think I want this?” I gasp as the burn deepens into a pain that dominates every feeling, every sense, every awareness within me.

“I don’t think you’re ready.”

My eyes flash to him.

“On yourself, Ms. Lynch.” He  gives a tug, stretching my nipple into another level of pain.

I blink and look, barely recognising the woman staring back at me. So wild, abandoned, lost to everything but the intensity of my body’s wants and needs.

He doesn’t release the tug, keeping my clamped nipple stretched taut in a constant ebb and pull, washing layer upon layer of desire over me.

And then he gives a sharp, hard twist. I cry out as the pleasure-pain arrows from my nipple to my core and my orgasm erupts. His palm at my stomach slides between my legs, cupping me there so I can ride him through the shattering.

My legs buckle and all that keeps me upright is the palm massaging my sore breast and the hand between my legs.

Roman watches me in the mirror. Doesn’t reprimand me for looking at him instead of myself. Silver fire glitters in his eyes. The hollows of his bristled jaw are deeper, scraped with raw hunger.

We both know he is wrong.

I am ready.

This is the most erotic, exotic, thing I have ever experienced and this man gave it to me.

I straighten against, resting the back of my head at his chest.

I’m boneless, sated. I can’t disguise the pleading tremble in my voice. “What now?”

His expression blanks, clearing the traces of his own desire. “I’m still deciding, Ms. Lynch.”

“Don’t I get a say?”

“Certainly, for yourself.” He adjusts my tunic and pulls the zip up as he speaks. “And I, only I, decide for myself.”