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She reaches for me but only grazes my chest. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere." The bed creaks and rocks as I hop off it and remove her blindfold. "Nothing could keep me from you tonight."
Erica squints at the sudden brightness, blinking swiftly, but soon she seems to readjust to the lighting. The lass sits up, the beauty of her nude body complimented by the pale-green sheets, and she surveys the room—until her gaze lands on me.
I stand beside the bed, shoulders back, arms slack at my sides and wearing nothing but my kilt made from the MacTaggart clan tartan of blue and green threaded with orange. I sweep an arm wide to indicate everything I've set up inside this room. "A wee bit of Scotland brought here for you."
She lays a hand on her chest, her mouth open. "What?"
"One day you'll see my country for yourself." I step back and spread both arms. "But for now, this is what I can give you."
She studies her surroundings again, and I follow the track of her gaze with my own. Candles occupy every available surface, five on the dresser alone, and a single plump one burns on the bedside table, burnishing Erica with golden light. The windowsill has no candles since I'd drawn the curtains for privacy. But more candles adorn the wooden chest that sits beside the dresser. Fabric fashioned from the MacTaggart tartan drapes over the top of the dresser mirror and serves as a valance over the window's curtains. Eight-by-ten photographs, each framed in silver, sit propped up in strategic locations in between the candles so the flickering flames highlight each image.
Erica seems mesmerized by the display and a touch confused by it.
"Dunrobin Castle, seat of the Sutherland clan," I say as I point to a photograph of a white castle perched atop an embankment with its spires piercing the blue sky. In the next images, a row of stone arches curves over a narrow road and waves crash against craggy white cliffs. "Glenfinnan Viaduct. The coast of Caithness."
Her gaze tracks my bobbing finger while I explain each photo and the landmark it shows, giving her a true taste of Scotland, almost as if I've magically transported her to my homeland. The final framed picture rests on the bedside table beside the plump candle. It shows a hilltop view of a quaint village seated at the shore of a small loch, nestled within a valley.
Gazing at the photograph gives me a pang in my chest, and my throat tightens. "Ballachulish, my home."
I haven't been home in far too long. Maybe that's why the picture gets me slightly choked up.
"Oh, Lachlan," Erica says, leaning over to see the photo better. "It's beautiful. I wish I could visit there someday."
I sit down beside her, the bed creaking under my weight. "Why do ye say it as if it's not possible?"
She almost winces, then clears her throat and nods toward the final picture. "When were you last in Bally—Ballakol—"
"Bal-uh-koo-lish." I brush the back of my hand over her cheek. "I was there Christmas before last."
I've given her the least confusing pronunciation of Ballachulish since the Gaelic way is often hard for Americans to master. What I said is ninety-nine percent correct, which is good enough for now.
Why didn't she want to tell me why she talks as if she won't ever be able to visit Scotland? I still can't understand her reaction to my question.
"Work keeps you busy, huh?" she says.
"Aye." I tip my head to the side. "Speaking of work, do you go back tomorrow?"
"I'm sort of taking a sabbatical."
"Ah." I want to ask her more questions, to understand her behavior. Sometimes she acts like she won't be around long enough to do the things she wants to do, like visiting Scotland. But if she were dying, she wouldn't have the stamina to endure the orgasm that wrenched her whole body a few minutes ago. Whatever her reasons are for her attitude, it's none of my concern. So instead of asking, I glide a hand up her thigh and smile. "Back to the fun, eh?"
"Yes, please." Erica shimmies closer, loops her arms around my neck, and drags her lips up my throat.
I close my hand around her hip, my fingers curled against the backside, my thumb drawing circles on her skin.
She swirls her tongue up to my jaw, nibbling there while ruffling her fingers through my hair.
And I groan into her ear. Christ, this woman knows how to turn me on. I nearlycaithwhen she pulls my head back to scrape her lips over my collarbone and skims her fingers over my chest like she's mapping my body. She presses her open mouth to my chest, gently biting my skin with her teeth. I groan again, kneading her hip harder and faster with my thumb.
She stretches an arm behind me to squeeze my erse.
"Och, lass, how ye drive me mad." Before she can take hold of my cock, I push away from her and jump off the bed. Scrubbing my face with one hand, I struggle to catch my breath. She'd stolen it the second she dragged her tongue up my throat. "Forgot the last stop on our virtual tour of Scotland. The botanical gardens."
"Can't it wait?"
Not if I'm going to keep hold of my sanity. How could I ever have known Erica Teague would turn out to be a siren?
