The Play

When my orgasm subsides against his lips, he straightens up, staring at me with feverish eyes. His eyes that say he knows me, knows what I like and will never stop giving it to me.

But I’m completely selfish. I grab his head and kiss him, long and soft, the taste of me on his tongue reinvigorating me.

He moans into my mouth, it’s a sound straight from his gut, making my blood run even hotter. “You see how good you taste,” he whispers, his lips moving to my neck. “I’ll never get full from you.”

I fumble under his kilt for his cock, grasping his stiff length in my palm, so hot and pulsing against my skin. He moves forward and I guide him in, so wet and ready for him that he slides in like silk, our bodies accustomed to each other with a beautiful kind of ease.

I wrap my legs around his waist, my heels digging into his firm ass as he starts rocking into me, each slow, slick glide inside igniting my nerves once again.

I whimper as we find our rhythm, like we always find our rhythm and this time, this time, I know it doesn’t have to be the end. My body aches from wanting him so intensely and without saying anything, his body responds, always giving me more than what I need.

“Oh Kayla,” he groans against me, breathless, as a bead of sweat falls off his brow and onto my collarbone. I nearly expect steam to rise. He pushes in harder, and deeper, and it feels like the air is being pushed out of my lungs and I’m clinging onto his body as his pace quickens.

   I press my nails into his back, clinging onto the ride. Our skin slaps together in a violent, thick sound that echoes off the walls. Each push is long and hard and he grunts with effort until his cock hits me in just the perfect place.

I go off like an atom bomb.

His hips pound against me, brutal, punishing, and he’s gone too with a flurry of groans, my name whispered over and over as he claws at my hips, releasing every inch of himself inside of me, shooting as far and deep as he can go.

It’s so fucking beautiful.

When we’ve both caught our breath, when our hearts have slowed their schizophrenic pace, he pulls out of me and I hop down from the sink, my ass completely numb.

We don’t know what to say to each other. I don’t think we need to say anything. We give each other lazy, knowing smiles. He gets a few pieces of tissue paper and wipes it up the inside of my leg, making sure I’m dry. Then he holds his arm out for me, like a gentleman.

Like a lady, I take it and we make our way out into the rest of the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Kayla

The next few days pass by in some hazy kind of bliss. Ever since I told Lachlan I would stay in Scotland, I’ve just been luxuriating in the idea. And luxuriating for the both of us means a lot of hot, happy sex. We’re reveling in the fact that our relationship has been given an extension, that the finite amount of days we were initially granted have been stretched out into infinity.

What I’m really doing though, is avoiding all the tough decisions. The hard calls. I don’t want to call my mother and tell her I might not come home. I don’t want to email Stephanie and Nicola and tell them that I’m risking it all on Lachlan. I don’t want to contact my work and tell them I’m putting in my zero-week notice – from afar.

Lachlan brings up the fact that I could just go home, sort out my affairs from there and then head back over. But there’s something about that that makes me nervous. I know it’s probably the right thing to do, but I also feel it could make things harder. If I saw my mom again, if she looked more frail than before or sounded so painfully sad, I don’t think I could leave her. And then where would I be? The last thing my mother would ever want from me to is to feel like I resent her and though I never could, I know I’d spend the rest of my life nursing a broken heart and wondering what could have been.

So I eschew being a responsible and reasonable adult. I blame my foggy head on an excess of love and hormones. Just a few more days of putting off the hard part, of having to say goodbye, of having to justify my decision. Lachlan and I plan instead, about my future here, about what it all entails.

I mentioned all the hot fucking sex, didn’t I? Well obviously it will be a lot of that. But with Jessica promising me her help in terms of the article, it means concentrating on building my portfolio. The next day after the gala, even in a slightly hungover state, I did up a few paragraphs in the style of something you’d see in one of the gossip magazines, just a short column piece. I emailed it to Jessica who made a few corrections and said she was passing it on to someone she knows.

I still haven’t heard back but I’m just happy that she wants to help me, that she thinks she can. Lachlan seems to believe it as well, and is adamant that I could work at the organization with Amara.

I want to try and get a job on my own two feet, on my own terms, but I also know that it’s not exactly easy when you’re living in Scotland as a somewhat illegal immigrant. I mean, I’m allowed to be here for a certain amount of time, legally, but I’m never allowed to work without a visa. Lachlan says it would be easy for him to sponsor me and that my only other way is to work under the table with some bar work, but that doesn’t sound so bad at all.

In fact, there’s something romantic about it. If I were back at home, I’d hate the idea of working at a bar. I mean, Nicola works at The Burgundy Lion, but it’s only temporary and she’s got people skills in spades. After all, I hate everyone. The idea of serving them day in and out, and alcohol of all things, does my head in.

But here, in Scotland, I could totally be a barmaid. Here, I can be anyone I want to be. That’s the beauty of travel, of throwing everything you know aside and starting over.

That said, I don’t want to start seriously looking until everything is official. That means as soon as I’ve officially resigned from my job, as soon as I’ve filled in my friends and family, well that’s when the work begins.

I just wish, wish, that there wasn’t this tiny, niggling feeling in the back of my chest that’s telling me that things aren’t going to work out the way I want them to. That it won’t be that easy. And that there is a lot of heartache coming my way.

When Monday morning rolls around I get up with the intention that when everyone else in the world rises, when Monday hits on Pacific Time, then I’ll make the phone calls. Maybe that notion makes me already a bit irritable to begin with, I don’t know. But Lachlan wakes up on the wrong side of the bed too. Even Emily is a bit snappish, though Lionel is about as chill as can be, regarding us all warily.

I guess I’m leaving it down to the wire here. Technically there’s only a few days left for me here and if I had been proactive, and already booked my flight, I’d be leaving at the end of the week. Maybe that’s also adding to the prickly stew, the sense of the unknown.

But if I know anything it’s that coffee solves everything. I head into the kitchen to make a whole bunch of it, while grumpy pants Lachlan takes his monosyllabic caveman speak to the washroom.

After one cup I’m feeling better, the cobwebs clearing, and Lachlan strides into the kitchen with the towel around his waist, hair damp from the shower. I always make time to check him out, I mean, a girl can’t help it. Living with him is like living in some girl’s Tumblr account filled with tall, muscular, tattooed, men. And by “some girl,” I totally mean my account from a few years ago.

“I made coffee,” I say to him rather dumbly but coffee doesn’t give me a new brain until the second cup.

He opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. “Thanks,” he says, but doesn’t look at me.

“Rough night?” I ask him. We’d both gone to bed at a decent hour and I know that it still took me a few hours to fall asleep, my mind going over every big thing I needed to do.