Page 39 of Scot on the Run
* * *
Bella gathered her clothes and limped out of the room, pausing to lower the lights as she departed. Ian was dead to the world. His body had been a considerable but pleasant weight on top of her. The fact that she still quivered with unsatisfied needs was not really his fault. She had told him she was ready. In fact, she had insisted he get to the main event.
The poor man couldn’t have known that she was so nervous she felt like puking or fainting, or both.
In retrospect, the massage had been the best part. Having Ian touch her so deliberately and sweetly lit a spark deep inside her belly that threatened to turn into a conflagration. Unfortunately, her lack of experience in the bedroom had sabotaged her.
A savvier woman would have taken his hands and put them here or there or everywhere, demanding what she wanted and needed. Unfortunately, Bella had been so caught up in the sheer craziness of having this gorgeous man claiming her with out-of-control enthusiasm that she had allowed herself to be left behind. She certainly wasn’t going to wake him now and demand he finish her off with a flourish. The brave Scotsman had rescued a child from near-tragic circumstances. Ian needed his rest.
Once she made it back to the relative safety of the master suite, she bolted the door and headed for the bathroom. Fortunately, there was no one to see if she shed a tear or two underneath the stinging spray of the shower. She soaped her body and shampooed her hair, all the while trying to forget that Ian had stroked her here and touched her there.
She could count on one hand the times she had been intimate with a man… and still have two fingers left over. Clearly, she wasn’t cut out for sexual liaisons. Though she had learned to stand up for herself with her domineering father and also in the world of academia, physical relationships with the opposite sex were harder to negotiate.
The unintentional pun made her laugh, even though she still felt like crying. It was a good bet Ian thought everything was fine. She certainly wasn’t going to disabuse him of that notion.
Despite the adrenaline-filled hours of the day that had now passed into history, Bella had trouble sleeping. Her ankle throbbed, though she had taken a pain pill. Not only that, but she was accustomed to the muted sounds of traffic near her downtown condo back in North Carolina. The scream of sirens heading to the nearby hospital. Laughter and loud voices from the outside patio of the trendy restaurant next door.
Here on Skye, the nights were deep and quiet. She honestly hadn’t realized how noisy her modern life was. Closing her eyes, she started counting all the sheep she had encountered on island roads thus far.
Eventually, she slept…
* * *
Things looked marginally better in the morning. If she could convince Ian that she was blasé about the whole “scratch an itch” experiment last night, maybe he wouldn’t make a big deal about it.
To that end, she brewed a large pot of coffee, settled down at the kitchen table with her favorite Scottish guidebook, and waited. It was almost nine when Ian finally appeared in the doorway. He was bleary-eyed and surprisingly unkempt for Britain’s #2 bachelor.
His hair stood on end. The shirt he wore was wrinkled. As far as she could tell he had crawled straight out of bed without even bothering to take a shower. Considering his role in Jackie’s rescue, along with his later amorous activities, surely the man needed some soap and water.
“Good morning, Ian.” She gave him a serene smile and returned her attention to the page she was reading.
“I woke up and you were gone.”
The accusation held a mixture of bewilderment and pique. Clearly her houseguest slept like the proverbial log. She had returned to her own room hours and hours ago. This was the first time he noticed?
It occurred to her he had no idea she had fled after sex last night. Buoyed by his ignorance, she managed an airy wave. “Busy day. Lots to do. I made a big pot of coffee. Shall I fix you some toast?”
“Don’t want any toast,” he mumbled. After pouring himself a drink in the largest mug the cottage had to offer, Ian dropped down in the chair opposite Bella’s. “You were gone when I woke up.” He reiterated his complaint.
Bella decided to ignore him. She sipped her now-cold beverage and read the same page four times. It was one of the few occasions she and Ian had actually shared the breakfast table. They both liked silence in the mornings. Eating the initial meal in shifts had been the order of the day.
It was impossible to pretend he wasn’t in the room, though she tried. It was also impossible not to think about him naked. Sweet heaven. For a man whose claims to fame were his IQ, his outward good looks, and his bank balance, it seemed unfair to other men that beneath the slightly scruffy clothing he wore, Ian Larrimore was built like a living, breathing god. Broad shoulders, flat belly, narrow hips, and below the waist… wow. Beneath the table, her knees pressed together instinctively.
For twenty minutes Ian drank coffee and eyed her over the rim of his cup. The effort to appear calm and relaxed taxed her limited repertoire of acting skills. She felt as she were on trial. If he hoped to break her with some childish staring contest, he had no clue how desperate she was to shake off the vestiges of last night.
Eventually, he gave up. He thumped his earthenware mug on the table and drummed his fingers on the scarred wood. His jaw squared off and his eyes blazed. “I want to know why you left, damn it.”
Her brow creased. “I don’t understand. I needed to take a shower. What’s the big deal?”
He blinked, clearly shocked that someone other than a man would be so cavalier about a booty call. “I thought women liked to cuddle.”
She gave him a sweet smile. “You’re being silly, Ian. We’re housemates, not roommates.” Flipping open her notebook, she started jotting down ideas for day trips she wanted to make, along with the longer overnight ventures. Fortunately, her brother Finley didn’t expect her to stay here every minute of every day.
Ian refilled his coffee and sat back down, cradling the mug between his hands. “I’ll never understand the female mind,” he said, his lips curling in a wry, self-deprecatory grin. “But for the record, I wish you had lingered this morning. I was disappointed when I woke up. I missed you.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled. His honest confession made her question her behavior and her motives. Was his sincerity for real?
“What are you working on?” he asked. His tone was curious now, less combative than when he first showed up in the kitchen. The caffeine must have kicked in.