The Play

  He looks down at his hands and gives a lazy one-shouldered shrug. “I found Lionel on the streets in Edinburgh. I was able to teach him. Maybe he taught me some things. You never know with dogs. But…it takes a special kind of person to train dogs, especially those who have been through trauma and abuse. I am not that kind of person. I will do whatever I can to save them, but I’m not the person who can school them on obedience.”

  “Really?”

  A quiet, almost uncomfortable smile tugs at his lips. “A dog with behavioral problems shouldn’t learn from someone with behavioral problems.”

  I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Oh,” I say, trying to think of the right thing to say. “You just seem like a natural. These two were strays, and now look at them. Just like that.”

  “I can get the dogs to trust me,” he says in a low voice. “Because I trust them. But I can’t get them to trust others.”

  “Because you don’t trust people?”

  He slowly blinks and then reaches for the stem of his wine glass. “I think I may trust you. Here’s to that.”

  “Here’s to that,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against his. I’m more than meeting him in the eyes—I’m diving in the green and grey. They seem darker somehow, moving shadows. Depthless. Behavioral problems? What kind? How much more can I learn about him before he’s gone?

  I take a gulp of my wine and he barely touches his. Just a small sip, then puts the glass back down and pushes it away from him.

  “I’ve never seen you drink much,” I tell him, hoping my tone is easy enough so he won’t take offense.

  He gives me a long, measured look before he licks his lips and looks away. “No, I don’t.”

  “Because of training,” I say, giving him an easy way out.

  A slow nod. “Yes.”

  He’s still not meeting my eyes. His focus is on the cheeseboard, and even though he’s not frowning like he usually is, his shoulders seem tense.

  “What other things do you have to do for training?” I ask. I feel like we’ve regressed a little bit and I want that sexy, casual banter back.

  He drums his fingers along the edge of the table and I lean forward, trying to get some cheese on my plate. “Lot of work in the gym. Lot of work on the pitch. A good diet.”

  “I assume it doesn’t include loads of cheese,” I tell him, drizzling the honey on top of my brie.

  “Nah, just boring stuff. Chicken breasts, broccoli. It’s not a lot of fun, but at my age, you have to do it if you want to keep playing. When I was younger I could have eaten whatever I wanted.”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Thirty-two,” he says, and I’m a little bit surprised. I guess because he looks so manly and distinguished—the lines on his forehead, his scruffy beard—I figured he was in his mid to late thirties. Or maybe it’s his eyes.

  I stare at them, even though they are now staring sharply at the fig as he hacks his way into it, as if the fig has done something personal to him. It’s those eyes that trip me up. The eyes of an old soul, of someone who has seen too much, done too much. There’s a war behind them at all times, a war I want to help him win.

  “Does that surprise you?” he asks, glancing up at me briefly.

  I take a delicate bite of the crostini. “Not really. You just seem more mature than that.”

  He scoops out some of the fig and spreads it over the goat cheese and crostini. “In rugby, being in your thirties is asking for trouble. All those years of being hit, all the injuries, the strain. It takes a toll. I don’t know what happened, but when I turned thirty it all started to slip, just a bit.” He offers me the rest of the fig and I take it from his hands, my fingers brushing against his. One simple touch and I feel it travel down the length of my arm, straight to my heart.

  Bam. A shower of sparks.

  I swallow, trying to ignore the feeling. “How long have you been playing?”

  He frowns, eyes squinting in thought. “Twenty-two. Yeah.” He nods. “Ten years.”

  I blink, impressed. “That’s a long time. Is that normal?”

  “I guess,” he says, pursing his lips, considering. “I’m good at what I do. They need someone fast, someone who will break everyone in their way. That’s my job. But I can’t do it forever. After I fucked up my bloody tendon…I know I don’t have long.”

  “You almost make it seem like you’re dying.”

  He briefly sucks in his cheeks. “Rugby saved my life. I’m not sure what I’ll do when it’s over.”

  “Coach?” I ask him hopefully.

  “Nah,” he says, munching on the crostini and leaning back in his chair. When he swallows, he adds, “I’m either in the game, or I’m not. There is no halfway. That’s not how I’m built. Once I’m done, I’m done.”

  And when this is over? I think, are we done?

  But of course we are…we aren’t even a thing.

  “Maybe you’ll just do charity work…for the dogs.”

  “Aye,” he says. He reaches for his wine and takes a small sip. He almost puts it back down but takes another gulp, finishing the glass. “I’ll keep doing that. There’s no expiration on helping others. As bloody cheesy as that sounds.”

  “That’s not cheesy,” I tell him. “That’s selfless and beautiful.”

  “Come now,” he chides me, seeming embarrassed. He looks away, folding his arms across his wide chest, his unreal body stealing my attention again, turning my thoughts back into a sexual whirlwind. Well played, Mr. McGregor, well played.

  “What’s the lion tattoo for?” I ask him. “What’s the story?”

  That startles him and I can tell it’s a soft spot. “What are you on about?”

  I point to his forearm. “There. Lion. See. You said you would tell me some stories. About your tattoos. Why you have them.”

  He rakes his teeth over his lower lip and looks me dead in the eye. “Did I now?”

  “Yes,” I tell him impatiently. “Last night…maybe this morning. After some good fucking.”

  “Ah, yes. That explains it.”

  “Well, give me something.”

  “If I give you something, will you give me something?”

  I can’t help but grin like a fool. “Of course.”

  “Okay then.” He pushes his chair back slightly and takes his shirt off, tossing it to the floor beside him. He spreads his legs and pats the crotch of his pants, his gaze absolutely feral. “Have a seat.”

  I am lightheaded at the sight of his torso again. I manage to get up, drawn to him like a magnet. I put my hands on the hard breadth of his shoulders and straddle him. We are so close. Our mouths inches away.

  He’s breathing hard. I’m breathless.

  He’s a wall of muscle and ink. I’m soft, yielding against him.

  “So, ask away,” he says, that voice low and rough, yet cashmere cream. That voice I’ll hear in my dreams long after he’s gone.

  His eyes never leave my lips.

  I lean back to get a better look at him, even though the distance pulls at me. I decide to leave the lion alone for now, and run my fingers over his shoulder, the taut, hard muscle. A storm rages in muted ink, a masterfully shaded old ship with tall sails spreads onto his chest.

  “This one,” I say softly. “Why the storm? Why the ship?”

  He chews on his lip for a moment, searching my eyes. “I was twenty-four. I backpeddled with life for a bit. I lost my edge in the game. But I pushed through and was better for it. A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are built for.” He tilts his head as if observing me, though I’m the one watching him. “It helps me when I get scared. To keep going.”

  “You get scared?” I ask him, unable to picture this strong, powerful man, afraid of anything at all.

  “All the time,” he says frankly. “How can life be anything except terrifying at times? We’re born here. We don’t ask for it. And we’re expected to somehow get through it, to live each day without dying. We li
ve, and if we don’t, we die.” He looks away, gives his head a shake. “Nah. We’re all scared, every last one of us.”

  I know I am. Of so many things. My heart melts slightly to know that someone like him could feel the same way as someone like me.

  I trail my fingers along the text on his collarbone. “Nunquam iterum,” I read out. “Latin, I assume?”

  “Yes,” he says slowly, looking away. “It means never again.”

  “Never again, what?”

  His mouth quirks up into a sour smile. “Never again to a lot of things.”

  “Is that all I’m going to get?”

  “From that, yes,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. His pupils are so large, they hypnotize me. “You get one more. Then you’re giving me something.”

  I breathe in deeply and look over every inch of him. The lion. “Hope before Death” across his side. A paw print on his inner arm. A flock of ravens swirling into a tribal pattern down one bicep, making a sleeve. A crest with what looks like Latin on the other forearm. Another similar crest on his chest. I press on the one on his chest, with a boar at the center. “Corda. Serrata. Pando,” I say, my finger tracing the words.

  “I open locked hearts,” he says.

  I still, watching him close. “What?”

  “I open locked hearts,” he repeats. “It’s the Lockhart crest. I was born a Lockhart. That is the clan’s motto.”

  “Again, that’s terribly romantic,” I tell him. “That must be where you get it from.” I touch his forearm, the other crest. “And I guess this is McGregor?”

  “Aye, though it should be MacGregor, or Clan Gregor.”

  “'S rioghal mo dhream,” I try to say but stumble over it. “What the hell.”

  “Royal is my race,” he translates. He gives me a dry smile. “But I’m not a McGregor and it’s not my race. So that explains a lot.”

  I run my hand down the side of his cheek and he briefly closes his eyes. “I think I’d rather you a romantic warrior than one with fussy bloodlines.”

  He leans in, slowly opening his eyes, gazing at me through his lashes. “Who said I was a warrior?”

  I lower my voice. “I say you’re a warrior.”

  You’re my warrior.

  For now.

  He lifts his chin. “What else do you say?”

  I adjust myself on his hips, my hand slipping down toward his pants. I shift to undo the top button, bracing myself on his shoulder. “I say you need to get your cock out, warrior.”

  He reaches out and lets his hands drift down over my hair. “Lead you into battle?”

  “Something like that.” I bite my lip as I tug down his zipper. I can feel him hard, bare, ready beneath me. I’m wet as hell again.

  He knows. He puts one hand at the small of my back, the other slipping between my legs, pushing the dress up. My clit screams with pleasure the moment his fingers slide against me, slick and hard.

  “Christ,” he murmurs, staring at me with shiny eyes. “You’re always good to go.”

  “Only with you,” I say, leaning forward and kissing along his neck, taking in his woodsy, spicy scent that throws me into another wave of lust. I could live my whole life with my face buried here, feeling the pulse along his neck, smelling every ounce of this primal man.

  “That suits me just fine, love,” he says, grabbing my dress and pulling it over my head. “Get this off. I want to suck on those fantastic tits of yours.”

  Jeez. Even the way he says “tits” is nearly enough to make me come. Then again, the man could read the phonebook in that warm, slightly growly voice of his, and it would be better than the dirtiest erotica.

  I raise my arms and the dress is gone, and I’m completely naked now on his lap. Seems to be a common theme here.

  But I don’t feel any shame, and if I’m vulnerable at all, it’s eclipsed by the way he’s staring at me, nearly dumbfounded, as if he can’t believe his luck. His eyes rake over my body, hot with desire I can feel. He frowns, almost in anger, and mutters something so low I can’t hear.

  Then he’s leaning over, cupping my breast with large, warm hands, and pulling my nipple into his mouth. My body becomes a roman candle, fizzing, burning, begging to go off.

  I moan loudly, grinding myself into his cock, desperate for penetration.

  “Easy,” he murmurs, sending more shivers along my spine, his tongue lapping at my nipple until it nearly hurts. My other breast is practically aching, needing his touch, and when he moves his wet, hot mouth over, my body shakes in relief.

  “Fuck,” I say with a moan, throwing my head and shoulders back, trying to push myself into him, wild, crazy, and desperate for more. I reach down and around, grasping his cock and pulling it out of his pants.

  “Easy,” he warns again, pulling his mouth away from me. “You don’t know the power you have,” he says, gazing up at me.

  “I think I do,” I tease, gripping him harder.

  He pinches his eyes shut, his full, luscious mouth dropping open in a moan. God, his sounds completely undo me, a thread being pulled looser and looser until I’m flayed at the seams.

  “Please, love,” he begs, cupping my face with his hand while staring feverishly at my lips. “Not yet. Let me at least get a condom out before I lose it.” He reaches for his cargo pocket but I put my hand on top of his.

  “Let me,” I tell him. I reach in and pull it out, tearing the foil open with one hand. He leans in, kissing me lightly, lips brushing lips, until I start unrolling the condom over his thick, wet head. Then the kiss deepens, a slow, hard pull that reaches deep inside me, feeding the hunger. Our mouths, lips, and tongues dance like savages with each other, violent and ravenous and wild.

  He suddenly grabs my waist and hoists me up a few inches, positioning his cock just so before lowering me. I gasp at the intrusion, my body so fucking ready yet so unprepared that I have to remember to breathe.

  “Fuck me,” he mutters against my neck as he deliberately drives his cock upward and into me, my muscles expanding around him as much as they can. “So fucking good, Kayla. You feel so fucking good.”

  I can’t even answer him. I’m sucked under a wave and all I can feel is him pushing, spreading inside me, taking over every thought and feeling. I’ve never felt so full, so thoroughly complete before.

  Because my legs aren’t long enough to touch the floor and his thighs are so large to begin with, I can’t do much to pump myself up and down. Instead, I’m at Lachlan’s mercy, his hands holding onto my waist like I weigh nothing more than a feather. He lifts me up, just an inch, while thrusting upwards, deeper and deeper until I can’t control the sounds that are coming out of my mouth.

  I’m so close to coming, and so fast, just on his cock alone, when a funny noise makes my eyes snap open.

  I stare over Lachlan’s shoulder to see the pit bull on the couch, circling around and trying to get comfortable. The smaller dog is staring right at us.

  “Uh,” I say, clearing my throat.

  Lachlan’s breathing quickens with each pump inside me—he doesn’t seem to hear.

  “The dogs,” I manage to say, pressing down on his shoulder.

  He slows and looks at me, sweat on his creased brow, his eyes hooded and sex drunk. “What?”

  “The dogs are staring at us,” I whisper.

  He frowns then cranes his neck to look behind him. When he looks back at me, his expression is entirely quizzical. “So?”

  “It’s kind of weird that they’re watching,” I tell him.

  He smirks, the tip of his tongue poking out. “Really? I would have thought you were the exhibitionist type.”

  “Hey, I am the exhibitionist type. I don’t mind people watching.”

  His brow raises, a heated looking coming over him. “Is that so?”

  “It is so,” I retort, mimicking his accent. “But it’s weird with dogs.”

  “All right then,” he says. He lifts me up and off his cock and I’m immediately bereft without him ins
ide me. I step off him and onto the floor as he gets up, towering over me, his pants falling to his ankles. “Get in the bedroom,” he commands, kicking his pants to the side.

  I do what he says, walking naked and still in my high heels, across his living room.

  “You’re too fucking much,” he murmurs, and when I glance coyly over my shoulder at him, he’s standing there, completely bare, in a wide-legged stance that shows off every muscle in his thighs, cock in his hands.

  No, you’re too much, I think.

  Once I’m in the bedroom, the small space tidy and smelling of him, I head for the bed, kicking off my shoes. But before I reach it, he’s flicking on the lights and grabbing my arm. “Hold up, love,” he says, leading me toward the floor-to-ceiling window that covers the entire wall.

  He throws back the curtains and I step away from the glass instinctively. We’re not only about twenty stories high, but we have a clear view into the populated high rises across the street from us, and a peek of the lit Bay Bridge between them. We’re standing at the window, completely naked, with the lights on. Anyone can see us.

  And then I realize what Lachlan is doing. Anyone can see us…

  I turn around, giving him a shy smile. “Are you sure?”

  He bends down and picks me up by the waist, pressing me back against the glass. I suck in my breath, shaking, immediately met with a wave of vertigo. I’m okay with heights, but it’s entirely different when a giant man is pressing you against a window pane from a very high place.

  I feel like I can fall at any moment.

  “I’m sure,” he says, pushing himself into me. I wrap my legs around him, extra tight. He feels like a lifeline. “I won’t see those neighbors ever again.”

  Yeah, but I might, I think. Still, there’s something incredibly erotic about it all. I can’t see the people’s faces in the dark, but if they were to look up, I know what they’d see: my ass pressed against the glass, framed by a beast of a man.

  I dig my heels into him, holding on tight as he slowly pushes deeper and deeper inside. My hands grab the back of his neck, feeling the strength in his straining muscles, his hot, sweaty skin. He licks up the length of my throat and moans into me as his hands cup my breasts and his cock thrusts in.