Page 88 of One Night in Glasgow
“I need to be inside you,” he growled against my mouth, his hands already working at his belt. The sound of the metal buckle clinking undone was almost as erotic as the promise in his voice.
“Yes, please,” I whimpered, reaching for him, desperate to feel every inch of him.
He shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. I licked my lips at the sight, but before I could do more, he gripped my hips and positioned himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he commanded, waiting until my eyes met his. The intensity in his gaze was almost too much, raw and possessive. “I want to see your face when I fuck you.”
With one powerful thrust, he filled me completely, stretching me around his girth until I felt every inch of him buried deep inside. We both groaned at the sensation, my nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt as he held still for a moment, letting me adjust.
“Fuck, Beth,” he panted, his forehead pressed against mine. “You feel so perfect. So tight around my cock.”
Then he started to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate and deep, hitting spots inside me that made me see stars. My legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as I rocked against him, meeting every movement with equal need.
“Harder,” I gasped, craving more, needing him to erase every last shred of doubt and fear lingering in my mind.
He didn’t hesitate. His grip on my hips tightened, almost bruising, as he picked up the pace, pounding into me with a ferocity that had the table shaking beneath us. The city lights blurred outside the window, Glasgow forgotten as pleasure built again, faster this time, coiling tight in my core.
“That’s it,” he grunted, one hand sliding between us to circle my clit with firm strokes. “Come for me again, baby. I want to feel this pussy squeeze me when you do.”
His filthy words and the relentless pressure on my clit sent me spiraling into another orgasm, this one even more intense than the first. My walls clenched around him, pulsing as I cried out, my body trembling with the force of it. Sean followed moments later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep and came hard, his cock throbbing inside me.
For a long moment, we stayed like that, panting and tangled together, his weight holding me against the table as aftershocks rippled through us both. Finally, he pulled back slightly, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the raw intensity of what we’d just done.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured against my hair, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my cheek.
I traced lazy patterns on his chest, feeling more centered,more present in my own skin than I had in years. The anxiety about tomorrow’s confrontation was still there, but it had receded to a manageable hum rather than the overwhelming roar it had been.
“Thank you,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
“For the mind-blowing orgasms?” he chuckled, his hand stroking down my spine.
“For that,” I agreed with a smile. “But also for seeing me. The real me.”
He tilted my chin up, his eyes serious despite his smile. “I’ve seen you from the moment we met, Beth MacLeod. And I’m not going anywhere.”
The next day,we arrived at the MacLeod manor. The grand, imposing house stood exactly as I remembered it, a stone fortress of judgment and expectation. As we pulled up the long, gravel driveway, my hands started to tremble.
“Hey,” Sean said softly, taking one of my hands in his. “Look at me.” I turned to face him. His eyes were steady, calm, a beacon of strength. “We walk in there together, we state the facts, and we walk out together. We are a team. They have no power over you anymore.”
I took a deep breath, his confidence a welcome anchor. “Okay,” I whispered. “Team.”
We walked to the front door, and before I could even ring the bell, it was opened by Angus. He was the picture of professional composure, but I saw the flicker of shock in his eyes as he took in the sight of me, not broken and alone, but standing tall, with Sean’s hand resting securely on the small of my back.
“Miss Elisabeth,” he said, his voice a carefully neutral murmur. “Your parents are waiting in the drawing room.” He gave Sean a brief, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement before stepping aside to let us pass.
We walked into the drawing room. My father was standing by the fireplace, his posture rigid. My mother was seated on the silk sofa, perfectly poised, a porcelain teacup resting in her hand. She looked up as we entered, her gaze sweeping over me with disinterest before landing on Sean with the force of a physical blow. A slow, condescending smile touched her lips.
“Elisabeth, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “You’ve brought your American amusement. How quaint.”
The old Beth would have risen to the bait, would have snapped back with a defensive, angry retort. But the old Beth wasn’t here today.
“Mother, Father,” I said, my voice calm and steady. “This is Sean McCrae. We have some information we thought you should be aware of.”
I didn’t wait for an invitation to sit. I led Sean to the sofa opposite my mother, and we sat down together, a united front. I placed the heavy manila envelope from Fury on the antique coffee table between us.
“I’m sure you’re both aware of the recent… media attention… surrounding my time in New York,” I began, my tone cool and professional, as if I were delivering a corporate briefing. “What you may not be aware of is that the situation was deliberately orchestrated.”
My father scoffed. “Orchestrated? Don’t be ridiculous, Elisabeth. You created that mess all by yourself.”
