Page 108 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
I turned to him, studying the afternoon light on his face, the genuine respect in his eyes. Something bloomed inside me, warm and fragile.
“You’re wrong,” I whispered, reaching up to stroke his cheek, enjoying the slight roughness of stubble beneath my fingertips. I leaned in and pressed my lips gently against his cheekbone, lingering for a heartbeat.
It happened the moment my lips touched his skin—a surge of electricity that shot through me like lightning finding earth. My entire body seized with it, a current flowing from my lips through my chest and down to my toes. I gasped against his skin, fingers involuntarily clutching at his shirt.
With the shock came that scent—raindrops on hot pavement—but amplified, as though the sky had opened above us and drenched everything in a summer downpour. It filled my lungs, my head, making me dizzy with its intensity. For a moment, I could have sworn I felt the phantom sensation of rain on my skin, despite the clear afternoon sky.
Maxwell jerked back, his eyes wide with shock, pupils blown. His hand flew to the spot where my lips had touched, and he stared at me with a look of bewildered wonder.
He opened his mouth—likely to ask for the hundredth time what the fuck was going on—and panic flashed through me. I couldn’t risk telling him. Not while I was enjoying this fragile thing between us so much. Not when it would send him running a thousand miles from me.
So I did the only thing I could think of—I lunged forward, grabbed his face between my hands, and crushed my mouth against his. Not a gentle peck, but a desperate clash of lips and teeth. I swept my tongue against his, swallowing his question, replacing it with a groan that vibrated through both our bodies.
For a heartbeat, he stood frozen, clearly caught off-guard by my sudden attack. Then his hands found my waist, pulling me against him with a force that made me gasp into his mouth. Whatever he’d been about to say was forgotten, lost in the heat building betweenus.
When we finally broke apart, Maxwell cleared his throat, his glasses askew. “Let’s go back to the cottage,” he said breathlessly. He quickly added, “To um… see if Felix has sent us anything else yet.”
“That,” I said, unable to keep the grin from spreading across my face, “sounds like an excellent idea.”
16
Rory
We practically ran back to the cottage through the golden evening light, turning the walk into some sort of playful race—completing the journey in record time before bursting through the door, tumbling over each other as we jostled to be first inside.
The door slammed shut, and in a blink, Maxwell caught me—strong arms circling my waist like he was apprehending his most wanted fugitive—and in one decisive motion, hoisted me upwards as though I weighed nothing. I shrieked in surprise, then laughed, instinctively locking my legs around his waist, my arms finding anchor around his neck as he carried me into the kitchen. The sudden height gave me a new vantage point, looking down into those dark eyes now dancing with intention rather than their usual scrutiny. His lips found mine, seeking and demanding, as he placed me on the counter.
Maxwell’s hands slid under my shirt, fingers working against the tight fabric that clung stubbornly to my skin.
“Did you wear this stupidly tight shirt today just to torment me?” he murmured against my lips.
“Obviously,” I replied, grinning. “Did it work?”
He traced the curve of my spine with blunted nails, making my back arch, his fingers oh-so warm against the cottage’s chill.
“Too well.”
One of my hands tangled in his hair, scratching with just the same amount of pressure as he was giving me. I kissed a path along his stubbled jaw, mouthing my lips against the coarse hair. I finally reached his waitingtongue. A hint of camomile tea still lingered, and my ears caught the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, matching the frantic pace of mine.
I tightened my legs around him, drawing him closer to the counter’s edge. The position had my hardening cock pressing against the firm plane of his stomach while his own growing erection nudged against the counter beneath me. Rolling my hips forward, I sought more contact, more friction, dragging myself against him with a low moan that he swallowed with another kiss.
Maxwell’s hands traced fire along my skin, and all I could think about was how much I wanted him—all of him. My mind raced with possibilities as his mouth moved against mine. I wanted to drop to my knees right here in this cottage kitchen, take him into my mouth again like I had last night. The thought of his taste, his weight on my tongue, made me harder. Or maybe this time he’d be the one to sink down, those lovely lips wrapped around me…
Oh, the things I wanted to do with him. I rarely found anyone I felt comfortable bottoming for—usually seeking partners that wanted me to top. But with Maxwell, I ached for him to twist me around, to bend me over this very counter. Or maybe he’d prefer the bed, where he could watch my face as he pushed inside me. The images flooded my mind, each more explicit than the last.
Then Priya’s voice echoed in my head:“What if this is more than just sex?”
The thought hit me like a bucket of ice water, even as Maxwell’s hands continued their exploration of my body. Because she was right.
I didn’t just want to fuck Maxwell. I wanted to fall asleep with his arms around me, wake up to his octopus hugs and sleepy morning face. I wanted to surprise him with breakfast in bed—maybe French toast, which I was actually half decent at making. I wanted to go for walks with him that didn’t involve searching for my ex-boyfriend’s dead body. I wanted to see his rare smile when I said something unexpectedly funny. I wanted to keep winding him up, to have him glower at me until he cracked, bursting into laughter. I wanted to peel back each of his layers,to discover all the soft parts of him he kept so carefully hidden. To map every corner of his guarded heart.
I didn’t want this to end when we got back to London.
The realisation terrified me. This was Theodore Maxwell—Detective Dickface—the man who’d arrested me during a full moon. The man I’d spent the last year and a half insulting. The man who was only up here with me in Scotland because it was his job. The man who’d never even kissed another man before this.
Maxwell’s hand crept up my thigh to land on my cock, squeezing lightly through the denim of my jeans, and I gasped at the contact, pushing up into him—but the spiral of thoughts wouldn’t stop.
“Wait,” I said, against my better judgement, heart sinking like a stone. “Hold on a moment.”
