Page 136 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“What about your job?” His hands are opening the buttons on my blouse, and his lips are following.
“I’m in a good bargaining position to get them to let me work from home.”
When he lifts his head and looks at me, cocking an eyebrow, I grin at him. “I’ll tell you about it later. Now are we going to try to catch this flight or what?”
His grin comes on slow and sexy. “No, lass. We’ll get the next one. We’ve got more important things to do right now.”
And oh, do we. We’ve got so much important stuff to do, we don’t catch a flight out until late the next day.
EPILOGUE
SIX WEEKS LATER
Top Ten Reasons Why Rugby Doesn’t Suck
Incredibly fit men wearing extremely short shorts and extremely tight shirts who bash into each other constantly while getting covered in mud and looking sexy as hell. It’s like a giant violent orgy.
Incredibly fit men in tight clothing who take every opportunity to grab each other’s asses and hug. Shameless bromances abound, the players adorably unselfconscious about their devotion to their teammates. Their extreme machismo apparently has ample room for spontaneous displays of straight-dude affection and brotherly love, all while wearing shorts so tiny and revealing they might as well be Hanes. It’s a beautiful thing.
Beards.
Tattoos.
Muscles. Muscles for daaaaays.
This macho war dance called the haka performed before the start of the match by certain teams. It’s a crazy tribal thing filled with grunts, chants, and a lot of coordinated stomping that works the crowd into a frenzy. Because incredibly fit men in tight clothing, dancing.
No cheerleaders.
The fans. Rugby fans are the friendliest, most passionate people in the world. And the most well mannered. I’ve never sat in a stadium with a huge crowd who acts polite and formal, like they’re awaiting a personal audience with the Queen. Cam keeps telling me rugby is a gentleman’s game, and he’s right. (Except for the giant violent orgies.)
Cameron McGregor, captain of Scotland’s beloved Red Devils, the single most virile, handsome, gifted, sexy, smart, kind, and talented beast of a man who ever lived.
See number nine.
“What’re you up to, Miss Snufflebottom?”
That low sexy voice comes from the bed behind me, where I left Cam sleeping to get up and make my list. I glance over my shoulder and find him propped up on an elbow, the sheets pooled around his waist, his hair messy
, his tattooed chest bare, those hazel eyes warm with desire and unmistakable love.
Pinch me. This is way better than any fairy tale.
“Making a list. Though I was about to start on your Valentine’s Day present.”
“Oh?” He hungrily eyes my nightie, a sheer black wisp of a thing he bought me the first week I moved to Scotland. It was followed by another, and another, until I had so many I had to take over a section of his closet to house them all.
Not that he complained. I think he’d gladly give up all his closet space if it involved my lingerie.
“Does this present include a striptease and strategically placed whipped cream?”
I was thinking more along the lines of a sonnet, but he looks too eager to disappoint. So I send him a Mona Lisa smile, rise from the chair, and stretch my arms overhead. Cam’s eyes follow my every move, sharp as a hawk’s. “It might. Depends on how soon you say you’ll take me to see Nanny O’Shea again. I adore that woman.”
Cam instantly pronounces, “As soon as you want.”
I laugh, delighted as always by the ease at which he’ll agree to anything I ask if he gets some attention in return. The man is a love sponge. He can’t soak up enough.
I make my way over to the bed, moving slowly, enjoying his adoring gaze on me, until I’m close enough that he can grab me by the wrist. Then he pulls me down on top of him, rolls me to my back, throws a heavy leg over me, and kisses me with so much passion it takes my breath away.
