That surprised me, but not as much as my reaction. I usually hated it when people touched me. With my injuries, touch had grown unpleasant. Medical, prodding, exposing. Touch reminded me of all I'd lost.
You'd be surprised how much of a sex life I managed with women while avoiding their touch. There was online intimacy, perhaps my favorite. So much could be achieved through the connection of the screen. Interacting like that was like giving me the reins. I could tell a woman exactly what I wanted her to do, arouse her with my words, my instructions. So much of sexual connection was mental, and I excelled at that, recognizing and exploiting hot buttons of arousal or taboos that spiked a woman’s lust.
Even in person, many women got off on my controlling every aspect of our interactions. If I tied them up, binding their wrists, they sighed and moaned and felt my attentions all the more intensely. It didn’t seem to ever occur to them that part of what I was doing was preventing them from touching me.
But Annie? She’d gotten a good, full look at my back in the gym. But she hadn’t run. She’d stayed, taking all of me in, until I’d yelled at her to leave. And now she was touching me, crossing the boundary between us, wanting more.
I’d even caught her checking me out a few times. When I wore short sleeves around her, she didn’t stare at the back of my left arm where I was scarred. She looked at my chest, my shoulders, my muscles. She liked what she saw.
That was going to make her a lot harder to resist.
Sunday, Annie spent the whole day away with her family. I missed her when she was gone. That really pissed me off. I’d gotten myself into a good spot, caring about nothing and nobody. It made for some easy living. In less than a month, she’d managed to level the walls I’d spent years building.
Monday morning, I was feeling supremely irritated. It didn’t help that I was drinking less and taking less pain medications. I had Annie to blame for that. She’d wormed her way into my goddamned head.
I roamed the estate, antsy and restless, hands clenching into fists. Where the fuck was she? It wasn’t her day off any more. I did a long workout, trying to get out some of my pent-up energy, took a long shower trying to relax my knotted muscles. Neither worked.
At six o’clock, I headed into the kitchen and found her there, standing where I least expected, at the counter with a bottle of whisky. She was holding it up to the light, examining it as if she’d never seen one before.
“Where have you been?” My voice came out too growly, too gruff.
“My mum needed help with Brian.” She sounded tired and frustrated. “He didn’t have school today, but she still had to work. Our neighbor bailed at the last minute.”
“And you stayed to help.” My anger at her dissipated in an instant.
She nodded. “I’m sorry, I know I was supposed to be back this morning—”
“You want a drink?” I didn’t need her apology. But she sounded like she could use a glass of Scotch, and she happened to be holding a bottle of liquid gold right there in her hands.
“I could stand a beer, but…” She scrunched up her nose. “I’m not a big fan of Scotch.”
I stood up and took the bottle from her as if I needed to block its ears so it wouldn’t take offense. “Do you know what you’re insulting? This here is Douglas whisky, lassy.”
She grinned, looking down. It felt too damn good to make her smile. I knew I was getting in too deep with this woman, but there was nowhere else I wanted to go but further down. “Saying you’re not a fan of Scotch is high treason under this roof. You need to respect the family brew.”
“Douglas whisky?”
“My family's been making it for hundreds of years."
Her lips curved up more, such a tempting shade of pink. What would it feel like to kiss them? I didn't know which I'd like more, starting slow and gentle, building up the fire in her, holding her in my arms and making her feel cherished while I kissed those soft, full lips. That had its appeal. But so did a full on cease-and-desist order, pulling her to me, taking her lips with mine, crushing her against me and making her gasp. I knew one thing. I wanted to bite that bottom lip of hers. I’d start with a nip, and then I'd lick, suck on that plump lip and make her moan into my bite.
“Is it any good?” she asked.
“What do you think? It’s Douglas Scotch.” She looked up at me, not seeming convinced. “All right then, it's settled. Tonight, you're getting an education. After dinner, I'm going teach you about Scotch."
“Is it to be a formal class then? Should I bring a notebook and pen?"
“Just bring that mouth of yours and we should be all set." I ran my finger along her lower lip, her eyes blazing at my touch. Then I left the room before I could get myself into even hotter water. I shouldn’t be doing it, making plans, drawing her closer, but I no longer seemed able to stop myself.
Around eight o’clock, I fixed a fire in the fireplace, then relaxed back on the couch. The large, buttery-leather sectional was one of the few new pieces of furniture I’d purchased for the house. I didn’t care about the main room. That I left in disrepair. I never spent any time there, anyway. It was the library where I liked to rest and relax. Tonight, with Annie. Not long after, she walked in shyly, wearing a soft green sweater that looked remarkably as if it were the right size for her petite, curvaceous frame.
“Welcome to Scotch 101.” A full tasting menu sat before me on a low table with several bottles of Scotch and two glasses. “Here you’ll see three distinct types of single malt Scotch whisky.”
“So formal.” She smiled at me, gesturing at my well-arranged display. I couldn't help smiling back. It had been so long since anyone had teased me. My little sister Sophie used to do that all the time. I forgot how much I liked it.
“Have a seat.” She hesitated only a moment before moving to join me on the couch.
“So you say you're born and bred in Scotland?” I began as she settled down next to me. As she sat, I caught a whiff of her scent, light and feminine. It made my mouth water.
“I’m a Scottish lass.” I’d known that was the case, and I would've known it even if she’d never opened her mouth to speak in her gorgeous brogue. She looked like the quintessential Scottish lass, healthy and hale, blue eyes and ruddy cheeks, her thick golden brown curls tumbling down her back. “I've barely left the country,” she admitted.
“No holidays on the continent then?” I got the sense that she didn't exactly come from money. What would she be doing wasting her time as a caretaker with a guy like me if she had?
“Not so much,” she admitted. “I'm one of four, so.” She shrugged as if she'd never really expected more than she'd been given in life. I never sensed any bitterness in her. The few times she mentioned her mom, she seemed full of praise and admiration.
“What about you then?” she asked. “Do you have dual citizenship? How long have you been living here?”
I shook my head. “I know you're curious. But tonight's not about me. Tonight I’m going to teach you about something much more important.”
My dirty mind flashed on so many possibilities. She was an eager student, sitting there next to me, close, in the firelight. She looked so untouched and pure. I knew I could shock her so easily, and I felt sorely tempted. But first, Scotch.
“Now Scotch was initially made from malted barley,” I began my instruction. “Distilleries started in with wheat and rye in the late 18th century, but they were just trying to come up with new-fangled ways of doing things.”
“As my mum says, new isn't always better.”
“I happen to agree with your mother. She sounds like a very intelligent woman.”
“She is.”
“Now, Scotch is divided into five distinct categories.”
“I should've brought a notepad and pen.”
“I can see that you're joking.” I pointed my finger at her, slightly scolding. “But this is important stuff. And any full-blooded Scottish lass should be able rattle off those five categories.”
>
She smiled, but not so much with teasing as in delight over my enthusiasm. The crusty, cranky part of me wanted to tell her to simmer down. I was still the dark, reclusive beast of a man who frustrated the hell out of her. But I also happened to know a thing or two about Scotch.
“Is some of that from your family's distillery?” she asked, pointing at the row of bottles I had on the table.
“All of it,” I assured her. “Founded by Aengus Douglas, spelled A-e-n-g-u-s, because A-n-g-u-s wasn’t Scottish enough.” She cracked up. I loved making her laugh. “Prepare yourself to taste the best Scotch ever made.”
“Modest are we?”
“Honest.” I met her eyes and held her gaze. The air in the room felt warm. She was hanging there like a delectable ripe fruit, so innocent and pure. The opposite of me. Better to just teach her about whisky, at least for tonight.
I poured us each some single malt, only about an ounce in her glass. I didn't think she had much tolerance. She brought it up to her nose and sniffed it suspiciously, as if it might actually be poison.
“Not a big drinker?” We’d been under the same roof for about a month, and I didn't think I'd seen her have more than a glass of wine with dinner. Of course, I'd been a bear and hadn't offered to share any of my stash.