Page 28 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter twenty-seven

Mira

I had to be imagining things.

Had to be.

He stepped forward to open the passenger door of the same Range Rover he’d been driving when we met at the Blue Pools, and I slid into the smooth leather seat.

After the modest stone cottage on Arran, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected—but it certainly wasn’t the elegant three-story Georgian townhouse on Regent Terrace where we arrived less than ten minutes later.

The home was beautiful—warm and authentic yet renovated with care over the years.

Tall coffered ceilings crowned a spacious formal dining room just off the wide central hall, where ornately patterned tile gave way to wood floors and antique Persian rugs.

Bunny trotted up as we stepped inside, accepting my pats this time with cheerful familiarity.

Baird took my coat and neatly hung it in a small closet tucked beneath the staircase as we continued into the kitchen.

The space was tasteful and inviting, with cabinetry and walls painted a muted deep sage.

Stone floors grounded the room beneath a broad oak island, and a brass-trimmed zinc range hood gleamed softly above a newer Aga—sleeker than the one I’d seen in the cottage.

A small pantry and laundry nook opened off one end, and I let my fingers trail along the cool Calacatta marble of the island as I took everything in.

A wooden trestle table sat nestled in an alcove overlooking the terrace, its surface set for two with slender, unlit candles poised in their holders.

On the opposite wall, a pair of framed Kuba cloths added warmth and texture, softening the dark gray-green of the surrounding cabinetry and trim.

If I ever built a kitchen of my own, it would be this one.

Baird paused to slip off the Chukka boots he’d worn, stuffed his socks inside them, and tucked them neatly into the same closet where he’d hung my coat. There was something unexpectedly sexy about watching him pad barefoot through his own kitchen—comfortable, unguarded.

He disappeared briefly into the butler’s pantry and returned with two bottles of wine, offering me a choice between a French cabernet sauvignon and an Italian Barolo.

“I liked the Barolo we had last night,” I said with a playful smile. “But who knows, maybe we’ll drink them both.”

“Let’s pace ourselves, lass,” he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting.

I laughed, unable to stop the thought: I really liked it when he teased me like that.

With practiced ease, he pulled the cork and poured a glass for me, then one for himself.

“How do you like your steak?” he asked as he moved to the stove. “I like mine quite rare, but I can cook yours however ye prefer. ”

“Medium rare for me, please,” I said, stepping up behind him—close, but out of the way—watching as he moved confidently through the space.

When the steaks were cooked to his liking, he topped each with a pat of butter and set them aside to rest. From the fridge, he retrieved a bowl of salad—already assembled—and dressed it with a quick drizzle of olive oil and vinegar.

He refilled our wine glasses, then lit the candles on the table, their warm glow casting soft shadows across the alcove.

With easy grace, he carried everything over and set the plates down.

I took a bite of the steak—perfectly cooked, simply seasoned with coarse salt and pepper, seared just right on the outside and warm, juicy rare on the inside.

“I don’t know what you do for a living,” I said as I sliced another piece, “but you could be a chef. This is the best steak I’ve ever had.”

“What do you mean you don’t know what I do for a living?” He cocked his head. “I told ye, I raise cattle.”

“And that pays for all this?” I asked, trying—and mostly failing—to hide my amazement.

“At one time, I owned a shipping company,” Baird said with a shrug, cutting into his steak. “I sold it. I've got some income-producing commercial properties now, but day in and day out, it’s Highland cattle and barley crops.”

He spoke so offhandedly, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

“This house—it’s quite a place.”

Something flickered across his face. Sadness, maybe pain. I couldn’t quite tell, but I knew I’d touched a nerve .

“It’s been in my family for well over two hundred years,” he said after a pause, his voice even. But the openness I’d seen in him moments ago was already slipping away, like sand through my fingers.

I cleared the table quietly and dried the dishes while he washed, the two of us working side by side in a companionable silence. I hoped that, with a little time, the unguarded version of Baird might return.

When we were done, he opened the second bottle of wine, poured us each a glass, and sat back down beside me at the table.

“So at the hotel, you said you wanted to continue the conversation we were having. If I remember correctly, I had just come on to you, and you turned me down,” I said, skipping the preamble.

“Ah…and there’s my girl again,” Baird said, his voice low and smooth, like good whisky.

“The very direct Mira Garvie. Did you know she’s my favorite version of you?

” He leaned back slightly, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“But I’m not so sure about this whole ‘you came on to me’ bit,” he said, slipping into an exaggerated version of my American accent.

“Makes it sound a lot more aggressive than it actually was.”

“How was it?” I asked softly, still lingering on his word choice of ‘my girl,’ letting it sink in.

“It was the best thing any woman has ever offered me, Mira,” he said quietly, tracing the rim of his glass with one finger.

“I lost someone, long ago. And since then, I haven’t really given my heart to another woman.

Sex, sure—now and then. But nothing more.

So I hope you can understand my hesitation. ”

I didn’t understand it. “That’s what I was offering, Baird,” I replied. “Sex. It doesn’t have to be more than that.”

He looked up then, straight into my eyes, his expression serious and unflinching .

“That’s where yer wrong, Mira. I want it to be more than just sex. Yer worth more—deserve more—than casual sex.”

Dr. Patrick’s words from one of our sessions echoed in my mind: “Do you not think you are worthy of true connection?”

Baird made me feel worthy for the first time in my life.

I rose slowly from the table and stepped in front of him. He didn’t move at first, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he would. He looked like he was debating something, caught in a quiet war with himself.

Then his hand came up, resting gently on my hip. He lifted his face to mine, eyes searching.

He stood up slowly, his body filling the space in front of and above me.

He touched my shoulder, his cool fingers brushing the wide neck of my sweater, and it slipped lower to expose the skin above my breast. He traced the swell above my bra with his finger slowly, and my skin burned under his touch, blood rushing to the surface, the feeling exquisite.

His finger traced my collarbone and then moved upwards until he cupped my face with one hand.

He bent to place a soft kiss on my lips, his mouth opening mine, his tongue tentatively exploring inside.

Our lips found a rhythm, one that normally takes lovers time to acquire through repetition, but it felt like we were each born to do this very thing.

He bent down to trace the side of my neck with his lips, and I felt the skin there start to tingle and heat, as if molten gold flowed from his lips and moved as a rivulet throughout my body, pooling in my belly and lower still, my limbs suddenly heavy. I had never felt anything remotely like this.

I couldn’t take the slow agony any longer. I lifted the hem of my sweater and pulled it over my head, letting it fall to the floor without hesitation .

He stepped behind me, unhooked my bra with a practiced ease, then slipped one strap down my shoulder, letting it slide from my arms and drop at my feet.

His large hands slid around my ribcage, then slowly moved upward to cup my breasts, letting the weight of them settle into his palms. My nipples were already hard—aching—and the contrast of his cool skin against my warmth sent a shiver rippling through me.

He kissed the side of my neck as his fingers found one nipple, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. The pressure was just enough to send heat spiraling through me.

I wondered—briefly, breathlessly—if he somehow knew how much I liked that. How sometimes that one small act was all it took to send me over the edge.

His hands moved to the zipper of my pants, easing it down. When he pushed my jeans past my hips, my panties slipped down with them, pooling on the cool stone floor. I stepped out of my flats, then out of the pile of fabric, and turned to face him.

Reaching up, I began unbuttoning his shirt, my fingers steady despite the rush of heat between us. He didn’t hesitate—already working the buttons on his jeans, our movements synced in quiet urgency, the efficiency of shared desire.

His body was muscled perfection—broad shoulders, lean hips, that sharp line some men have that cuts from hip to groin. His thighs were strong, well-muscled, and his cock stood thick and hard between them.

I reached out, brushing my fingers across a soft patch of golden-brown hair on his chest. I traced it slowly as it narrowed into a neat line down the hard ridges of his abdomen, a path that pulled my gaze—and every thought—downward.

I locked eyes with him as I slowly sank to my knees on the cool stone floor. The sharp intake of his breath told me he knew exactly what was coming.

I reached for him, wrapping one hand around the thick length of his cock, feeling him pulse and harden even more in my palm.

Breaking eye contact, I lowered my head and parted my lips, my tongue teasing the tip, savoring the salty taste as I began to take him into my mouth.

I opened my mouth wider, taking in as much of him as I could before pulling back, letting my tongue tease the tip again. Then I ran it slowly along the length of him, savoring the way he twitched beneath the attention.

But then he reached for me—roughly, urgently—and pulled me to my feet. He turned me so my back was to him once more, his hands firm, possessive.

Bending down, he brought his face close to mine, angling it over my shoulder. His mouth found mine in a deep, consuming kiss.

And then he said my name, breathless, desperate.

“Mira.”

He pressed my upper body down against the surface of the table, right in front of the glass terrace windows. For a fleeting second, I wondered if any of the neighbors might have a view of this scene—but even if they did, it wouldn’t have stopped me. Nothing would.

In that moment, I wanted only this—to be claimed by him completely.

Baird slid a hand between my legs, finding the wetness that clung to me. He let out a low, guttural moan, raw and unguarded.

Then he took himself in hand and guided the thick head of his cock to my entrance. I pushed back, meeting his urgency, wanting all of him .

A slow, exquisite pressure bloomed as my body stretched around him, inch by inch. He pulled back slightly—just enough to make me ache for more—but didn’t leave me empty.

With a low, frustrated growl, he bent to whisper in my ear. “I wanted to go slow, Mira…but I can’t. Please forgive me.”

In place of words, I gave him my answer. I braced my arms against the table and pushed back against him, taking in the full length of him, meeting his desperation with my own. His hand gripped my hip, anchoring us to a shared rhythm.

Each thrust was long and deep, gaining urgency, intensity. I moaned—whimpered—lost in the sheer, exquisite pleasure. There was something I loved about being taken like this, about surrendering completely from behind.

Baird’s hand slid into my hair—not to pull, just to feel, to let the silken strands thread through his fingers as he moved inside me.

He pulled out of me abruptly.

Before I could fully react, he slid two fingers into my slick heat, then withdrew them slowly. I turned to watch him, breathless, as he stood to his full height and closed his eyes. Then, almost reverently, he brought his fingers to his mouth, taking each one in to taste me.

My breath caught.

In the next moment, I was lifted off the floor, one arm beneath my knees, the other wrapped around my back.

My mind struggled to track how I'd gone from standing against the table to being held in his arms, weightless and dizzy—though I couldn’t tell if it was the wine or the moment itself that made my head swim.

I didn’t want the spell to break. I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered, “Where are we going?”

He looked down at me, his voice rough and final.

“Bed.”