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Chapter Four

Hamish

Being dumped off outside Farmington’s main building, pissed as a newt, while Andrew and Declan head off to some exclusive cottage on the property, means that I strut through a mostly empty lobby.

Then pause. Because I am alone.

How the hell am I alone ? Me? This perfect balance of inebriation and horniness means I would be doing a disservice to the universe by not bedding a sweet, warm, wet woman tonight. Not as an act of selfish hormone-driven lust, mind you.

As a public service. An act of sacrifice, even.

Time to make someone very, very happy.

I have a long list of contacts I could ring right now. Been in Boston plenty of times and left a satisfied sequence of women behind me. Booty call is a vile term for connecting with someone and releasing your tensions together with a joyful noise. Can no one come up with a better term?

How about delight dial?

Romance ring?

Climax call?

Orgasm outreach…

Oooh, I rather like that last one. “Hi there, Ainsley. This is Hamish, ringing with an orgasm outreach. How’s about it?”

But maybe it’s a bit too businesslike. As if those door-to-door missionaries were coming around, but instead of saving your soul, they were trying to get your nuts off.

Which would be a better way of saving humanity, in my opinion, but I don’t make the rules. If I did, you can sure bet I’d make orgasm outreach a priority.

As I lean against a pillar and scroll through my contacts, I realize the one I keep thinking about isn’t in my phone.

She’s not in my phone because I’ve never asked for her number.

Well, there’s no time like the now.

A quick walk to the front desk yields a thousand-watt smile from a woman who, a minute ago, looked like a grumpy female version of Shannon’s dour cat. Seeing me made her smile.

“Yes? Mr. McCormick?”

“That’s ma da, pet,” I say, my mouth suddenly craving the taste of Amy.

Not this sweet woman with the sidelong flirt and the look in her eyes that says her ankle bracelets can double as earrings on me.

No. Amy.

“I’m Jasmine,” she says with eyebrows up, as if to ask, Would you like anal with your wake-up call?

“Call me Hamish.”

She takes my hand and writes her number on the back of my wrist. “Call me when I get off my shift at seven.”

If I had a pound for every phone number a woman wrote on my hand, I’d have a nice bank account.

“Ye can put yer number in ma phone, ye ken.”

“I ken?”

“You can.”

“If I did that, I wouldn’t have an excuse to touch you,” she whispers as she looks around. Before I can understand what she’s doing, she raises my hand to her mouth and sucks my pointer finger in, giving it a tongue treatment that makes my cock-stand feel like a cricket bat.

“Jesus, pet, that’s nae how I normally shake hands when I meet someone new,” I say, trying to fight biology, which is readying my muscles to give her the sweaty pounding we both need. But in my mind’s eye is a fiery redheaded woman who insults me every chance she gets.

Wait a moment.

My head’s mince.

I’ve a gorgeous woman making love to my finger and I’m here to ask for Amy’s room number?

Because that’s why I approached the desk. To go find Amy’s room and give the door a good pounding.

Jasmine, though, would be a better choice.

“I don’t want to shake your hand,” Jasmine says, pausing to look up at me with eyes that say, I’ll let you do things you’ve only watched on free porn channels . “I want you to rock my world.”

Just then, a flash of auburn hair catches my eye and I turn to see Amy, holding an ice bucket as she heads toward the desk, her mouth screwed tight like, well…

Her cat’s puckered arse.

Shock covers her beautiful, flushed face and for a moment, as we lock eyes, I peer at her, realizing she’s not here for ice, or to ask directions, or for any reason other than me.

Me.

Amy is searching for me .

Her eyes flick to Jasmine’s mouth and my unfortunately occupied finger.

“Oh, gross,” Amy declares before stomping back down the hallway, leaving aftershocks in her wake.

When I pull my finger out of Jasmine’s grip, the sudden cold air makes me growl a bit. I have to jog to catch Amy. Explaining myself to an angry red hornet when Jasmine was back there using my finger as a lolly is the height of stupidity, but when have I ever turned away from making a bad choice, as Ma likes to say?

“Amy!”

She ignores me and breaks into a run, her cardkey in her hand in a flash, the door to Room 112 slamming shut.

Hands on my hips, the finger Jasmine tongued practically begging me for a post-coital cigarette, I stare at the number and shake my head.

What am I doing?

No, really. What. Am. I. Doing? I can go back to the front desk and fuck Jasmine until she screams my name so loudly, Amy will hear her.

I can go to the bar and find a lovely or three as well (though one at a time, thank you very much).

Blood and excitement race through me as I knock on Amy’s door, the movement involuntary, as if a supernatural force made me do it.

Nothing.

I knock again.

Nothing.

I know she’s in there, I saw her go in. The thought of the curve of her beautiful bottom in her pajamas makes me study the door, debating my options.

My obvious option is Jasmine.

As I re-enter the lobby, though, I see her flirting with a man in a suit, the kind who wears a watch worth more than my flat back home. The clock says 2:41, and I remember why I’m here.

Not to get pissed and bang my cousin’s future sister-in-law.

To stand up at his wedding.

My bones are loose and my body’s feeling fine, but as I head toward the bar, I’m surprised by the sign.

Closed.

There goes my supply of lovely bedmates for tonight.

One look back at Jasmine tells me she’s traded up–in the wallet area, at least.

I know a losing play when I see one. No need to pour good energy after bad.

I head for my room, taking the stairs three flights up. In a different part of the building from Amy, I’m closer to where the ceremony will be, while she’s closer to the reception area. On the way up, my hands begin to tingle at the thought of touching her, sliding my palm under her jaw to cup it, the tease of her long, beautiful hair against my fingers, the press of her curves against my body.

Too much blood rushes to where I don’t want it. Now I've got a stonner, dammit. In a fury, I open my door, slam the shower on, whip off my clothes, and climb into the bitter cold spray.

Nights like this don’t happen to me. This is a first.

And it’s all Amy Jacoby’s fault.

A shivering, icy shower doesn’t do a damn bit of good for the thick icicle between my legs, but a hand and a rush of imagining her moaning my name does wonders, the quick wank easy but beneath me.

And speaking of things beneath me… I still can’t get Amy out of my head.

A quick rinse and I towel off. When I emerge from the bathroom, my foot finds my ever-present football. Toeing it, bouncing from knee to ankle, over and over, gets me warmed up, but it does nothing for the testosterone that needs a woman’s body to be fully neutralized.

Damn her.

The phone has a blinking red light, an old-fashioned alert that makes me grab it and listen. It’s a reminder from the wedding planner to be at the men’s dressing room at 3:00 p.m.

It’s 3:00 a.m. now.

I drop to the floor and do a hundred push-ups, then a hundred sit-ups, ready for a round of burpees before I halt, panting and sweaty. Purging my desire through exercise isn’t new, but it is rare to need it like this.

I hate that she makes me need it.

The phone catches my eye again, and a plan forms.

Room 112, aye?

The cold shower and exercise haven’t taken away my buzz, and the impulse to find Amy, kiss her, make her see how good a night with me could be is so strong, I pick up the phone and press her room number.

Then I wait.

If she won’t listen to me when I’m chasing her, maybe a sweet chat will do the trick.

When have I ever failed at sweet-talking a woman into bed?

Not about to start now.