Fury filled me at the thought of Fergus.
He’d been Brodan’s closest friend at school. Then, when I was sixteen, he noticed me. I thought he was cute and kind, and I liked that an older guy was interested in me. My brothers, except for Lachlan, who was in Hollywood, were at university. Brodan was no longer there to keep an eye on Fergus, and my dad was clueless about what I got up to. I was lonely. And Fergus was this handsome, twenty-year-old my brothers all liked. It never even occurred to me he shouldn’t have been taking an interest.
By the time my brothers realized we were dating, it was too late. We’d slept together. Brodan eventually forgave Fergus after I broke up with him. I’d decided I didn’t want to go to university while in a relationship, and I realized that what I’d felt for Fergus was more familial than romantic. Having sex with him had made me feel weird. According to Brodan, Fergus was heartbroken, and he’d felt bad enough to forgive him for dating me in the first place.
While I’d been feeling guilty about hurting Fergus, I never knew he hadn’t gotten over me. In fact, I’d believed we’d become friends. Extremely good friends. Good enough friends for me to break down one night when I was drunk and confide that I was in love with Mac.
So when he’d joined forces behind our backs with Lucy Wainwright, he’d gone off-script on Lucy’s arse and attacked Mac.
All because I loved him.
Despite my history with Fergus, I was relieved to know he was dead. Sadness. Unbelievable sadness, but relief. He’d almost killed Mac. Tried to kill Robyn. And he’d murdered Greg McHugh. I didn’t want to be loved by someone like that. I didn’t want to be the reason other people were hurt.
Tears filled my eyes as I reached out to trace Mac’s scars. “I’m sorry, Mackennon.”
His stomach muscles flexed at my touch. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said gruffly.
I looked up, still caressing him. “This was my fault.”
“No.” His expression darkened. “Fergus was unwell, Arro.”
“I shouldn’t have told him how I felt about you.”
“Not your fault.” Mac’s voice was so hoarse, it was almost a whisper.
Suddenly, the feel of him under my fingers, the heat of him, his scent, the way his eyes blazed into mine, made the air too thick. It was hard to breathe. And all I could think was, if I wanted air in my lungs again, I needed to kiss him.
His head dipped to mine as mine moved upward.
Our lips crashed together, and it was a frantic, hungry kiss. His arms wound around me, clutching the fabric of the onesie at my back, drawing it tight as we devoured each other. Just the feel of his tongue dancing against mine was enough to thrill my whole body. Needing him between my legs, I straddled him and rolled my hips against his erection.
His growl vibrated down my throat, and my fingers slid through his silky hair to hold him even closer. It was the deepest kiss of my life, and yet I needed deeper. I needed more.
I needed every inch of him to fuse with me until we couldn’t tell where I ended and where he began.
His hands smoothed down my waist to grip my hips, and I felt the pressure of him holding me down on his arousal as I rolled my hips again and again until we were panting so hard, we broke the kiss.
I gasped for breath as the coil of need spiraled taut between my legs, holding Mac’s lust-darkened gaze as I rode him. His grip tightened, and he arched beneath me to increase the pressure. We panted as I rubbed against him, growing wetter, more needful. I wanted his fingers. I wanted to rip off the fabric of this stupid onesie so there was nothing between us.
“I need to come,” I murmured against his lips.
His nostrils flared, and then he kissed me again, his grip bruising as he moved my hips over him. Oh, God, could I come like this? I thought in wonder as that coil inside me tightened, tightened. “Mackennon …” I gasped for breath, arching my back to grind deeper. But satisfaction was just out of reach. I needed more. I needed his thumb or his tongue on my clit. I needed his thick length inside me. “Mackennon.” I pressed my cheek to his, loving the scrape of his scruff on my skin. “I need you inside me. I need you. I lo—”
“Aunt Arro!”
I bit off the confession that had almost spilled out in mindless desire as my niece’s frightened cry filled the house.
“Aunt Arro!”
Mac released his hold on my hips as I scrambled off him. I couldn’t bear to register the sudden panic on his face as lust lifted its spell. Without looking at him, ignoring my throbbing, unsatisfied body, I hurried into the guest room to find Eilidh sitting up in bed.
“She had a nightmare,” Lewis whispered from the other bed, still wrapped in a cocoon of blankets.
Concern doused my unspent desire. “Oh, sweetheart.” I got into bed beside her, and she curled into me. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” She sniffled. “Tell me a story.”
I launched into the story of Disney’s Brave, because it was her favorite. It took less than ten minutes for Eils to fall back to sleep. Sliding her gently off me, I got out and tucked the covers around her. A quick check proved Lewis was already asleep again, and I tiptoed into the hall.