Thick, silky hair a woman could really get her hands into, if you know what I mean.
Damn the man.
I shivered at the heat in those ever-changing hazel eyes as they dipped down my body and back up again.
Mac wore his kilt well, a black, fitted jacket and waistcoat with the family tartan—a dark green plaid with red, black, and white accents. His long black knee socks accentuated muscular calves formed from the daily hours he spent in the estate gym.
While I appreciated Mac in a kilt, he made it very clear he appreciated me in this dress.
I wore a simple but sexy blush-colored gown—pencil-thin straps, a plunging wrap-front bodice, a figure-hugging silhouette, and an exaggerated hem. The strapless push-up bra I wore under it was doing magical things for my average-size breasts. And the pièce de résistance was the high slit on the right side. Nude strappy high-heeled sandals completed my outfit. I’d done my hair in a loose, thick fishtail braid that hung over one shoulder. Diamond stud earrings I’d inherited from my mum sparkled in my ears to match the elegant necklace that had belonged to her too.
Mac took a step toward me as if compelled to. “You’re beautiful.”
A flush of pleasure prickled my skin. “Thank you. You look very handsome.”
And we might have been stuck like that for hours, staring at each other, if a server hadn’t approached and offered us drinks. I took a glass of champagne while Mac turned it down. He didn’t drink the bubbly stuff.
He offered me his elbow. “Want something to eat?”
“Sure.” I slipped my arm through his, feeling his hard muscle beneath my fingers. A heightened spark of awareness rushed through me, and I attempted to maintain some distance.
Mac pulled me tighter against his side, refusing to allow it.
I wanted to be irritated.
But the truth was, I was a tactile person, always had been. I loved to be touched and cuddled and showered with affection. Mac publicly acknowledging he wanted me as close as possible spoke to that part of me that had always longed to touch him and be touched by him.
Damn it.
Since our conversation in Flora’s last weekend, my resistance began to wane bit by bit. Probably before then, if I was honest, but more so this week. Mac texted every day to check in, called me a few times too. I’d forgiven him when he’d apologized and told me about his therapy. Now, though, I was growing toward trusting him again. I didn’t know if I ever really could, but something was shifting, changing inside me. Thursday night, we’d watched a thriller on Netflix together over the phone, discussing it, laughing at the plot holes Mac pointed out, until I’d grown too tired to continue. The way he’d wished me good-night, in that deep, rumbly voice, seeped into my body, and I’d dreamed of him.
And now here we were, and he was looking at me like …
Well, to be frank, like he wanted to devour me.
The thing was … I was no longer sure I didn’t want to be devoured by Mackennon Galbraith.
Fury and jealousy, two of my least favorite emotions, churned in my gut as I watched a young woman monopolize Mac while I danced the “Highland Barn Dance” with Thane. Mac and I had been having a great time, despite the sexual tension, talking, laughing, and eating from the massive buffet in the dining room. Lachlan had opted for a lavish selection of party food instead of a sit-down dinner. The rest of my family soon joined us, and not long later, the ceilidh dancing started.
I hadn’t really thought anything of it when Grayson Evans approached to ask me to dance. I’d actually been relieved he didn’t hate me after our last encounter, but as I glanced back at Mac, his face was like thunder.
And I realized he didn’t know I hadn’t slept with Gray.
Before I could return to explain, another guest kept me on the dance floor for “The Dashing White Sergeant.” None of these dances, FYI, were easy in four-inch heels. It was then I’d noticed Mac had been left alone, but not for long. A woman (more like a girl!) who seemed vaguely familiar and wore a cutout dress she looked far too amazing in, approached Mac. She’d gotten physically closer to him within the last minute.
And despite my jealousy, I knew Mac well enough to know he was uncomfortable. He always looked extra stern when he was in a situation he didn’t want to be in, his lips pressed into a thin line, brow furrowed, shoulders stiff.
After hopping and skipping sideways from Thane, and then back toward him as part of the steps, my big brother pulled me away from the dancers.
“What are you doing?”
“You’re going to break something craning your neck to see what’s going on with Mac,” Thane replied dryly. “Just go over there.”
I immaturely stuck out my tongue at my brother, but he chuckled and gently shoved me toward Mac.
As if sensing me, he looked up. Annoyance flashed across his face. And jealousy. I saw it. It made me feel a little better about my possessiveness.
Our complicated situation aside, he was my friend, and as a friend, it was my duty to rescue him. Approaching Mac, I sidled close, and despite his irritation, he rested his hand on my hip. I placed my hand on his flat, hard stomach in a claiming gesture and cuddled into him. Heat flushed through me, and I felt the telltale tingle between my legs.