Bottoms Up (Getting Lucky)

I heard her gasp as she wheeled around, her focus on where I held her, her head snapping up tae look intae my face. Her eyes widened as if she was doubly shocked it was me who held her.

I didn’t want tae let go of her, but I already overstepped boundaries by grabbing her, so I reluctantly removed my fingers from her delicate wrist. Then the silence descended, my pulse beating in my ears and drowning out all other noises, and for the first time in my life, I was dumbstruck, unable tae form any words.

She turned tae face me fully, and I could see the hesitance written across her face. It was clear, this look of anticipation and slight unease—because a fooking stranger had all but accosted her—and this innate, male part of me wanted tae ease her.

“Ye were in my bar,” I finally managed tae say, my voice sounding far too deep, even tae my own ears.

Her brows pulled low, but she didn’t say anything right away. I knew she recognized me, knew she was aware of what I was talking about, but I had no doubt shocked the hell out of her.

“Getting Lucky,” I finally said and felt this stab of pure lust slam intae me at the double entendre the name of my bar conjured up. Of course that hadn’t been the intention when I named it. But now, as I stared intae her eyes, it was all I could think about. “It’s my bar. I watched you sitting in the back corner as I tended drinks.” Fooking hell, man. Way tae put yer damn foot in yer mouth and look like a fooking creep.

I expected her tae curse me, tell me tae rightfully piss off, or hell, even slap me. I was acting so out of character, and stepping over so many lines, that if things had been reversed, I’d have done one or all or those things.

“You have a Scottish accent.”

I blinked a few times at the words she spoke. At first, all I could focus on was her voice. It was the loveliest sound tae ever grace my ears. Then I smirked. “Aye, lass. I am.” Her cheeks turned pink, and I felt tendrils of desire clamp a demanding claw in my gut, threatening tae spread if I dinna control myself.

I knew even more, without a doubt, I wasn’t letting her walk away.

3

Aoife

Maybe I should’ve been outraged that this stranger—one seriously smoking hot Scottish stranger—had grabbed me, stopping me like he had some kind of right to do it. But for some reason, I didn’t feel any anger, not even a smidgen of irritation.

He was no longer touching me, but I still felt his hand on my wrist, like this sensual brand that sprinted to every erogenous zone in my body. The few words he said to me were spoken in a deep, husky Scottish accent, his brogue so thick and arousing that I actually clenched my thighs together to hopefully stave off my desire.

It didn’t work.

I stood on the corner of the street and had to crane my neck to look up at him, his height easily six and a half feet. I hadn’t realized how towering his frame really was when I’d been at the bar. The distance between us had seriously altered my perception.

But now I felt extremely small, tiny even, my five-foot-five height no doubt half a foot shorter than his frame.

He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but despite the chill in the air, it was clear the cold didn’t affect him. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. This connection I felt for him, this bone-searing desire, made absolutely no sense. It should have freaked me the hell out that I was feeling anything remotely this powerful for someone I didn’t know, from just a glance across a crowded room.

But I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real or happening to me. I felt these emotions. I felt these feelings. And I wanted more.

I licked my lips. The words I uttered to him—the only ones I’d been able to form—had been a typical “insert foot in mouth” moment for me.

I pointed out his accent, like that was more important than, oh, I didn’t know, something that would actually introduce me to the first and only man to ever invite this yearning desire in me.

I tucked my hands in the pockets of my peacoat, mainly to keep them from reaching out and seeing if his body was as hot as I imagined it was.

“And ye have an American accent,” he finally said in response, the corner of his mouth kicking up, that dimple deepening as he stared at me.

He had the most vivid blue eyes I’d ever seen, ones a girl would get lost over. Ones I was currently falling into. The shadowy darkness of the setting sun made them stand out even more, and my breath actually caught. Yeah, I was actually acting like that.