Wed To The Warrior (Kilts & Kisses 3)

Callum drops me to the bed, and suddenly, his body is covering mine as his lips crash into mine. I kiss him hungrily, losing myself in the intimacy we’ve just shared and in the glowing happiness of knowing that this is real.

This is forever.

“Stay with me,” I whisper, kissing him feverishly. “Tonight, I mean.”

“Cat—”

“I know, I know,” I pout. “I just—”

“Of course, I am,” he growls, his eyes flashing. I bite my lip, trembling as I lean in and kiss him softly.

“We will be waiting until after we’re wed until we make love, and until I take your maidenhead,” he murmurs into my lips, sending a thrill through my core.

“But for tonight?” He grins, kissing me.

“Tonight, I’ll be sleeping with my bride-to-be.”

I kiss him, wrapping my body around his huge, muscled frame. And I just keep kissing him until at some point, I sleep.

I’d say my dreams are heavenly, too. But then, they’re nowhere close to the perfection of reality with him.

Chapter 9

Callum

“Soon,” I growl, kissing her one last time as she sinks into me. Her breath catches on her lips, her body rolling against me as I steal this last kiss before sending her off to her own quarters. We’re back at her father’s castle, and though this is my bride-to-be, and soon, I feel as though claiming her against the damn hallway wall until my cum fills her womb would be…

…Distasteful.

At least for anyone who happened to walk in on us, that is.

We pull away, then come together once more, and then pull away again. This time, with a last smile that sends my heart soaring, she turns and scampers away to her own quarters. I watch her leave, pulse still roaring and my cock still aching for more before I turn and head to my own rooms.

It’s late in the afternoon, approaching evening, but our wedding isn’t until midnight tonight, in the tradition of the old ways. The journey back was tiresome, and I need to bathe. A whiskey sounds good too. I make my way back through Lachlan’s castle to the guest quarters I’m staying in. But no sooner do I push the door open and step inside, then suddenly, there are figures rushing into me.

I snarl, tensing and whirling, ready to fight. But when the two shapes come crashing into me, almost knocking me off my feet against the door, I start to chuckle.

“For fuck’s sake, you arses.”

Hamish and Malcolm step back from where they’ve knocked me into the door, laughing.

“Wanted to give you a proper welcome back,” Hamish chuckles.

“And a welcome to the married men club.” Malcolm passes me a glass of whiskey, the bottle on the table behind him already open and being enjoyed.

“Making yourselves at home, I see?”

Malcolm snorts. “It’s Hamish’s. The private stash stuff.”

My brow perks as I take the glass and take a sip, relishing the taste of the good whiskey as it flows over my tongue.

“I’m glad you could come, my friends.”

Hamish, Malcolm, and I go way back. We were friends before the wars but living through them brought us closer than brothers. Surviving war and all the horror that comes with it together will do that. And now? Now it’s almost amusing to look at where we are. Three rough men roaring into battle covered in mud and blood. Now we’re three well-respected lords of the highlands, with titles, lands, castles…

…And brides. Or at least, all three of us will soon enough.

Hamish has been with his Una a month now. Malcolm and his Ailith only since two weeks before. And now me, with Catriona, this very night. It makes me smile knowing that our wives are all such good friends as well, considering how close the three of us are. It makes me wish we had a fourth companion for Cat, Una, and Ailith’s friend Rhona, though I know she’s engaged in her own right to some lord I don’t quite know.

But, regardless, here we are.

“Cheers,” Hamish growls, knocking his glass to mine and then Malcolm’s. “To married life, my friend. And to the women who make us whole, and better men.”

Malcolm whistles lowly. “I will most certainly cheer to that last part.”

“Aye,” I growl. “You need all the help you can get.”

Hamish and I snort into laughter as Malcolm growls at me, shaking his head and knocking back his whiskey.

“As if you’re some prince,” he grumbles.

I chuckle. “Believe me, I’ve never once claimed to be.”

“I hope not,” Hamish nods at me, his brow arched. “A prince might have a tricky time explaining the marks on your neck and shoulder there.”

I frown, turning to glance at my shoulder and as much of my collarbone as I can glimpse. I grin.

Oops.

Across my skin are the very, very unmistakable marks of both kisses and fingernails. A close look might just reveal those marks to be the same size as Cat’s lips and fingertips.