Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Hamish stared into the frying pan where the neeps and tatties were well on their way from golden brown to overcooked. The steaks were resting on the cool side of the stove, and a pitcher of sweet iced tea waited at the dining table, dripping condensation as the ice cubes Americans loved so much slowly melted.

Chloe was in her room, packing her things into the suitcase he'd bought for her. The eleven paintings she'd accomplished in her week with him had already been carefully crated up and sealed. The crate was in the back of his Sorento where it would remain until he posted it back to America. After what had happened with her last suitcase, neither of them was willing to take any chances with this new precious cargo. It had been his idea for him to post her artwork once she was safe–he hoped–on the plane.

Safe? Ha! He didn't have a lot of faith in her ability to keep herself that way and not flash her dwindling cash in public or strike up a conversation with an absolute stranger. Hell, she was still living with the last laddie she'd blindly followed home.

He stared a million miles through their slowly burning supper, just knowing if he let her go she might disappear out of his life in more ways than just returning to America. She was going to talk to the wrong person, sit next to them on the plane, get trafficked Into the ether where it would be as if she'd never existed.

His fists tightened.

"Is something wrong?"

Startled, Hamish snapped around to find Chloe standing not far from him, just watching with that well-traveled suitcase he'd got for her dangled from her hand. She was back in the same white sundress with little blue and yellow flowers she'd worn the first time they'd met. The one that became damn near transparent in bright light.

He wanted to rip it off her, if for no other reason than to ensure no one else saw her like that.

Yeah, and put her in what? A baggy pair of gardening coveralls? A shrouding Hijab that would hide her lovely body and face from anyone else's sight? Oh, who was he kidding? Every man she encountered from the moment she left his care right up until the end of her life, they were going to see her for exactly what she was. Gorgeous, sweet, and without a single clue for how irresistible he knew her to be.

He needed to put her in a Little dress that barely covered her panties and her short hair in twin bunny tails with pretty pink ribbons. And do what? Hide her in his house until the impending threat of her departing plane was well on its way to America, without her?

"The supper is burning," she hesitantly pointed out.

Shit .

He quickly turned off the heat and moved the pan to a cool burner, giving it a quick stir until he realized it really wasn't salvageable. Steaks and bread for dinner it was. Sighing, he put the pan in the sink to cool.

"Sorry about that. I got sidetracked, I guess." He wiped his hands on the towel he kept slung over his shoulder when he cooked, then gathered enough of himself to fake a smile. "The steaks are good, though. Come on, lassie. Let's eat. We've plenty of time before we need to go."

She turned her head away, eyes cast to the floor as far from him as the tiny cabin would allow.

He went to her, putting his hand on her shoulder first, and when she didn't immediately respond, he let his fingers comb up into her hair before capturing as much as he could hold in his fist. Gentle but firm, he pulled until she relented, tipping her head back until they were eyes on watery eyes and the coffee-sweet taste of her trembling breaths was what he too breathed.

"I'm sorry," she started to whisper, but cupping the back of her neck, he kissed her beautiful lips, silencing the silly apology before she could complete it. They were adults. They both knew what they were getting into right from the start, but he had to admit, if he'd known it would hurt this much, he would have fought harder to resist the temptation that was Chloe Hardt.

He kissed her again, his achingly empty arms wrapping her, pulling her into his chest. She hugged him back, and for the longest time, they just stood there, holding onto one another, with him keeping back all the things that needed saying, except it wouldn't do any good. There was nothing he could say to stop this and every reason to just keep his mouth shut.

They'd known each other for a week. A week! Love at first fucking sight ought to be the song they danced to, and he didn't even believe in that shite!

But he'd be damned if he wanted to let her leave.

As if he could stop it.

Because of course she wanted to leave. How could she not? Her whole life waited across the pond for her to return. Her home, car, clothes, family and friends, work, hell… everything was there. Except him. He was here, with his everything cluttered around him, every bit as important to him as her things–her life–had to be to her.

There was no way he could leave his family home, his sheep, his B&B which made up the vast majority of his income. What the hell would he do with himself in America?

So where did that leave them?

Nowhere, which was exactly where vacation flings went.

He cupped her face in both hands, his kiss deepening with all the desperation that came with knowing he was about to lose the Little of his dreams, the only woman he'd yet met that actually made his wish he could change the whole of his life for. If only he could get his PTSD under control. If only he was safe for her, at least to the point they could share a bed without the fear he might attack her in his sleep or in that dangerous moment as he transitioned from nightmares to waking up.

He needed to get his ass back to therapy, and this time actually give it a chance to work.

And in the meantime risk beating his lassie bairn every time his PTSD reared its ugly head? No way in hell was he going to risk that. Never.

He had to let her go.

Just not yet.

Wrapping his arms around her waist, he picked her up, the thunk of her suitcase hitting the floor, his favorite sound in the whole wide world. she clung to his neck, the fingers of one equally desperate hand gripping onto the neck of his t-shirt as if she ached to rip it off him.

Daddy's took care of all their Little's aches, especially this kind.

Bed shmed. There was no time for that. He laid her down right where they were, his body covering her so much smaller one as he ravaged her, her ribbon-pink lips as they flushed and swelled with the minutes scrapes of his bearded kisses, the gentle slope of her beautiful neck, the luscious handful of her breasts, making her arched and sigh as he nibbled the diamond peaks of her swollen nipples.

Her back arched and his hunger soared. Launching up onto his knees, he grabbed at her dress, yanking the skirt out from under her before sweeping it off over her head. He threw it across the kitchen, where his own shirt quickly joined it.

Her hands were already at his belt, unbuckling it in her own frantic need to get them skin to skin. He helped her, her breathy mewl as he seized her hips sending his blood pounding. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, and next he knew, he was thrusting deep into her welcoming heat.

God, the squeeze of her inner walls clenching around his cock.

"Hard," she begged, but there was no gentleness left inside him. He needed her too much and no matter how tightly he held her, it just wasn't close enough.

"God!" she shouted, her back arching, her body quivering and clenching in flittery squeezes that gripped his pounding cock.

"Come," he demanded even as she lost herself to the rip of the hardest, saddest orgasm he'd ever experienced.

He wanted to keep going, to pound her little pussy, thrusting himself into her until they were no longer two people. They were one, always and forever.

Bittersweet ecstasy tore him into pieces before the last shivers of her own pleasure calmed. His muscles locked painfully tight, his straining throat strangling the despairing roar that erupted from deep down inside.

He clung to her, his face buried in the curve of her neck and wishing hair, holding as tight as he could.

Neither one of them said a word. They lay there on the hardwood floor, together. Until both their phone alarms suddenly went off.

They were out of time.

He wanted to stay right here, holding her in his arms just like this until the end of time. But a man who couldn't do the hard things had no business being a Daddy with a Little.

So he helped her up and handed her clothes back. "Be ready in five," he said and promptly excused himself to the bathroom. Just before he shut the door, he could have sworn he heard the sad whisper of her voice follow him in.

"I love you."

Jesus.

Sagging into the closed door, he covered his eyes with his hand and silently fell apart.