Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

DRAVEN

Happiness spins through my soul, stirring up emotions at that small giggle. I plant a kiss on his forehead. The reprieve gives us both a chance to settle against one another and just be. I need to talk with him about where things went wrong, but first I want to hold him against me.

Settling back against the headboard, I slide down a bit so we're less upright and Tavish follows me down. He snuggles against me. The curly mop o' his hair tangles with my beard and the sigh he exhales is so deep and big it feels too much for his size, but as his weight against me slackens, I cannae help but heave a breath myself.

I've nae idea how long we lay together, but it feels like a second and an infinity all at once. Everything this boy makes me feel is a conundrum. Light and dark. Soft and hard. How it makes both ends o' the spectrum possible, nae matter the subject, is unreal. It's like he's wrapped the spectrum o' emotion and experiences around us so we feel everything possible all at once.

His fingers dance over the tattoos on my bare chest. He traces the designs innocently enough, but the spark o' mischievousness in him takes over and soon he's swirling his finger around my nipple. The flesh hardens under his touch, as does the flesh he's sitting astride.

His face pops up from my shoulder and the evil little grin he gets is twitching across his mouth. I pull his finger from my nipple, nipping at it in admonishment.

He chuckles and uses the opportunity to trace my lips. The boy's libido is off the charts normally, but not getting the fuck he wanted earlier has him more spun up than usual.

"We need to talk, lilla du."

Sitting up on my lap, he draws his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing it. He maintains eye contact for a moment, then tucks his chin to hide his face from my gaze. I tilt his face up, forcing him to look at me, and he sighs.

Sitting up, I rest upright against the headboard, pulling him with me, making sure he's comfortable before I say, "Tavish, I need to ken what happened. Tell me? Please."

Shaking his head, he chews his lip more. I realize he's nae gonna tell me, but I hope he'll answer some questions.

"Did ye like anything we were doing?"

A nod.

"Good. I'm glad. Did I hurt ye?"

The look on his face twists, and he shakes his head no. Then, much to my surprise, he says, "It was okay until you twisted my nipples when I didn't answer you."

"What was different this time?"

More lip chewing. Hoping if I wait him out, he'll talk, I sit patiently.

"You said you were going to jerk off without me."

I'm still nae understanding how he ended up in the disastrous crying mess he was in moments ago.

"I'm still confused, lad."

He huffs, throwing his arms in the air in exasperation and he says loudly. "You said you were going to jerk off. You left me in the bed and then you called red."

His arms fold together over his chest and his face turns pouty.

"I threatened to walk away because o' yer attitude, trying to get ye to be honest with me, but when ye started crying, I called things off. I dinnae mean to hurt ye, lilla du."

"You didn't. I thought I ruined everything. I thought you were going to leave me. Because everyone leaves me."

As if I dinnae feel bad enough, I'd triggered the boy's fear o' abandonment.

"Ye've ruined nothing, but we need to discuss our dynamic. Flesh out limits and such. I've risked us both in not doing so before now. I'll nae do it any longer."

Realization dawns on his face at my meaning.

"But…"

"Nae, mo ghille donn. I'll nae be swayed. Ye and I have got ourselves into a fankle and we'll hash out a better understanding before we play again."

"When?"

"When we get off this plane and are safe in Scotland."

He glances down at his dick, and I chuckle. "Ye'll live, pojke. As will I."

"Nooo!" he yells, flopping over on the bed. The look on his face is one I'll never forget. The outrage is one o' hilarity.

A smile spreads across my face as laughter bubbles from within. I crawl over him. "The brat is back, I see."

He stops wailing at the loss immediately. "You won't leave?"

"The brat wasnae the issue, lilla du. It was ye nae doing as ye were told. I've told ye once before, I like a brat. I especially like to whip a brat's arse."

"Can we do that?" he asks, his face wreathed in the light o' want and hope.

Laughing at the boy, something I've done more o' since meeting him than I had in all the years since Simon died, I say, "Nae. No playing."

"What about fucking? Can we do that?"

"That's playing, ghille."

Wailing as if I've robbed the lad o' all the fun in the world, Tavish flops back on the bed, his hands covering his face. I kiss his forehead and nose, then pull him into my arms, tucking him under my chin.

For hours, we lay in bed talking about everything and nothing, learning everything we can about one another. I tell him about my love o' fishing, about my parents and grandparents. He, in turn, tells me about his mother and Mack, their groundskeeper, whom he loved and who loved him.

"What happened to yer family's estate?" I ask, curiosity getting the best o' me.

"I don't know."

"Ye said that the Order, that Owen only wanted yer dad because they wanted ye. So, was it kept in trust for ye?"

"I don't know. I've never seen the will."

"Aye, I dinnae think ye'd seen yer mother's, but what o' ye father's?"

He shakes his head. The boy has truly lost it all. Robbed o' every bit o' his identity and heritage. I sigh. Instead o' chasing my elusive, most likely dead sister, I should look into Tavish's family and their history. With the boy being a Buchanan and a Callaghan, he is likely heir to a substantial inheritance.

Nae that he'll ever need it. I'll never let him want for anything in his life. Even if he wises up and chucks me out o' his life, I'll always be there on the sidelines, cheering him on, watching over him, and making sure he has a life filled with love and happiness.