Dreams of her torment me all night long. Fantasies of Erica Teague naked, writhing, sweat glistening on her body while I sink my cock inside her again and again.
Though I don't want to wait, delaying for one more day gives me all the time I need to finish preparing her surprise.
Chapter Twelve
Erica Teague haunted my dreams last night. All right, maybe "haunted" isn't an accurate description of what happened last night. I dreamed of Erica—naked, moaning, writhing—and my subconscious gave me vivid fantasies of what it might be like to shag her. So aye, this morning I feel less than fully rested but somehow more alive than ever before. That doesn't mean I have any sort of feelings for Erica, beyond my sexual desire for her and the fact I enjoy spending time with her.
As a mate, nothing more. A casual friendship to go along with the casual sex we'll be having tonight. Casual acquaintances, not mates. That's what we are.
I woke up with the sheets tangled around my ankles, which I assume means I was tossing and turning all night, thanks to Erica's sensual body. Aye, it's her fault I didn't sleep well. She should wear clothing that's three sizes too large, so I won't fantasize about her anymore. But I doubt that would work. Her sex appeal has little to do with what she wears. I'm too old to get this worked up over a woman, but my brain seems to have given up control of my body and put my cock in charge.
Once I've disentangled my ankles from the sheets, I get up to stretch and yawn. The sun has come up, but this room faces west, not east, so all I can see is the secondary light of sunrise glowing outside the window. I pull on jeans and a shirt that I leave unbuttoned, then I amble down the hall and into the living room, heading for the sliding glass doors. From here, I have a perfect view of the sunrise as it unfurls across the sky, growing brighter and more beautiful with every passing second. Shades of pink and gold paint the sky.
Aye, the sky is bonnie. But even sunrise can't compare to the bonnie Erica.
Bloody hell. I'm turning into a romantic fool. Not that I have tender feelings for Erica.
I groan and cover my eyes with one hand. My proclamations that I do not want Erica for more than sex, the proclamations only I hear, might seem more believable if I didn't keep thinking about how lovely and sweet she is.
Sex only. I will not think about anything except what she might look like naked.
Maybe I can't stop thinking about her because of my encounter with thatbod ceannPresley. Aye, he's a dickhead for sure. I cannot abide any man who harasses a woman after she's told him, more than once, to bugger off. I feel protective of Erica, that's all. My feelings are chivalrous, not romantic. If I could help her with her problem, that might prevent me from accidentally developing deeper feelings for her. Aye, that makes sense.
To a ruddy eejit.
Even if that's not the case, I still want to rid her of that scunner once and for all. To do that, I need more information than just his first name. I vaguely recall the bastard mentioning his last name when he said he's the prized son of the…something-or-other dynasty. I'd been too enraged at the time to take note of his surname. If I ask Erica, she'll want to know why I care. So I won't ask her. I'll arrange it on my own, but with assistance from a trusted source.
I ring my brother Rory. Though it's morning here, back in Scotland it's lunchtime.
He answers on the third ring. "I'm working on it, Lachlan."
Rory rarely wastes time on pleasantries. Besides, he knows I'm the one calling since my name and number are programmed into his mobile.
"I know you're working on the Aisley problem," I say, and I just manage to stop myself from grinding my teeth while I speak those words. My ex-wife always has that effect on me. "I need to hire a private investigator."
"No, you don't. I already have my investigator working on this case, and he is the best in the business."
"Ah, no, I, well…" Can't speak actual words anymore. I take a deep breath and exhale it slowly. "This is a personal matter. Can you give me the name of a good investigator? Here in America?"
"What are you needing to investigate over there?"
"It's personal, Rory, which means it's none of your bloody business."
Rory falls silent for a second or two. "You really are strung tight these days, aren't you? Thought a holiday in America was meant to relax you."
"Can you give me the name of an investigator or not?"
"Only if you tell me what the problem is, Lachlan. Otherwise, no. I won't give you a name."
I want to hunt down the scunner who's harassing the woman I need to seduce so badly that I can't think straight. But I cannae tell my brother that.
"Never mind," I say. "I'll sort this on my own. Goodbye, Rory."
Without waiting for him to say goodbye, I end the call. Then I stomp over to the windows that overlook Erica's house. Why am I standing here staring at her kitchen windows? I do not need to see her. It's not a romantic impulse that spurred me to come over here. No, I'm staring into her kitchen because…
I snarl a string of Gaelic curses. I have no ruddy idea why I'm watching her house. The only thing I want from her is sex.
Well, maybe I could turn my idiotic need to see her into something erotic. Then it won't be a forty-two-year-old man's pathetic need to get a glimpse of the twenty-eight-year-old woman next door.