Scottish Billionaire's Unwanted Baby Read online

  “More like a home,” she murmured, looking at it.

  “Exactly.” I took a deep breath. “And to get that home, I will need a bride. What is your answer, Miss Blizzard? Will you do me the honor of granting me your hand in marriage?”

  It sounded significantly less sarcastic than I meant it to. She lowered her eyes, and her cheeks flushed that lovely rose color.

  “Yes, Mr. Scott,” she said softly. “I will marry you.”

  The words took my breath away as if she’d hit me right in my solar plexus. I tried to cover my reaction with a wry smile.

  “I’ll have a contract drawn up and send it to you to sign within two days,” I said. She glanced at me from behind her long, long lashes, and I thought I glimpsed… disappointment? Of course, she understood this was a business arrangement, just as I did, but I supposed it was hardly surprising that talk of a contract was not the first thing a woman who’d just been proposed to would hope to hear. I hastened to correct my error. “You won’t regret this, Isla. And I promise you, I won’t forget the favor.”

  She still didn’t look at me, her brilliant eyes hidden behind a black fringe of lashes, and I sighed, knowing I’d made a misstep. “Speaking of favors…” I drew her to me and kissed her, as gently as I could manage. “I feel like I should start showing you my gratitude, right now.”

  I kissed her again, with more intensity again, and she wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed me back. Her lips parted, and I let my tongue sweep into her mouth, brushing against her tongue, exploring boldly. Her tongue touched mine almost timidly, and to my shock, I heard myself groan.

  It wasn’t like me to make any noise during sex, not even at the moment of climax. To groan like that at a kiss—well, it was out of character, to say the least, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Maybe it was the thought that she would be mine, even if only for two years. Maybe it was the idea that she could be carrying my baby inside her right now. Or maybe it was just that she was young and beautiful and sweet, and that I ached for sweetness in my life.

  Whatever it was, I couldn’t seem to stop groaning into her mouth.

  I needed her. I needed Isla Blizzard, more than I’d ever needed anything. I rose to my feet and swept her up into my arms, bridal-fashion, making her giggle. She was light enough that I could carry her easily across the apartment, and I did, shoving my bedroom door open with a shoulder.

  My bed is huge—emperor-sized, which is big enough to have an orgy in, if one is so inclined. In the private space of my bedroom, I had eschewed modernism and chosen pieces that reminded me of the furniture I’d grown up with. The bed had been enlarged from a Jacobean tester bed, with a magnificently carved headboard, heavily embellished posts, and a massive wooden canopy above. The oak was nearly black with the passage of years, but the heavy lines of the piece still projected an aura of strength and stability, and the ornately-carved wood remained a beautiful, sculptural work of art.

  The bed was so enormous that when I gently placed Isla onto the hunter green duvet, she looked small, dainty, fragile in comparison. Her skin looked paler than ever against the sea of green, and her hair spread out around her like an ebony halo.

  I pushed up her NYIT T-shirt, seeking the soft skin beneath, brushing my lips over the toned planes of her stomach until she giggled and moaned. As I kissed her, I mused that I’d never met a woman self-confident enough in what she was to step into a Rolls limousine, then walk into one of the finest penthouses in the city, clad in jeans and a university T-shirt. Most women I’d known would have felt self-conscious in this situation and would have wanted to impress me with their sophistication and world-weariness. Any other woman would’ve hidden her true self behind heels and glamorous fashion and makeup. But not Isla.

  I liked that about her, too.

  I kissed her everywhere I could reach, letting my lips trail over her abdomen, then higher. Beneath the T-shirt, she wore a delicate, lacy, shell-pink bra. It was a lovely, feminine contrast to her outer clothing, and it made something inside me tighten.

  Isla was tying me up in knots.

  I let my mouth explore her through the lace of the bra, while she squirmed beneath me, making soft noises of pleasure. At last, I unfastened it (thank God it opened in the front, as I felt so fumble-fingered I wasn’t sure I could manage a back clasp) and tossed it and her T-shirt aside.

  She was half-nude beneath me, and I remembered last time—how we’d been too desperate to get all our clothes off. Perhaps she remembered it too, remembered how I hadn’t even taken time to remove my shirt, because her hands fumbled at the polo shirt I wore, trying to tug it off over my head.

  I didn’t object. In fact, I cooperated with enthusiasm, helping her pull it off, and throwing it onto the floor too. Being completely naked with this lovely woman seemed like the best idea I’d ever heard.

  She tugged me down onto her again, drawing my head to hers and kissing me. I liked her effort at assertiveness, and I liked the way her bare breasts pressed against my chest as well. Heat flooded me, and I found myself shifting between her legs, rutting against her hungrily. Both of us were still wearing jeans, but all of a sudden it didn’t seem to matter all that much. I hadn’t come in my jeans since I was seventeen, but Isla had a way of making me feel young and out of control again.

  Her hands slipped down my back as if she were exploring my muscles. Her nails were short—an eminently practical choice, considering how much she used her hands in architecture—but I could nevertheless feel the sharp edge of her nails scraping my skin as they trailed over my skin. The light, caressing touch of her hands made me shudder, and my hips bucked.

  Her hands moved even further down, cupping my arse, pulling me against her, and I moaned. I was lost, completely lost in the scent of her, the feel of her, the sound of her voice whispering in my ear.

  Panting, I thrust against her harder. I felt my cock twitching in my jeans, my balls tightening, and I knew I was seconds from losing it completely. But I couldn’t seem to hold myself back.

  Just before I reached the point of no return, her hands tightened on my hips, asking me wordlessly to slow down.

  “I hoped to do this without any clothes in the way this time,” she whispered.

  That still sounded like an extraordinarily good idea. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to regain control of myself. Breathing unsteadily, I reached down to unfasten my jeans, but her hands caught mine.

  “Let me,” she said, sounding breathy.

  Her gentle, deft hands unfastened my jeans, unzipping them, and then pushed them and my silk briefs carefully over my cock. I hissed with relief as I was released from my denim prison, as the air of the apartment cooled my overheated flesh. It felt good, and a second later it felt even better, because her hand wrapped around me, and experimentally stroked downward

  My hips spasmed. Unable to prevent my response, I thrust into her soft palm, sighing with nearly intolerable pleasure.

  The cautious, tentative touch of her hand was incredible. She was clearly not an expert, but she seemed more than willing to learn. She stroked me, slowly at first, then more steadily, quickly picking up on what I liked best. Within half a minute I was a moaning, gasping mess, my cock pulsing in the warmth of her hand, so close to a climax I couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Isla.” I didn’t sound like myself to my own ears. My voice was harsh, desperate. “I can’t—you need to stop—or I’m going to—”

  She released her gentle grip on me, but her fingers began tracing the head of my cock, which was slick and wet with precum. I was almost unbearably sensitive there, and I couldn’t stop myself from groaning deep in my chest. When her fingers trailed carefully through the little slit at the tip, I jerked, crying out.

  “Oh,” she murmured as if she’d made a major discovery, and did it again.

  I knew that if she didn’t stop touching me, right now, I was going to come all over her hand. The thought sent a thrill through me, but that wasn’t quite what I wanted. Not r
ight now, anyway. Tonight, I wanted us to come together.

  I pulled back from her, just a little, and struggled out of my jeans and boxers. At last, I was completely bare, and when I looked down at her, I saw that she was pulling her jeans off, too.

  She tossed them aside and lay looking up at me, dressed in absolutely nothing but a tiny scrap of shell-pink lace that only accentuated the sweet curve of her hips and the soft, womanly mound of her sex.

  I took a deep breath, trying to regain control of myself. At last, once my breathing had steadied, I bent, very slowly, and began brushing kisses over her lovely nipples. They were rosy pink and erect, and they hardened even more beneath my ministrations. She moaned beneath me, her back arching, her hips rising and falling helplessly.

  Her scent filled my head—the sweet fragrance of flowers and sunshine, along with the spicy scent of her arousal. I knew she was already wet, that she was creaming her pretty lace panties for me, desperate for my cock, and I wanted more than anything to sink inside her hot, slick body and make her mine. But I wanted to make this good for her, so I had to take it slowly.

  I moved down from her nipples, kissing my way down her flat belly, making my way toward that little scrap of lace. She squeaked and tried to press her knees together, but I caught her thighs, one in either hand, and pushed them gently apart.

  “Let me, Isla.”

  She hesitated a moment longer, then relaxed, surrendering to me, and when I brushed a kiss over her mound, she whimpered. The sound seemed oddly muffled, and when I glanced up, I saw that she’d pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

  “I want to hear you,” I told her.

  Obediently, she dropped her hand away. I kissed her there again, and she moaned.

  “Oh—ohhhh—”

  I teased her through the material for quite a while, kissing and nuzzling, until she was writhing beneath me, until her hands dug into my hair, begging for more.

  “Please… please…”

  “Say my name,” I said softly.

  “Mr. Scott. Please.”

  “My name, Isla.”

  “Angus,” she whimpered. “Please.”

  I peeled off the silk and lace, and lowered my mouth to her, finding her most sensitive flesh easily. Her clit was swollen, and the first stroke of my tongue over it made her wail. She tasted of passion and need, and I couldn’t get enough of her. I stroked her, slowly, relentlessly, until she was crying out, begging me for release.

  I reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a condom, and rolled it on. Then I moved over her, settling between her legs. She wrapped her thighs around my hips, and I slid into her glorious heat, inch by inch. Both of us groaned with pleasure.

  When I was as deep inside her as possible, I froze, letting myself indulge in the tight heat that surrounded me. She felt incredible, and she was already so close to the edge that I felt her hot pussy contracting around me, squeezing me.

  “Angus,” she whispered again, and my control evaporated. I began moving hard, pulling almost all the way out, and then thrusting so hard that my balls slapped against her. She cried out, her fingers digging into my arse, her head falling back. Her spine arched, and she cried out my name as her body shuddered with the force of her climax.

  I’d wanted to make love to her all night, but the way she trembled and sobbed my name was too much for me. I came hard, groaning as I came in long, hot spurts, my vision flaring white.

  Afterward, I rolled off her and pulled her into my arms. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I pressed my face into her hair, inhaling her fragrance, breathing her in like she was oxygen, necessary for my existence.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I got carried away. I really wanted to make love to you all night.”

  She thought about that for a moment. Then she tilted her head up and looked at me, her mouth curving into a warm smile, her green eyes shining with mischief.

  “The night’s not over yet.”

  I grinned back and lowered my head to kiss her.

  Chapter Nine

  Isla

  It had only been a few weeks, but I’d discovered I didn’t like being famous.

  It wasn’t me, of course. Not really. As a young, handsome billionaire, Angus was the famous one. But the news of our engagement had already hit the tabloids, and it was more than a little shocking to stop into the corner convenience store and see my ordinary, everyday face staring out from the cover of the tabloids at the front counter. It was downright weird to see my own face alongside beautiful stars like Jennifer Lawrence and Scarlett Johansson.

  Marnie delighted in my newfound fame, and texted me gleefully every time she spotted my photo: Girlfriend, I saw your face next to Emma Stone’s today! My parents were somewhat less enthusiastic and more befuddled: Isla, we saw your photo in Donaldson’s Store today. Your young man is handsome, and you look happy. But we really don’t like the neighbors seeing you on the cover of those awful papers. Can’t you refuse to let them take pictures of you?

  I didn’t particularly like being in the tabloids either, but it wasn’t something I had a lot of choice about. Earlier today, Angus and I had been having brunch at Bagatelle, when I realized some guy was snapping pictures of us. Angus rose to his feet, looming ominously, and the guy fled.

  “That’s Rod Kelly,” Angus said, sinking back down into his seat with a scowl. “He’s a well-known paparazzo. Our photo will probably be in the papers tomorrow.”

  Since I had worn my hair up and a pretty green dress that brought out my eyes, I didn’t mind all that much. And Angus always looked gorgeous. It was a pleasure to be on the arm of such a handsome man. Yet I was uncomfortably aware that I didn’t always look photo-worthy. When I wasn’t at work, I liked to wear jeans with holes in them, and old T-shirts or tattered flannel shirts, just as I had in college.

  But I didn’t feel like I could let my guard down anymore because then an unflattering picture would show up on the National Enquirer cover the next day with a headline like, IS ISLA ILL OR JUST ON DRUGS?

  So I had to put on makeup, do my hair, and wear my fanciest dresses just to run to the corner store for Diet Coke and potato chips, which was deeply annoying. More and more often, I found myself choosing to spend my free time with Angus at his penthouse. He had a private elevator, as well as security to patrol the premises. When I was with him, I could be confident that no one was lurking in the shadows, taking photos of me in a sweatshirt, with a smudge on my nose and my hair in tangles.

  But aside from the security aspect, I really loved Angus’ penthouse. I enjoyed being there for the obvious reasons—it was a beautiful, luxurious space, and the art on the walls was museum-worthy. I spent hours looking at the various paintings and sculptures he’d acquired. The couches in the living room were soft and impossibly comfortable, and watching movies on his 260-inch television was an incomparably better viewing experience than squinting at them on the cheap little TV I’d picked up at Best Buy.

  But it was more than just the luxury of his apartment that drew me there. It was Angus himself.

  It wasn’t that we never went out together. We did because it was necessary to the ruse to let the world know we were engaged. We got front-row tickets to “Hamilton”; we attended art openings; we saw “Madama Butterfly” at the Metropolitan Opera House. It was all very glamorous, particularly for a girl who’d spent the first seventeen years of her life in the country, and I enjoyed it.

  But what I enjoyed more than anything was spending time alone with Angus.

  Whenever I went to his penthouse, we made love—hot, passionate love, warm, tender love, and everything in between. Angus made me feel special. Beautiful. Cherished. I knew that he didn’t love me, that our engagement was merely a business arrangement, a sham, and yet…

  Well, when I was in his arms, it was hard to believe there was nothing between us other than business.

  It wasn’t just the sex, either. When we sprawled lazily in his big bed afterward, arms wrapped around ea
ch other, legs tangling together, I found myself telling him all about my childhood—how I’d grown up working on the farm, helping my parents and my two big brothers. How I’d slowly come to realize that the farm life wasn’t for me, that I didn’t want to marry one of the local boys and run a farm for the rest of my days. As much as I adored horses, as dearly as I’d loved riding Cassie, I’d realized that farming wasn’t for me by the time I turned fourteen. I told Angus that I’d dreamed of going to the city and that New York was everything I’d dreamed of, and then some.

  In turn, he’d told me about his life in Scotland, what he termed his “misspent youth,” and his bitter fights with his parents. They’d thought he was wasting the opportunities that wealth and position afforded him, and he’d felt like he was being suffocated by their expectations. So he’d talked them into letting him come to America and study here. It had been a fresh start for him, and he hadn’t wasted it.

  At brunch today, he’d opened up to me even more, telling me how he wished he’d mended bridges with his father before it was too late. I’d patted his hand, telling him that I knew his father had been proud of him, and of all that he’d accomplished. I’d seen gratitude in his eyes, but also doubt, and I ached for him, wishing that he’d been able to put his pride aside and talk to his father the way I talked to my parents.

  I’d parted ways with Angus after lunch. He’d told me to go get some warm clothes, as the two of us would be going to Scotland next week to meet his mother. It was time to take our ruse to the next level, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. On the one hand, I’d never seen Scotland, and the thought of going to an entirely new country made my heart pound with excitement. And Scotland itself sounded wonderful. I wanted to see castles and lochs and sheep, and perhaps to look for Nessie (although when I told Angus this, he laughed at me and informed me that Loch Ness was quite a long distance north of Kilmarnock).