Page 37 of Dirty Rotten Love

Rory groans, his pupils expand and his iris darkens. Pleasure blooms in his gaze. It’s mesmerizing. Magical and hypnotic. I cannot look away.

My hips keep working, thrusting my cock in and out of him, all while our gazes remain locked together. I’m fucking him and we are staring deep into each other’s eyes.

Usually eye contact is so uncomfortable. Eyes are the window to the soul, they show so much, betray so much. But I want to see all of Rory and I want him to see all of me. No performance, no secrets. Just us. The raw, real us.

Our souls connecting feels right, not wrong. It’s not overwhelming, it’s profound. I could stare into Rory’s eyes forever.

His body tenses beneath me. Muscles constricting. He clenches tightly around my cock. His cock starts to spurt onto his belly.

I watch his eyes as his ecstasy takes him somewhere. His body is still here, beneath me, he is still looking right at me, but he is also somewhere else. Somewhere holy.

I’m witnessing a miracle. A spiritual event. It’s breathtaking. Profound.

And then suddenly I’m following him, and nothing has ever felt more right.

Chapter fifteen

Rory

Iam in an exceptionally good mood.

This is not unusual. I am generally in a good mood. I am, by nature, constitution, and years of careful practice, a person who is in a good mood. But today I am in an exceptionally good mood, the kind that hums underneath everything and makes the gray beef thing seem almost acceptable and the cold North Sea wind feel almost refreshing and the rig feel almost cozy, and I am aware that this is noticeable and I am doing my absolute best to dial it back to normal levels and I am failing comprehensively.

I am humming.

I didn’t realize I was humming until Tam pointed it out approximately four minutes ago with the expression of a man witnessing something he cannot fully explain but intends to investigate thoroughly. I stopped immediately. Then I started again without noticing. This has happened three times.

The thing is, yesterday was…

I am not going to think about yesterday. Yesterday is in a box. A very warm, very private, very firmly lidded box that belongs to me and nobody else, and I am keeping it, and I am absolutely not going to stand here in the middle of a briefing room grinning like an idiot about it.

I am grinning like an idiot about it.

“Rory,” says Dazza, leaning over with the focused energy of a man who has been waiting for an opening. “You alright?”

“Grand,” I say.

“You seem.” He pauses. Considers. “Happy.”

“I’m always happy.”

Dazza’s eyes narrow. “True. But this is… happy, happy. Even for you.”

I open my mouth to deflect, and then Mac walks in and every single thought I am having evaporates completely.

Mac.

I have been calling him that in my head since yesterday afternoon, and every single time it lands somewhere warm and private and entirely mine. Mac. Not MacLeod. Not the boss. Not the grumpy geographic feature who has been making everyone’s lives difficult since before I arrived. Mac, who paused in the middle of everything yesterday and looked at me with those dark eyes and said, very quietly, My friends call me Mac, and I had opened my eyes and looked up at him and said, Am I your friend? and the moment had stretched out like something precious and unhurried, and he had said, Aye, something like that, in a voice that was so different from his usual one, that I had felt it everywhere.

I am his friend. Something like that. I am something like his friend and I get to call him Mac, and I am keeping that information very close to my chest where nobody can reach it.

He is looking at his clipboard. The jaw is doing its thing in the morning light. His shoulders fill the doorway in that way they always do and he moves through the room with the quiet authority of a man who has never once in his life doubted his authority or competence, and I am watching him the way I always watch him when he is not looking, which is to say with the focused appreciation of someone cataloguing something very much worth cataloguing.

He is extremely attractive. This is not a new observation, but it lands with slightly more weight than usual this morning, possibly because I have extremely recent and very detailed evidence to support it, which I am absolutely not thinking about.

I am thinking about it constantly.

Mac glances up from his clipboard. His eyes find mine across the room with that directness he always has. I look back at him with the neutral, professional expression of a man who has absolutely nothing on his mind. Mac holds my gaze for half a second. Something moves in his expression that nobody else would clock.