Duncan didn’t have to be told twice. He was standing in a fraction of a second. Food could wait a little longer.

“Better hurry,” Jordan said. “It’s almost midnight. You don’t want to miss the countdown!”

“We will see you for breakfast, yes?” Elaina asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer from any of them. Instead she stalked away from the table, Duncan’s hand gripped firmly in hers, and she pulled him straight out of the restaurant.

She led him up the outside staircase, which led to the back apartment entrance. In seconds they were in her room, the one he came to this morning to make sure she would still agree to be his wife. And now here they were. Married.

“Take it off,” she commanded, nudging the door closed with her beautiful arse.

“Wha’?” It wasn’t as if his John Thomas wasn’t standing at attention. But this was his wife’s only wedding night, and he wanted everything to be just right.

“Take it off,” she repeated. “The kilt. The fucking tartan knickers.” She took a step toward him. “Take…” Another step. “It…” One more. “Off.”

Elaina was close enough to touch, yet she seemed to have a few ounces of restraint left. Duncan’s was quickly waning.

“What about the room? Didn’t your cousins decorate it or something? I thought they’re supposed to parade us off to our bridal bed.”

He may have spent a bit too much time Googling Greek wedding customs.

“Shit, Duncan. I don’t live in a small fishing village one hundred years ago.” She paused for a moment. “Okay, if they are all drunk enough, they might parade us to the hotel, but that doesn’t matter. You said it. We make our own luck.”

He swallowed. “Aye. We do.”

Her face broke into a magnificent grin.

“Then take it all off. Please. For me. For your wife.”

He obeyed. For his wife. Aye. Anything for her.

He started with the jacket. The tie and shirt soon followed. They could hear music below, but this wasn’t a dance. No more performing. Just a man about to make love to his wife. Next came the sporran—not a purse—then the socks and shoes followed.

“Stop,” Elaina said, but her voice had lost its authoritative tone. This was more of a plea.

Maybe he hadn’t done too much research. Maybe this was Elaina realizing they should play by the book, follow tradition, and let the wedding guests pilot them off to the true marriage bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he reached for his shirt, but Elaina tugged it gently from his hand.

She pressed a palm to his chest, and then the other.

“I just want to look at you,” she told him. “A minute to look at my beautiful husband.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“Aye,” he said, his voice a rough whisper. “Look.”

She raked her fingers down his chest and up his back.

“And touch,” she added.

He nodded. “Touch.”

She kissed him, her tongue flicking out to tease his lips. Then she was sprinkling tiny kisses over his chin, his cheeks, and that damned bruised eye.

“Does it hurt?” she asked him.

He laughed. “Probably, but I can’t concentrate on the pain when you’re this close.”

“Good.”

She took a small step back, still facing him, and found the zipper on the side of her dress. She guided it down, and he saw her silky skin peek out from the parted fabric.

“Shite, Elaina,” he growled, and this only made her smile.

The zipper was over her hip now, and Duncan practically choked as she stepped out of the dress and laid it over the footboard of the bed.

There stood his wife in nothing put a pair of strappy high-heeled shoes.

“Where are your knickers?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“I wanted to know what it would be like to be a true Scotsman.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Duncan was done waiting. He wriggled out of his tartan briefs, his erection altering the way his kilt rested over his legs. Then he pulled her to him, kissing her with wild abandon as she pressed her body against his.

“Like this,” he said, kissing her jaw, her neck, down to her breast before taking her firm peak into his mouth. “This is what a true Scotsman is like.”

Elaina called out his name just as they heard the clamor below.

“Ten!” The countdown had begun, and Duncan felt a sense of urgency take over. He grabbed Elaina’s hand and placed it on the belt of his kilt.

“Take it off,” he said, echoing her own words at her. And she did. Then Elaina led him toward the bed, pushing him down on his back as she climbed over him and slid up his length.

“Nine! Eight! Seven!”

Bloody hell. After making love to his wife, Duncan wanted to snog whoever invented the oral contraceptive.

She teased herself with his tip, and he added women to the list. Whoever invented women was getting one hell of a snog after this.

He looked up at this beautiful woman who had promised to be his for the rest of her life, and he had to bite back something resembling a sob.

“I love you, Elaina McAllister.”

She hummed. “Say it again. My name.”

His back arched as she slid down and then up again.

“Elaina McAllister.”

This time she let him push her open, and she sank over him, blanketing him in her warmth, and Duncan knew he was home.

“Duncan McAllister,” she said as he swirled inside her.

“Aye.”

“I love you, too.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Griffin

“Ten!”

Griffin grabbed Maggie by the hand and pulled her from the dance floor.

“Where are we going?” she asked in a fit of laughter.

“Outside. I have a feeling about something.”

So they ran out Ambrosia’s front door.

Noah

Noah pulled Jordan onto his lap.

“Nine!”

“I’m sorry I injured you with my not a proposal.”

She stroked his cheek and ran her fingers through his hair.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Eight!”

“Guess we wouldn’t be us if there was no accidental bodily harm involved.”

He’d be full of scars by the time they were old and gray, and Noah chuckled despite the danger that lay ahead.

She kissed him on the cheek and smiled. “No. We wouldn’t be us at all.”

Miles

Guess the saying was right: you always found what you were looking for in the last place you looked.

Miles had walked the nearby streets for hours, the cobbled paths lit with bright lights as late-night revelers spilled out of clubs and cafés. He’d stood by the white tower as a horse-drawn carriage circled by carrying another pair of newlyweds. From the moment he stepped onto an airplane, people in love had surrounded him. And he’d had a shot at love himself.

But he’d blown it. So he wearily made his way back to Ambrosia. When he arrived he couldn’t bring himself to go inside. Instead he slipped behind the restaurant, ready to ring in the New Year with nothing but the waves crashing against the shore.

Yet even in the brisk December air, he picked up the sulfurous scent of a recently struck match. Alex sat in the sand just in front of the outdoor patio, arms draped over his knees and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Those things will kill you,” Miles said.

Alex laughed and bit down on the filter as he spoke. “So will a diet high in butter and cheese, but it’s my livelihood.”

“Thought it wasn’t a habit,” Miles added, lowering himself to the spot next to Alex.

“Told you,” Alex responded. “Only when I need to clear my head.”

“Baseball!” Miles blurted, and Alex narrowed his eyes. Shit. His brain was moving faster than he could speak. “I played baseball—in college. I’m bisexual, and I played baseball, and I’m trying here, Alex. It scares the shit out of me, but I’m trying to give you more than a name—more than I’ve given anyone in years.”