Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
He yanks the leggings down to my thighs, my underwear with them.
I’m bent over my own kitchen counter with my clothes at my thighs and his hand running flat over my bare ass, and he’s looking at me with a quiet intensity I can feel without turning around.
“If only you could see what I see.”
He smooths his palm over me, both cheeks, slow, then brings his hand down—not hard, a flat, firm smack—I jolt against the counter and cry out, and he croons, “Aye, foxglove. Aye, that’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”
He smacks me again.
Harder this time.
I gasp; the air knocked from my lungs.
“You’re going to take what I give you this afternoon. Do you understand me, lass? You asked for this, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Aye?”
“Yes, Alasdair.”
“And you still want it?” He breathes in deeply. “I can smell how much you want it, how wet and greedy and desperate you are, which makes me think you still want it.”
“I still want it,” I whisper hoarsely. And he’s right, because my cunt is throbbing, and my skin feels like it’s on fire, and I’m bent over the counter just waiting for him. Every second that he’s not pushing into me is a second that feels like I’m wilting on the vine.
“Good.”
His hand goes between my legs from behind. He drags two fingers through me and he’s right, I am wet—embarrassingly wet—which I’ve been since I dropped to my knees in the sitting room. He makes a low sound of approval, slides his fingers into me, and curls them.
“You came over to me to get fucked, lass.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how you want to get fucked.”
“I don’t know how I want it. I just…you decide.”
His fingers go very still inside me.
“Iris…”
“Yes?”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh huh,” I reply, my breath sharp with anticipation.
His other hand comes up. He reaches across me on the counter, pulls the bottle of olive oil toward him, the green glass bottle I bought in Diabaig, and uncorks it with his thumb.
I go still. Are we…are we making a salad?
“Alasdair.”
“Aye, foxglove.”
“What, uh…what’s the olive oil for?” My voice rises high at the end.
“For you.”
“I think I’m pretty damn wet.”
A pause. “Not everywhere you need to be.”
What?
Oh.
Oh.
“Oh—oh,” I stammer. “Um, I haven’t…I’ve never…”
“I know you haven’t, lass.”
For a moment I think I could be insulted, like how dare you assume I’m not a woman who’s taken it up the ass before?
But he’s right—I haven’t—and yes, he can probably tell.
I tilt my head to the side and watch as he pours oil into his hand, setting the bottle down on the counter. That green bottle, slick with olive oil at the neck, sitting in my kitchen, where I’ll see it every morning for the rest of my life. He rubs his palms together slowly, deliberately, like a masseuse gearing up for a job.
Then his hand goes back to me, sliding his oiled fingers between my cheeks, slow and slick.
“You’ll take it, just how I want to give it,” he rasps.
“I…”
“You’ll take it because you came to my chair on your knees this afternoon, and asked me to be what I am with you. So, I’m being what I am with you. You’ll take what I give you, lass, the way you said you would.”
His finger presses against me.
I inhale sharply, so unprepared.
“Aye, breathe.”
I breathe.
His finger pushes in, slow, the oil slick, the resistance of me giving way to him, and the sensation is nothing I’ve felt before. Ryan asked me once to do anal and I said no and we never spoke of it again, and what I have now is this new sensation and Alasdair’s voice low at my ear and his other hand flat at the small of my back holding me bent over the counter, and the new sensation is more. I want more. Of him. In a place he hasn’t been. The wrongness of it and the rightness of it are cut from the same cloth.
“Aye, you know how to take it, you do. We’ll go slow.”
He works one finger into me, then two, slow and slick. He talks the whole time—that’s it, take it, you’re going to take all of me, lass, look at you opening for me, look at you taking this so well—and the talking alone nearly undoes me.
He pulls his fingers out and oils his cock slowly, the sound wet, taking his time. It’s enough to make me squirm in nervous anticipation.
Then he’s at me.
“You can tell me to stop,” he murmurs, positioning the head.
“Don’t stop.”
“Aye, lass.”
He pushes in.
The slow inevitable pressure of him opening me where I haven’t been opened. The oiled slide. The burn at the edge of it. He goes slow because he’s large and he knows the pace my body will accept, and he gives me that pace with the patience only an immortal man can have.