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 pulls out.
“No, please don’t,” I cry out, suddenly bereft and desperate for him.
“Up, foxglove.”
“What?”
“On your knees. Properly.”
He pulls me up by the waist, off my elbows, onto my knees on the bed facing the headboard. He puts my hands on the carved wooden post of the four-poster at the corner of the bed. He wraps my fingers around it.
“Hold.”
“Alasdair…” I breathe.
“Hold on, foxglove. I’m not done with you. I never want to be done with you.”
He’s behind me again. The four-poster’s post is in front of me, dark wood smooth from a hundred years of polish, and I am on my knees on the bed with my hands wrapped around it and my forehead pressed against my own knuckles, and his hands are at my hips, and he is sliding back into me.
The angle from here is different. It is deeper still. He drags himself out slow and pushes back in and I make a noise that is closer to a sob than a moan, and the wooden post under my forehead is the only thing keeping me upright.
He goes harder. So much harder, my lungs cease to breathe.
He grips the post above my hands with one of his own and uses it for leverage, his fingers above mine. His other hand is at my hip, holding me back against him. He is pulling me onto him with each stroke, using my body in a way I have not been used in my life, and I don’t want him to stop. I want him to do this until I can’t stand. I want him to leave me wrecked on his bed for the rest of the night and into the morning.
“Foxglove. Look at you. Holding on. Fucking hold on.”
I hold on as much as I can.
“That’s my girl,” he says, and I can’t help but beam.
“Alasdair…”
“You feel that?” he rasps.
“Yes.”
“You feel me, lass? You feel how deep I am?”
“Yes. You’re all I feel.”
“Tell me whose this is. Tell me whose cunt this is.”
I can’t speak for a beat, his language throwing me for a loop, creating a deep flush up and down my body.
He pulls almost all the way out, then stops. He holds himself there at the very edge of me.
“Tell me, Iris,” he growls into my ear.
“Yours.”
“Aye. That’s right.”
“Yours, Alasdair.”
“Mine.”
He pushes back in. Hard. The wooden post creaks faintly under my hands. He sets a pace that is not gentle and not slow and not anything I have known, and he is on me and in me and the sound of his hips on my ass is a steady wet slap in the candlelit room. His voice in my ear has gone lower than I have heard it.
“That’s right, foxglove. You take it. You take it because you came for it. You walked into my house wearing nothing under your skirt and you sat at my table and you ate my food and you let me bring you up here and now you are going to take what you came for, all of it. Every inch of me. Every fucking inch, foxglove. Take it.”
Fucking hell. A strangled noise comes out of me.
“Christ, you are tight,” he groans.
“Oh god.”
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
“You’re wet for me. You are dripping for me. Look at you.”
“I can’t, I—”
“You are going to come for me again before I come in you. Do you understand that?”
I make a feeble noise.
“Do you understand, Iris?”
“Yes. I understand,” I manage to say, breathless, heart hammering each word.
“Aye. That’s right.”
His hand leaves the post above mine. It comes down between my legs. His fingers find me where I am already swollen and wet and he works me with them while he fucks me, hard, the combination of his cock and his fingers and his voice in my ear undoing me in a way I didn’t think possible.
I come hard again. I come crying out against the post with my hands gripping the wood so hard my knuckles go white, and he fucks me through it. His voice in my ear has gone hoarse, and I’m afraid we might break the fucking bed.
“That’s it, foxglove. That’s it. Christ. You are mine.”
He’s close now. I can feel him close. His pace stutters. His hand at my hip tightens.
He pulls almost out again. He holds.
“Tell me where you want me.”
“Where you are right now,” I manage to say.
“Tell me where you want me to come.”
“Inside me.”
“Iris.”
“Inside me, Alasdair. I want you inside me. Come inside, come inside. Come inside me, please.”
I can’t see his face, my forehead is still pressed to my knuckles, but I can feel him looking at me for a moment that stretches on forever.
“That’s all I needed,” he says.
And with a loud, shaking groan, he pushes back in to the hilt and he stays.
Then…he comes.