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 stops with the head of him in.
I make a strangled noise, my body hot and tight and feeling like it’s going to explode.
“Aye, breathe through it, you can do it.”
I breathe.
He pushes in further, a slow stretch, and I’m gripping the counter so hard my fingertips are white, the cold of the worktop at my cheek.
He bottoms out.
And I can’t fucking breathe.
He’s in me to the hilt and the feeling…there isn’t a word. Full isn’t the word. Owned is closer. He holds himself in me without moving, his hand on the small of my back and the other at my hip, and he leans over me with his breath at my ear.
“Look at you, foxglove. Look at what you came to me for. Bent over your own counter taking my cock where no man has been. You asked for this. You asked for the man who has been taken off the leash.”
I try to tell him I did but the words are garbled, choking in my throat.
“Tell me you wanted it.”
I breathe in through my nose, out through the feeling of it all.
“I wanted it,” I eke out.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you here, right here in this tight arse of yours.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Fuck me, Alasdair. Please.”
He lets out a growl, low and inhuman.
Then he does as I’ve asked.
He fucks me slow at first because he has to, my body needs time to warm up, then faster as I open for him, his hand coming around to my front, between my legs, his fingers working me where I’m already swollen and wet. The combination is going to undo me in a way I haven’t been undone, because the fullness of him in the place he is and the deftness of his fingers on me at the same time is something my body hasn’t been asked to process before.
He talks the whole time. Low and filthy at my ear in his old-Scots cadence—good lass, and take it, and that’s my cunt, that’s my arse, that’s all of you, Iris, that’s the whole of you mine now, and you’ll feel me leaking out of you when you stand up, foxglove, and you’ll feel me in you tomorrow when you sit at this table to draw your wee plants—and I’m crying into the counter, not because it hurts, but because it’s so much and he isn’t letting up.
And then, out of nowhere, I come.
I come hard on his fingers with him buried in me, the orgasm tearing through me, sharper, deeper, the angle making it different than anything before, and I cry out his name which echoes across the kitchen. He fucks me through it, talking through it, taking what he wants.
His pace breaks. His hand goes from between my legs to my hip and he grips, fingers digging in to hold me place. He fucks me harder, his hips like pistons, pumping so hard that my ribs are bruising against the counter with each slam, and I feel him going, the rhythm shortening, the breath at my ear coming faster—
He comes inside me with a low, long sound that isn’t entirely human at the end of it, his damp forehead pressed to the back of my neck, his fingers still digging in, as if he’s afraid to let go, while the rest of him is pulsing, spurting into me, lodged in deep.
He stays in me a long beat, his hand stroking down my back, a little unsteady, his voice at my ear gone soft again.
“My love.”
I make a whimpering sound.
“Look at what you let me do to you.”
He pulls out slowly and I feel him leaving me, the pressure inside me suddenly gone and the slick, wet trail of him down the inside of my thigh. He doesn’t move away; he stays behind me with his hand at the small of my back, waiting for me to lift my head from the counter.
I don’t lift it yet. I can’t. I’m so thoroughly ravaged I’m not even sure who I am anymore.
I lie with my cheek on the counter and stare absently at the bottle of olive oil with his cum cooling on the inside of my thigh.
Eventually, everything quiets, my lungs and my heart returning to normal.
I lift my head.
He helps me up, his hand at my elbow, his other at my waist. I’m wobbly. He’s steady. He pulls my underwear up gently and the leggings after, then turns me to face him and kisses me on the forehead the way he always does, the same kiss he’s been giving me for weeks, the one that fools me every time into thinking he’s some tender gentleman when he’s anything but.
“So…” I manage to say, clearing my throat.
“I know.”
He goes to the sink and washes his hands and dries them on the tea towel, then turns and leans against the counter and looks at me, his trousers still undone at the waist with his cock barely tucked in, his dark hair fallen forward over his face, his eyes that blue that no paint pigment can describe.