Chapter 25 #2
His hands find their way under my sweater—callused palms searing against my bare back—and I arch into him with a gasp. My fingers tangle in his new, shorter hair.
I start to move. Rocking gently against him. And he groans again, the sound so desperate I swear I could come just from hearing it.
So much for not getting carried away on the first date. We’ve not even made it to the date yet.
But the tide’s got me now, pulling hard and certain, and I don’t want to fight it.
He kisses me again. It’s messy, hungry, all tongues and teeth and need.
Then suddenly he pulls back.
His lips are puffy and red. His chest rises fast beneath me.
“How far do you want to take this?” He searches my face, earnest and raw.
Then, gripping my arse in both hands, he drags me along the length of his cock—slow, devastating friction that hits me right where I need it.
“Do you want to do what we did the other night? Or . . .”
“Or?” I rasp back, barely breathing.
He kisses along my neck, nuzzling the skin just below my ear before inhaling deeply. “Or do you want to go further?”
I told myself I wouldn’t do this. Not today. I told myself today was about getting to know him better. About conversation and keeping things sensible.
But sensible flew out the window the moment my boob hit his face.
“Further,” I gasp. And then, just so there’s no room for confusion: “I want our clothes off this time.”
His nostrils flare. And then he stands, lifting me with him like it’s the easiest thing he’s done all week. My legs wrap around his waist automatically.
He walks us out of the kitchen, his erection still snug against me, right where I’m throbbing.
“Where are we going?” I manage, breathless, already half-drunk on anticipation.
“My bedroom.” He kisses me hard enough to steal what little remains of my composure. “I’ve fantasised about you naked in my bed since the day I met you. And now it’s fucking happening.”
Oh God. A shiver rips down my spine. This side of Struan—demanding, hungry—is new.
And I like it.
He carries me up the stairs, alternating between kissing me and nuzzling my neck, murmuring things against my skin that I can’t quite catch but feel everywhere. Every upward step grinds his cock against me—thick, perfect pressure that makes me moan into his mouth.
I can feel myself getting wetter with every step. If we make it to the bedroom without me spontaneously orgasming, it’ll be a miracle.
Somehow, I manage it.
By the time we reach his room, I’m vibrating with want. Struan lowers me onto the bed with surprising care, as though I’m made of something breakable. Then he straightens, looking down at me with dark eyes and dark intent, raw and almost worshipful emotion flickering there.
I return the favour by drinking him in. The way he stands over me, broad and golden in the late-morning light, hair damp and curling softly at his temples, those battered grey joggers hanging low on lean hips, his erection straining against the fabric like it’s seconds from ripping through.
Jesus Christ.
I want more. Desperately.
“Off,” I say, tugging at the hem of his ancient T-shirt with both hands.
Struan chuckles and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it behind him without looking.
My mouth waters. No exaggeration.
Aye, I’ve seen his chest before—that time in the courtyard behind the salon. But now I get to stare. As much as I want.
It’s a perfect landscape: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles carved by years of honest work. A dusting of golden hair across his chest. A wave tattoo curling around his bicep.
My fingers can’t help themselves. Sitting up on the bed, I reach out and trace the line between his pecs, then drag my nails lightly through his soft hair.
He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes dropping to where my hand roams shamelessly over him.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice rougher than sandpaper, “the way you touched me earlier—when you were cutting my hair—nearly did me in.” He leans down until our eyes are level, his eyes molten gold. “You standing behind me all bossy and focused . . . Christ, Ainsley.”
Heat flushes my cheeks—and lower too—but I can’t stop smiling like an idiot. Never, and I mean never, in my life have I felt so wanted by a man.
His gaze drops pointedly to my sweater, and he traces a finger along the hem where it meets my jeans. “As lovely as you look in that, I wouldn’t mind seeing it come off now.” His eyes flick back up to mine. A question and desire all at once.
I gulp, nerves kicking in hard. Because I’m wearing my sensible bra—nude, practical, the kind you wear when you’re absolutely not expecting anyone to see it. Not exactly the lacy, enticing number I might have chosen if I’d known this morning would end with me in Struan Walker’s bedroom.
But the way he’s looking at me . . . like I’m already the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen . . .
I tilt my chin, toss my hair back, and draw my arms across my body, slipping free of my sweater.
The air hits my skin. Goosebumps race across every inch of me—not just from the chill, but from the way he looks at me. His eyes track over my bra like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
Before I can lose my nerve, I reach behind me, unhook the clasp, and toss it aside.
He stares. Like boobs haven’t existed until this moment. Like mine are some kind of miracle he wasn’t expecting.
And then, grinning wickedly, he addresses them. “Well, now. Aren’t you two bonny as anything?”
I laugh—a wild, reckless sound—but it dies in my throat when he reaches out and traces his knuckles over one peaked nipple. A barely-there touch that steals the laughter right out of me.
Then his head dips, and his mouth closes over the other nipple—heat and hunger in every slow pull—while his big hand cradles and palms the first. Pleasure sparks through every nerve ending as his tongue circles and sucks, his scruff dragging deliciously across my sensitive skin.
I catch sight of us in the mirror across from his bed: Struan suckling my breast like a starving man, my hands tangled in his hair, my own expression utterly undone and desperate for more.
Dear God. This was not part of my plan for today. But nothing could drag me away from him now.
He guides me back down onto the bed and leans over me, moving to my other breast, lavishing it with the same slow, reverent attention—his tongue swirling, lips teasing, stubble scraping in a way that makes me shiver.
At the same time, he raises his knee between my legs, and—oh!
—the pressure sends a jolt of pleasure straight through me.
I grind against his knee. Shamelessly. My jeans are still on, but it hardly matters. My whole body is tuned to him, and between my legs I’m throbbing, achy and desperate.
Struan finally lets my nipple go with a soft pop and glances down at my denim-clad hips. “Would you like me to eat you out, Ainsley?”
His crude words, said in that low, raspy voice, are enough to make my toes curl.
I nod desperately, not even pretending to play it cool. “Yes, please.”
He grins wickedly. “So polite, Miss Reid.”
He shifts me further up the bed and kneels between my legs, hands working at the button of my jeans. I brace myself on my elbows, watching his fingers, deft and sure, as he pops the button and drags down the zip.
I lift my hips to help him slide my jeans—and then my knickers—down and off.
Suddenly I’m completely naked, with Struan Walker kneeling between my thighs and looking at me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever had about happiness.
Vulnerability crashes over me. I’m exposed. The light is unforgiving and there’s nowhere to hide.
But then Struan glances up at me, and his expression shifts. Softens.
“You’re lovely,” he says. “And I’m crazy about you. But if you want to slow down or even stop, that’s more than okay.”
That tenderness—the total lack of pressure—is what makes me certain about this.
“No,” I say firmly. “I want this.”
Something flares in his eyes. He kisses my mouth, hungry but somehow still gentle, and then trails kisses down my body. Over my ribs. Across my stomach. And lower still.
When he settles between my thighs again, he looks up at me—face haloed by those tawny curls, eyes full of absolute mischief—and I feel more naked than ever. “Do you always wax it all away?”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. And literally everywhere else. “Aye . . . usually.”
“Mmm.” He turns back to look at me—at all of me—and spreads me open with two callused fingers.
“I can see everything.” There’s a reverent gravel in his voice. “You’re so pink, and so fucking wet. Is this really all for me, Ainsley?”
I make a sound. Something between a whimper and a moan that just about passes for yes.
The first brush of his tongue is slow and deliberate—a long lick up through slick folds that has me gasping out loud. He moans into me like I’m the best thing he’s tasted all year.
And then he does it again. And again. Each pass firmer than the last until I’m trembling beneath him.
He takes his time exploring every inch, sucking gently on my clit until stars spark behind my eyelids, then flattening his tongue wide before flicking just right, exactly how I need it. Goosebumps pebble across my skin. Pleasure builds tight as a fist inside me.
Struan pauses sometimes just to murmur things against me: “God, you taste incredible . . . so sweet . . . could stay here forever licking your perfect wee cunt.”
Each filthy compliment only makes things worse—by which I mean better, of course.
I’m shameless, hips tilting up for more as his stubble scorches delicate skin. My fingers find his hair—those newly shortened curls—and grip hard.
Then a finger slides inside me. A thick press that has me keening. And soon another joins it while his mouth works over my clit. He thrusts them slow at first, then harder, reading my every shiver and gasp.
I realise with delirious clarity that, as he devours me, he’s grinding into the mattress beneath us, desperate for friction against his cock. Somehow that knowledge pushes me right to the edge.
“Struan—” I gasp, my voice breaking. “I’m going to—”
“Aye,” he growls against me, the vibration making me shudder. “Come for me, Ainsley. Let me feel it.”
His fingers curl inside me, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over my clit.
And then . . . and then . . .