7. Ian
Ian
T his world, while new to me, feels familiar. Like a distant land I’ve dreamed about, always at the tips of my fingers but just out of reach. And the girl clutching my hand, dragging me along behind her, feels more familiar than anything—no, familiar isn’t the right word.
She feels like home.
Like a home I never knew existed but always wanted to find. Like the home I’ve been wandering the Highlands for, searching for the place that would make me feel whole. A place where I finally belonged.
We rush into her dwelling, and I nearly trip over her belongings scattered around the floor. The noises of her outside world are still too loud, still too distracting and overwhelming, but for her, I’ll deal with them. I’ll do anything for this woman.
After slamming the door shut, she whirls around. Her dark hair spills down her back as she peers up at me with those green eyes that hold me completely captive.
“Fuck me,” she breathes, her voice husky, and I pause. There’s that word again: fuck .
I shake my head, having already learned what it is but not willing to give up my virginity so easily. “I canna,” I say, truly apologetic.
Her face pales.
“I’m going to lie on the bed, and you’re going to fuck me,” she says again, putting more authority into her voice.
It’s adorable.
“I’m sorry, lass. I canna.”
Her chest expands as she takes a deep breath. “But I control you,” she mumbles. “You’re supposed to do what I say.”
“You dinna control?—”
“Walk to the kitchen and flap your arms like a duck,” she instructs, and my mind goes blank.
One foot in front of the other.
Step, step, step.
Stop.
My arms go out on either side, then I flap. I flap and flap and flap until my shoulders ache, but I don’t dare stop. Even if I wanted to, I can’t.
“Kiss me,” she says, and I drop my arms to my sides.
She stands only a few feet in front of me, so I get to her quickly. My arm bands around her waist, and I hold her closely. My lips crash against hers, and I kiss her until we’re both panting.
“Fuck me,” she whispers, and I blink.
My mind clears, and I drop my arm. “I canna,” I say again.
“What the fuck?” she breathes, running her fingers through her hair. “So, I can’t tell you to fuck me, but I can tell you to do other things. Interesting .”
I don’t know what she’s talking about, but something nudges the back of my mind.
“Ready for your mind to be blown?” she asks, and I shrug. “It’s shower time.” Wiggling her eyebrows, she pulls me through the house to another room. “Get naked.”
Every thought I’ve ever had flies out of my head as I drop my kilt to my ankles, rip my boots off, and shuck my shirt. Lyric’s eyes melt into glorious pools of green, and her hair, so silky and black, flows down her back like a waterfall in the night.
“Get in.” She jerks her head at the white tub in the wall, and I don’t hesitate as I step inside. She twists a few nobs, then water shoots from the spout on the wall.
“Witch!” I cry, fear clawing at my chest.
“I’m not a witch,” she hisses. “Stop calling me that.”
But how can she not be a witch when she does stuff like this?
My prick stiffens as I watch her undress. Her body, so soft and supple, calls to me. I want to devour her. Wide, soft hips, a belly equally as inviting. Her body is ripe for a bairn.
Climbing into the tub with me, she stands at my chest, a full head shorter than me. She doesn’t seem deterred as she grabs a bottle from the ledge, pours sweet-smelling liquid into her palm, then starts gliding it over my body.
I watch as dirt and grime wash away, turning the warm water a muddy color before disappearing. She drops to her knees as she grabs another bottle.
“Stay perfectly still, poopsie,” she says sternly. “If you move, you might get cut.”
My breath comes in harsh, short gasps as she grips my tally-wacker with one hand and grabs a razor with the other. “I need you to be nice and smooth for me,” she murmurs, her voice a gentle caress. “I need to see all of you, understand?”
I nod absentmindedly, my thoughts forever lost to the back of my mind. The only thing I care about—the only thing I can do—is staying perfectly still for her.
The sharp blade glides over my lower stomach, and I watch as dark ginger hair coats it, making the razor nearly disappear. She runs it under the water, and the hair gathers at the bottom of the tub. Each scrape of the razor gives me a rush of cool air on my skin. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
My fingers dig into the slippery wall as she lifts my sausage. “Lass,” I breathe warily, watching as she places the blade on my pendulous sac. With her brows creased in concentration, she drags the razor along the sensitive, thin skin of my balls.
Slowly, she removes every single strand of hair from my nether region, giving my cock and balls a sort of elephant trunk appearance.
“Such a pretty pecker under that thatch of hair,” she coos, kissing the bulbous tip.
A shudder works its way through my body as she lathers my prick with more soap, giving my little guy a thorough wash. I’m aching for release. I’m desperate to feel her stroke me with her mouth again, like she did last night.
“Now that that’s done,” she says as she stands up, “it’s time to go shopping.”