Chapter 17 #2
Instead, he kisses the inside of my thigh, and then he comes back up. He settles his body over mine. He braces himself on one forearm above me and uses the other hand between us. Two of his fingers find me wet and ready. He slides them in.
“Christ, foxglove. You are soaking.”
“I have been since you opened your door.”
“Have you now?”
“I’ve been soaking since I got in the car,” I add.
“Aye, you’re killing me.” He groans.
He works me with his fingers, slow, the curl of them finding the place inside me he found yesterday. I am already close. I am already so close it’s embarrassing. He has barely touched me and I am already shaking.
And just like that, I come.
I come on his hand, making a small high sound that’s half a cry and half a gasp and my hips lift off the bed and his fingers do not stop, and I am riding out the orgasm with my hand on the back of his neck and my forehead against his shoulder, holding on for dear life.
He works me through it until the waves subside, then he brings me down.
Then he’s between my legs again.
This time I feel him.
The blunt hot head of him at my entrance.
He does not enter me immediately. He drags himself through my wetness, slowly, the head of him moving along my folds, against my clit, back down, the slow steady tease of a man who is going to enter me when he is good and ready and not a second sooner.
The sound is so loudly wet it borders on pornographic.
“Alasdair,” I moan, greedy and impatient.
“Patience, foxglove.”
“I want…” I breathe.
“I know what you want.”
“Now, please,” I beg, because damn it, I am begging. “I want you inside me now.”
He laughs against my throat, a rich low, almost menacing chuckle.
He lines himself up.
He enters me slowly.
Inch by inch. The kind of entry where I feel every single part of him going in.
He is so big and I am so wet and we still have to take it slow because my body has not been opened to a man in a long time and certainly not to this much of one.
He stops halfway. He lets me adjust, lets me find my breath.
He kisses my mouth and goes a little deeper.
He stops again, fully seated, to the hilt.
He is so deep in me I can’t breathe.
He holds himself there. He puts his forehead against mine. His breathing has gone uneven for the first time.
“Iris?”
I make a whimpering sound.
“I’m not going to be careful with you much longer.”
“Good.”
“Foxglove,” he warns.
“I mean it. I’m not going to break.”
He kisses me again and starts to move.
The first stroke in and out is slow. The second is slower.
The third is the same. He’s keeping the discipline, even with all of him inside me, even with his control as thin as it’s ever been before.
He’s working me up to him. He’s letting me feel every withdrawal and every return, and the rhythm is the rhythm of a man who’s decided to ruin me in stages.
This is just the first stage.
And I come again.
I didn’t even know I was that close, the orgasm slamming into me from nowhere.
My hips are lifted slightly, and he’s hitting something inside me at this angle, and the slow, steady pressure of it builds and builds and breaks in a wave that has me digging my nails into his back, making sounds against his throat that I have zero control over.
He fucks me slow through the whole of it, and when I am limp and breathless and crying a little, he kisses my temple and pulls out.
“Turn over, foxglove.”
I turn.
I’m on my hands and knees on his bed just like last night. The cool of the linen is against my breasts and my forearms. My ass is in the air. I am offering myself to him again like this, only I know this time will be different.
His hand lands flat on the small of my back.
“Christ. Look at you.”
“Look at me what?” I prod, wanting to hear it.
“Look at you on your knees on my bed waiting for me to fuck you, foxglove. I’ve wanted this since the day I first saw you through the window.”
He enters me again.
From this angle he is deeper. I make an inhuman sound as he drags himself out slow, then pushes back in.
He sets a rhythm that is harder than the first one, the slap of his hips against my ass quiet in the room but real, his hands at my waist holding me steady, his cock moving in me at a depth I didn’t realize it could go.
“That’s it. That’s it, lass.”
“Alasdair.”
“Take it. Take it for me. There you go.”
I take it.
His pace builds. He is using my hips for leverage now.
He’s no longer being careful with me. The discipline has stopped being the discipline of a man holding back; it has become the discipline of a man taking what he has been allowed to take, and the difference is in his rough hands and his raspy voice and the angle of his pelvis against me.
He fucks me harder.
He fucks me like a man who has been promised this for a long time.
He fucks me until I’m crying into the bedspread and my arms have given out and I am face-down with my ass in the air and his hands at my waist and his cock moving in me in long deep strokes, and the guttural, primal sounds I’m making echo around the room.
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.