Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Alasdair sets the book down on the arm of the chair without looking and sits back, folding his hands in his lap, large and pale against his dark trousers. He looks up at me with a careful expression on his face, though I can see the dark hints of desire in the depths of his blue eyes.
“Tell me,” he begs, his voice rougher, raspier.
“I want you to be the thing you are when you’re not being careful with me,” I tell him, and, for a moment, I have to marvel at how confident and brazen I’m being, sexually, anyway.
He’s truly unlocked some hidden part of myself that had been dormant for way too long, a side of me I never even knew existed.
I suppose it’s hard to know exactly what you want when you spent most of your sexual life being married to a man who didn’t care about your wants in the slightest.
“Aye. Could you be more specific?” he asks, nostrils flaring slightly.
“I want you to take what you want,” I tell him, feeling coy.
“I don’t want to be asked. I want you to use me however you want and not check on me.
I want it to be the way it was the night you came through the window, but in daylight, and I want you to make me ask for it.
” I pause. “And I want you to make it filthy.”
He looks at me a long beat, his lips parting. As always, he’s gone still, nearly frozen, the appearance of a predator about to pounce.
“On your knees, foxglove,” he demands, his voice thick.
I obey before my brain has finished processing the instruction. The hooked rug is hard on my knees. His hands move to his fly, slow and deliberate, the careful, old-fashioned competence he does everything with, and I watch his fingers deftly pull down the zipper, the sound filling the room.
He unbuttons the trousers and pulls himself out. His cock is thick and hard—but seriously, when isn’t it?—and he wraps his hand around the base of himself as he looks down at me on the rug.
“Open your mouth,” he commands quietly.
I open it.
“Wider, lass.”
I do as I’m told.
He slides the head of his cock between my lips and he doesn’t go slow. He pushes in past my teeth, over my tongue, to the back of my throat, and stops there; the size of him fills my mouth until he’s jammed in.
His other hand has come to the back of my head, his fingers splayed wide in my hair, his thumb at the side of my jaw, holding me.
“Christ, look at you, love. On your knees on your great-aunt’s rug with my cock in your throat.”
I make a choking sound around him.
“You like that, aye? I can feel you liking that.”
I can’t answer; he’s blocking the words. I think he wants me to try anyway, so I make another sound.
“There’s the lass who’s been pretending to draw all week. There’s the lass who couldn’t put her wee plant on the page because she was thinking of my cock spilling down her throat. Fuck, foxglove. Take it.”
He doesn’t move his hand and he doesn’t pull my head down on him, just holds me there with him at the back of my throat. The seconds stretch. I’m breathing through my nose in shallow, uneven pulls, the panicking part of me starting to climb up the back of my neck and the wanting part louder.
I make a small questioning sound.
I’m holding, please. How much longer?
I want to suck.
He pulls me off him.
Slowly. He draws me back by the hair until just the thick, purple head of him is at my mouth, and I gasp around him, saliva at the corner of my mouth, my eyes streaming.
He looks down at me with a deep, dark pleasure I haven’t seen on his face before, the real pleasure under the careful facade, the one he’s been keeping under the man.
“Good girl.”
The words resonate lower than my belly, and I can’t help but make another sound, this one I’m embarrassed by, my cheeks going hot.
He grants me a small, slightly wicked smile, the late afternoon light illuminating his features, making him look otherworldly—which I suppose he is.
“Aye. You like that, too.”
He pushes back in.
He fucks my throat this time, and just as I asked, he’s not slow, not careful.
He sets a pace and holds my head with his fingers wrapped around my hair and uses my mouth, and the only sounds in the cottage are the wet sounds of his cock in my throat, and the small, choked noises I’m making around him, and the low aye’s he murmurs as he watches himself fuck my mouth.
He talks the whole time in a voice I haven’t heard out of him before, lower, older, the words slipping into another language.
“That’s it, lass. Take it. Christ, the look of you. You came here for this and you’re going to take what I give you. Aye?”
He pulls back enough for me to speak.
“Tell me what you are, on your knees on your auntie’s rug with my cock in your mouth,” he growls.
I swallow around him, trying to find the words.
“Mine,” he claims, watching me. “That’s what you are. Aye?”
I nod against his hand.
“Say it for me.”
He pulls all the way out, slick, my mouth open and wet and tipped up to him.
“Yours,” I agree, my throat already raw.
“Whose, foxglove? Be specific.”
“Yours, Alasdair.”
“Aye. Mine.”
He pushes back into my mouth and fucks it hard, and I feel his orgasm build—the rhythm faltering, his hand fisting tighter in my hair—and I’m ready for him, leaning into it, taking him as deep as he’ll go.
When he comes, he comes down my throat with a low broken sound, holding me there, making me take the first of it, swallowing, greedy gulps that taste of the sea.
Then he pulls out, still going, still spurting lashes of cold cum, and finishes on me, across my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, his hand working himself through it with my chin gripped in the other, watching me wear it.
And I let him. I tip my face up into it because I want it, because some unrecognizable version of me wants to be marked like this, and the look that comes over his face when I do is the darkest thing I’ve seen yet.
“Fuck.” His thumb drags through the mess at the corner of my mouth, pushes it past my lips, and I take that too, swirling my tongue around it. “Now look at you.”
He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t go anywhere. He’s barely finished and his hand is still around himself, and I understand that the thing I asked for in the sitting room is only beginning.
“Don’t get too relaxed. We’re not done. Not by a long way.”
He hauls me to my feet by the elbow and walks me through to the kitchen—his trousers undone at the hips, his shirt half-untucked—turns me to the counter, and leans into me from behind.
“Hands flat on the surface.”
I put them flat.
“Wider.”
I move them wider.
“Oh, that’s a good girl.”
Holy hell.
His hand goes to the small of my back and pushes me forward. I bend over the counter with my chest pressed to the cold surface, and he runs his hand down over the curve of my ass through the leggings I’m wearing, his other hand at the waistband.
He yanks the leggings down to my thighs, my underwear with them.
I’m bent over my own kitchen counter with my clothes at my thighs and his hand running flat over my bare ass, and he’s looking at me with a quiet intensity I can feel without turning around.
“If only you could see what I see.”
He smooths his palm over me, both cheeks, slow, then brings his hand down—not hard, a flat, firm smack—I jolt against the counter and cry out, and he croons, “Aye, foxglove. Aye, that’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”
He smacks me again.
Harder this time.
I gasp; the air knocked from my lungs.
“You’re going to take what I give you this afternoon. Do you understand me, lass? You asked for this, remember?”
“Yes.”
“Aye?”
“Yes, Alasdair.”
“And you still want it?” He breathes in deeply. “I can smell how much you want it, how wet and greedy and desperate you are, which makes me think you still want it.”
“I still want it,” I whisper hoarsely. And he’s right, because my cunt is throbbing, and my skin feels like it’s on fire, and I’m bent over the counter just waiting for him. Every second that he’s not pushing into me is a second that feels like I’m wilting on the vine.
“Good.”
His hand goes between my legs from behind. He drags two fingers through me and he’s right, I am wet—embarrassingly wet—which I’ve been since I dropped to my knees in the sitting room. He makes a low sound of approval, slides his fingers into me, and curls them.
“You came over to me to get fucked, lass.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how you want to get fucked.”
“I don’t know how I want it. I just…you decide.”
His fingers go very still inside me.
“Iris…”
“Yes?”
“You’re sure?”
“Uh huh,” I reply, my breath sharp with anticipation.
His other hand comes up. He reaches across me on the counter, pulls the bottle of olive oil toward him, the green glass bottle I bought in Diabaig, and uncorks it with his thumb.
I go still. Are we…are we making a salad?
“Alasdair.”
“Aye, foxglove.”
“What, uh…what’s the olive oil for?” My voice rises high at the end.
“For you.”
“I think I’m pretty damn wet.”
A pause. “Not everywhere you need to be.”
What?
Oh.
Oh.
“Oh—oh,” I stammer. “Um, I haven’t…I’ve never…”
“I know you haven’t, lass.”
For a moment I think I could be insulted, like how dare you assume I’m not a woman who’s taken it up the ass before?
But he’s right—I haven’t—and yes, he can probably tell.
I tilt my head to the side and watch as he pours oil into his hand, setting the bottle down on the counter.
That green bottle, slick with olive oil at the neck, sitting in my kitchen, where I’ll see it every morning for the rest of my life.
He rubs his palms together slowly, deliberately, like a masseuse gearing up for a job.
Then his hand goes back to me, sliding his oiled fingers between my cheeks, slow and slick.
“You’ll take it, just how I want to give it,” he rasps.
“I…”
“You’ll take it because you came to my chair on your knees this afternoon, and asked me to be what I am with you. So, I’m being what I am with you. You’ll take what I give you, lass, the way you said you would.”
His finger presses against me.
I inhale sharply, so unprepared.
“Aye, breathe.”
I breathe.