by Donna Alam
‘You want to spare his bruises?’ he asks quite unkindly.
I shake my head. ‘No, that’s not it at all.’
‘I’ll ab you in courd,’ Robin crows. Or at least he tries to.
‘See, that’s no’ to my taste. Corduroy is more for hipster fuck boys like you.’
‘I think he means court,’ I add, the thought making me sick.
Fingers still at his bloody nose, Robin mistakes my intervention, puffing out his chest. ‘Ab you arresded.’
‘The police?’ Keir looks delighted. ‘You must really be sick of your life, pal.’ He takes a quick threatening step, causing Robin to almost tip in his haste to stumble back. ‘Come on.’ Palm up, he curls his fingers in several times. ‘Why don’t we leave the threats of court and police, and you and me step outside?’
‘You’re a ducking Neanderdal.’
‘And you’re gonna need that thing set,’ Keir replies, letting his arms drop to his side. He straightens, adding sardonically, ‘We wouldn’t want to spoil those pretty boy looks.’ Then he bursts out laughing. ‘Sorry,’ he says, wiping a hand down his face as though he could remove his smile. ‘But you’re a sorry looking fuck. You’d never have a chance with a looker like her,’ he says, tilting his head my way. ‘Unless you’ve a dick like a Coke can, but from what she’s said, that’s not true. Must be your sparkling wit and personality, aye?’
‘Duck you,’ Robin spits, all bubbling blood and venom. ‘An duck her.’
‘Now you’re talkin’,’ Keir retorts. ‘Come on, darlin’,’ he says, looping his arm around my waist and pulling me in tight. ‘I say we take his advice.’
Chapter 7
KEIR
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says for what seems like the hundredth time as we step out of the lift onto her floor. I hear what she says—of course, I do—but the majority of my attention is glued to her arse as she steps out in front. The tight material of her dress hugs her curves like a second skin, leaving me guessing at what she’s wearing underneath. I blame the wee peek she blessed me with in the coffee shop; the flash of dark satin and the tiny flowers that seem to have become embedded in my brain.
Seriously, every time I’ve closed my eyes since, that’s what I see.
‘You really don’t need to walk me back to my room, you know.’ Paisley stops dead in her tracks, her hand on my forearm causing my attention to snap up. ‘I was thinking maybe I should just head home.’ She tips her gaze up to me, all bright blue eyes and trusting face. But she shouldn’t trust me. Not with the way I currently feel. I wonder if she can feel my body vibrating under her fingertips?
Fucking and fighting. For me, those two things have always gone hand in hand. From the skinny, scrappy lad who grew up in a shitty flat at the arse end of a working class Scottish town to now; the man with an empire worth hundreds of millions. My fights are less physical these days, but my wins are still the same. On an intellectual level, I get it. Fighting and fucking are both their own kind of stimuli—it’s a transference thing. Downstairs, I’d wanted to punch that prick until my arms ached. I couldn’t, because adulthood, and now I have this build up, this force inside me needing an outlet. If she slid her hand from my arm to my zipper right now, she’d know. She’d probably recoil from me and quite sensibly so. Because I need to sink my cock deep in her to satiate the ache. Need like I need my next breath.
But I’m good at restraint. Restraint is my thing.
It’s so fucked up, I know. I shouldn’t be walking her to her room even though it’s the right thing to do. Because chivalry might get kicked in the arse when we reach her door. It was easier in the ballroom. Easier to say no. But hyped up and with no outlet for this pent-up energy, I might just throw caution to the wind and throw her up against the wall, then really go to town.
Except I won’t. Because I’m not a kid anymore. I’m in charge of my actions, not the other way around. And hasn’t it already cost me a fortune in therapy to get to this point?
But still, I’d like to angry fuck some sense into her. It might actually do her some good. Apart from the pleasure of a good, solid fucking. Because some women are such shite judges of character when it comes to men. Like my junkie mother. I push the thought to the back of my head.
‘Keir?’
Fuck. My jaw is rock fucking tight in my effort not to act on how I feel.
‘Will there be someone at home?’ My tone is rougher than I intended, and I catch myself before I wince at her wide-eyed expression.
‘N-no,’ she replies, slightly perturbed.
‘You can’t, then. Men like him don’t give up. You can’t be alone tonight.’ Shite. That didn’t sound the way it should’ve, a thought confirmed as her hand falls away.
‘My friend is here in the hotel.’
‘Same room?’
She gives a quick shake of her head. ‘She’s currently . . . otherwise engaged.’
‘There’s a euphemism if I ever heard one,’ I say, taking her arm, our feet finally moving again.
‘At least one of us is having fun,’ she mumbles.
‘Aye, I can think of better ways to spend an evening.’ I grit my jaw, wishing I’d pulled the fucker out into the street.
‘Again, I’m sorry to have been so much trouble.’ She stops again, and while she might not have her hand on one cocked hip, her attitude is the same. I’ve pissed her off.
‘That’s not what I mean.’ Before my sentient self realises, I’ve stepped into her, backing her against the door, my hands on the doorframe by her head. ‘I meant what I said earlier.’
‘And I told you,’ she says, raising her chin a fraction higher. ‘I don’t scream for anyone.’
‘You’d scream for me.’ Probably from fright if she could see what was running through my head.
‘This is me,’ she says, producing the key card between us. ‘But if you’re not coming inside, I guess we’ll never find out.’
Against everything I stand for as an adult, and against everything I’ve been telling myself since we stepped out of the lift, I grasp the card from where it’s balanced between her two fingers. It all happens in slow motion.
I lower the key to the reader, her darkened eyes falling closed as I press my hips into her. She feeds her arms around my neck, and the door opens from the momentum of our bodies.
My arm around her waist, my bulk is the counterweight preventing her fall as we stumble into the room, everything speeding up again.
I kick the door closed, dropping the key to fuck knows where as I haul her tighter against me. My mouth commands our kiss, forcing it deeper and wetter until her fingers are pulling my hair and she’s moaning into my mouth. And fuck, if that doesn’t do it for me, making me frantic. Fills my head with the notion that I could spend an evening devouring her with just my mouth.
And that’s a fucking thought. One that makes my whole body physically ache—makes my mouth water for the taste of her. The image of her garter belt and splayed legs heightens my desire, my desperation clear in the tenor of my groans and the wild movement of my hands on her—my lips as I drag them across her jaw, my teeth as I touch them to her neck and the soft swell of her breast. And all the while, I’m moving us farther into the room as she strips me of my jacket, pulling my shirt loose from the waist and dragging it over my head.
It’s not a room but a suite, I notice, as we emerge from a dark hallway into the moonlit space. I make out the lounge setting—couches and tables. All kinds of things to bend her over and position her against. Like the back of the console table I push her up against. There’s a chair or a couch in front of it, the dark shapes of more furniture gathered around.
If I had half a brain left, I might take her to the bedroom. Make the first time I fuck her count because I know once I crack this seal, once won’t be enough. But I can’t think of anything beyond her ragged breathing causing her chest to heave under my nose and my desperation to taste her. All of her.
As her backside hits the console table,
I frame her tits with my hands, biting her nipples over the fabric and making her exhale a soft curse.
‘Bedroom,’ she adds huskily as my lips find her neck, the direction and words lost to the night air as she tilts her head back, giving me access to her pale skin. I kiss my way over her bared shoulder, biting the skin where it curves to her neck and causing her to hiss. I lift her knee, dragging it to my hip to grind against her like a teenager.
‘I’m so fucking hard for you,’ I growl in her ear, watching as she lifts her hand to where her dress is clasped at the shoulder. It falls away from her skin with a stiff kind of reluctance, barely revealing anything as I watch on like a pervert at a peep show.
‘Zipper at the side,’ she rasps, but I push her hand away as she reaches for it.
‘Not so fast.’
‘I want to feel you,’ she replies, sliding her hand down my chest, causing my abs to tighten in anticipation. She slides it farther between us, pressing her palm to where I’m rock hard under my kilt and tightening her fingers around my girth. For a minute, I wonder if this is what a penitent feels like wearing a hair shirt. As she presses harder, I groan roughly, pulsing into her hand.
‘That’s so . . . wow,’ she whispers, her eyes widening as her gaze flicks to mine. ‘You’re so big,’ she whispers, arching her back. But between her hand, her dress, and my kilt, there’s little relief for either of us.
And while it’s always good to hear a little appreciation, I try not to smirk as I answer. ‘This is all you,’ I whisper, pressing my lips to her neck. ‘All because of you.’
I lower her leg, placing my palms solidly on the front of her thighs. ‘I’m so fucking hard, and I can scarcely think straight for imagining what’s waiting for me under this dress.’
With the admission comes the action as I begin to drag the stiff fabric of her dress from her knees up. I don’t do it slowly, but with a roughness that absolutely belies my desire. Paisley’s breath hitches, and her hand falls from my dick, catching her balance on the table she’s leaning against.
‘Fuck, yeah.’ My eyes are glued to the sheer lace tops of her stockings. Rather than ruffles this time, her garters are sleek and coloured like midnight. ‘I’m going to fuck you while you’re wearing these.’
‘Just . . . please.’ The words are exhaled along with a tremulous breath as she tilts her chin, her gaze lifting to the ceiling.
‘No, darlin’.’ I lift one hand from her thighs momentarily, placing my thumb on her chin. ‘You don’t want to miss this.’
Her eyes shine dark in the moonlight as she watches my face, not my hands, as I reveal the luminescent skin above her stocking tops. My fingers trail her silky skin, my palms pushing her thighs open.
Her knickers are sheer and almost totally transparent, her femininity on display in the form of a neat strip of curls beneath a smattering of embroidered polka dots.
‘I can smell you. Smell your sweet cunt.’ Leaning into her, I press two fingers against her crease. Maybe it’s the boldness of my words rather than this first touch that has her knees buckling.
Her back arching.
Her whispered curse.
Her body begins to tremble as my finger slides a slow and rhythmic dance, the material dampening against my fingers as she pushes against me.
‘Please,’ she whispers again.
‘Please what?’ I answer with an edge of taunt, an edge of tease as I curl my fingers, hooking under the barely there strip of fabric between her legs.
‘Please touch me.’
I will. And soon. But for now, I know she’s feeling the cool air of the room on her wet pussy, her need building and twisting until she’s fit to burst.
‘When I get my mouth on you, I know I’ll find you shiny and wet. Just for me.’
‘God, yes!’
‘You still think you won’t scream?’ She folds her bottom lip between her teeth, trying not to smile. But I don’t wait for a definitive answer as I add, ‘Get your arse on this table, darlin’, because I’m gonna eat you out.’
Fingers at her waist, I make quick work of her zipper and then pull the dress over her head. And then I find myself just staring . . . staring at the perfection of the girl with the milkmaid braids. But there’s nothing else simple about this view as she spreads her legs in invitation, baring herself through her gossamer-thin knickers. A bra to match; strapless and straining with the weight of her need.
‘You’re fucking perfect,’ I whisper roughly, my hands spanning her collarbones and then dragging down over her skin. I release her dark nipples from their sheer cups, taking each into my mouth in turn, relishing the tenor of her hiss as I use a threat of teeth. My hands travel farther down, pushing her thighs wider still. The sight and scent of her driving me to the brink of insanity.
I feed my fingers between her legs, pulling the thin strip away from her skin. The material is damp and glistens under the moonlight.
‘Look at how wet you are,’ I tell her. ‘Look at the mess you’ve made of these.’ My gaze travels up her body, the threat in my eyes as well as my words. ‘I’ve a good mind to make you clean them.’ Her eyes widen, her breath hitching, and all the while I’m talking, I’m barely brushing her slick skin. ‘A good mind to shove them into your mouth as we fuck. But then, how would I hear you scream?’
Christ, I want this pussy. Want this girl. Fighting my urge to pin her down and push myself in, I continue with my tease. As much as I want to press her bones against the table and fuck her solidly, I want to build her need for this. For us.
Chapter 8
PAISLEY
‘Look at how wet you are.’ His voice is gravelly, his tone more wonder than admonishment as his gaze flicks from my wet panties to my face. ‘I’ve a good mind to shove them into your mouth as we fuck. But then, how would I hear you scream?’
My God, I think I almost came.
With his accent, I knew his aural would be good, but I couldn’t have guessed the dirty deliciousness of his words.
‘You like the sound of that,’ he asserts, staring at my pussy . . . my cunt. The word reverberates off the walls of my brain. And my uterus. How can I be so turned on by something that would usually make me cringe?
Yes, I know I work for a porn company, but still.
‘Fuck, look at that,’ he groans, sliding one wet finger against where I’m soaked. I can feel myself pulsing against his finger. Does he see? Can he feel it?
I only need to look at his dark gaze to know the answer.
‘You’re so fucking sexy,’ he rasps, his thumb stroking my hard nipples one at a time. As he bends his head and takes one into his mouth, I buck at the graze of his teeth, welcoming the merging of pleasure and pain. What I’m unprepared for is the deep thrust of his large fingers inside.
I cry out—words of nonsense and need as his teeth tease and the fullness between my legs increases. Is that two fingers? Three? Three definitely. Electricity swells beneath my skin; I want to reach out and pull him to me, kiss him, let him taste my need, but I don’t want this feeling to end.
Then, in one fluid motion, he drops to his knees and hooks my panties to the side to watch . . . to just stare at my most sensitive of places as he thrusts his fingers inside over and over again, his thumb rubbing my clit.
‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he murmurs. ‘Ride my fucking hand.’
My fingers grasp the edge of the table as I begin to chant, ‘Yes, God, yes! Please, please, please!’
On one deep thrust, Keir leans forward and places a soft kiss on the strip of hair between my legs. Another kiss, then another as he works his way down my pussy. When he reaches my opening, his dark gaze flicks up my body with a look of possession. A look that owns every bit of me. I watch as he parts my lips, stroking his tongue against where I’m most slick. It’s barely a touch, but it ignites every nerve ending as he bares my clit. Kisses it. Circles it with his tongue. Engulfs it between his lips.
‘Keir, God, yes!’
He grunts— a th
oroughly masculine sound, his eyes dropping closed as his tongue licks me, pushing my legs wider, the string of my panties still hooked in his fingers.
‘You’re so fucking delicious,’ he growls against my flesh with almost a sound of awe as he feeds his hands under the cheeks of my ass, pulling me to his face. His tongue strokes, opening me, his whole mouth licking, and sucking, devouring.
I’m not sure how it happens, but one moment, he’s in front of me, and the next, I’m sitting on his face. Our position is so dirty, so fucking filthy as his hands find my hips, encouraging me in a sultry rhythm as I ride him. There’s no other word for it—I ride his face. Never in my entire life have I felt so sexy. So powerful. So desired as something hot and sleek rushes through my insides.
The noises I make are raw, almost animalistic; my hands are on my breasts, my back arching and my body stiffening as Keir drives me over the edge. I’m panting and crying and chanting his name as I struggle to break free from his face, but he refuses to allow me as he continues to work my tortured flesh with his mouth, coaxing more from my orgasm. Every nerve ending screams for either release or more of his brand of ecstasy, I’m not sure which. It seems impossible that I can feel—or enjoy—more but I do as he groans into the very core of me, drawing out my orgasm.
I’m frayed. Whimpering. Spent.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t.’ I can’t think. Can’t move. Can’t articulate what I mean as I fall forward, my palms connecting with the floor as I try to pull away from his large hands anchoring me against him.
‘Don’t cry, eh?’ His tone is deep and smoky, and with a last tormenting lick along my over-sensitized flesh, he pulls away, but not before biting the soft skin of my thigh.
If I wasn’t crying out before, I am now, the pounding between my legs only heightened by the press of his teeth.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispers a moment later, ‘would you look at that.’ But I don’t have the wherewithal to move. My head balances on my forearms; my wits are like marbles rolling around the place.
