by Donna Alam
I have never come like that before. Never had someone go down on me, leaving me feeling as limp as overcooked spaghetti noodles. And I sound like I’ve been running. I hope he doesn’t want me to move because I don’t think I can. Like, ever again.
I’m brought back to the moment by his large hands on the cheeks of my ass, his thumb hooking my panties farther to one side.
‘Someone should paint this view.’
I huff some semblance of a laugh, thinking about the DIY mould kits Chastity considered featuring on the website. Or the MYOPD Max had insisted on. Mould Your Own Pussy or Dick.
‘I’m serious,’ he says, drawing his fingers along my wetness, causing me to whimper a muffled sound. ‘Oh, fuck.’
I sense the frustration with his exclamation. Turning my head over my shoulder, I find this moonlit god on his knees behind me, the cut of his jaw and abs not the hardest thing about him right now. Even though his expression is grim, it doesn’t stop my insides from fluttering at the sight of my wetness glistening on his lips and chin.
‘What is it?’ I whisper.
‘I don’t have a condom.’
‘You don’t?’ Why do I sound so surprised?
‘Unless you count the one in my wallet, which was a gag gift.’ One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. One large palm balances on the round of my bottom, and in the other, he holds himself. His dick. Cock. The thing I felt under his kilt but hadn’t seen. The kilt that now lies on the floor behind him. Not that I’m paying much attention as I stare at him holding himself. Idly touching, stroking the long, thick—
‘That condom won’t do?’ If I sound a little upset, it’s because I feel it.
‘It’s got a picture of Father Christmas on the foil.’ He quirks a brow. ‘What about in your bag?’ I shake my head. I hadn’t taken Chastity’s plan seriously at all. Not until I saw Keir, at least.
‘A call to the concierge it is,’ he says, making to move from between my legs.
‘No, don’t,’ I say, reaching behind me and grabbing nothing but air.
‘I’m sure they’ve had stranger requests.’
‘No, I mean, I want you. And I can’t imagine being tortured another minute while we wait for a prophylactic delivery.’
‘Are you complaining?’
‘Yes, Mr Smug. I need you to fuck me,’ I answer bluntly. More bluntly than I’ve ever been before. ‘I’ve had a million tests since Rob- . . . since he . . . so if you—’
‘You know what they call couples who rely on pulling out?’ Before I can answer, his brow tightens further as he grunts, ‘Parents.’
‘I’m on the pill.’
‘That changes things a little,’ he says, still scowling. ‘Though the last time I fucked without a condom, you were probably still in school.’
‘What?’ I answer with a little squeak.
But he doesn’t reply as he lines himself up, his jaw flexing as he curses again. Then he drives himself inside, expelling a long, throaty groan.
I cry out, still watching over my shoulder as his eyes roll closed. He tilts his head back as though savouring the moment as my insides clench their pleasure around him.
‘Keep doin’ that,’ he says, blowing the words out on a long breath, his thick lashes fluttering as his eyes open once again. ‘And this won’t last very long.’
‘So do it,’ I whisper, pushing back against him.
‘Do it? You mean fuck you—like this?’ He pulls back, pushing back into my pussy deliciously slow. ‘Or maybe like this?’ My hips in his hands, he drives in fast, skin slapping skin with the impact, once, twice, three times.
‘Yes!’ I cry out, any of that—all of that.
He alternates his movements between slow thrusts and solid drives until I don’t know where my body ends and his begins—until I don’t know if I’m crying out his name, or just straight up cursing, or if my words make any sense.
He flicks open my bra, my breasts bouncing free before he slides a hand under me to adjust the tilt of my butt. The change of angle alters the depth of his thrusts, and with it, the tone of my cries as he pushes down on my back.
Keir’s tempo changes as he groans, thrusting firmly again and again. His pace is unyielding, and I push my ass back against each of his thrusts as my climax approaches with a frightening speed, the tension twisting and building with the collision of skin.
Higher and higher it spirals, pushing all the air from my chest until I come loudly, my mind fragmenting, my body flexing and arching as it clenches through its release.
With one solid thrust, he grinds against me, and I think that’s it—he’s come, too. But then he pulls out, and covering my body with his, he works his length between the cheeks of my butt.
The experience is . . . I don’t have any words. And it doesn’t last long as his body lifts from mine. I turn my head again . . . just in time to see him painting my ass and the backs of my stockings with lashings of his cum.
Chapter 9
KEIR
‘That was . . . ’
Lying on my back, I can’t speak. Can’t answer her. It was fucking at its finest. I can barely remember the last time I had a woman in my arms, never mind underneath me. But all I know is, I don’t remember any first fuck being as intense and as dirty as that.
The sight of her riding my hand.
The picture of her undulating above me, nipples peeking out from her splayed fingertips.
The way the head of my cock looked sliding between her arse cheeks.
Her silky stockings stained with my cum.
And bare—skin to skin inside of her. Fuck.
‘That was . . . ’ she repeats in an almost breathless tone.
Her face suddenly appears over mine. Her lovely face, her lovely blue eyes and kiss-plumped pink lips. Her dark braids have become loose in a couple of places, but it doesn’t detract from how gorgeous she is. I feel a rush of affection for her, frowning as I decide I need to get laid more often before I begin to confuse orgasm in something other than my hand with any kind of warmth of fondness or love.
‘Are you dead?’ she says, poking me in the ribs.
‘Uff.’ Along with the huffed breath, I may also growl or maybe squeal, ‘No!’ Growl. Definitely a growl.
‘You’re right. Dead people don’t frown. And dead people aren’t ticklish.’
‘I’m not tickl—’ The rest of my words are swallowed by a noise that isn’t quite laughter, and I squirm as her fingers dig into my ribs. ‘Get off me, you mad wench! I’m not ticklish!’
‘Then why are you giggling like a girl, huh? Huh?’
But then she makes a critical error, sliding her thigh over my body to straddle me. The sight of her wetness spread open in front of me, above me, draws my fingers like a magnet.
‘You’re so wet.’ My words are part wonderment, part groan.
‘And whose fault is that?’ she whispers back, rocking into my touch.
‘Yours. For being so sexy.’ I pull her down against me and feel her smile into my kiss, her wetness pressed against me, the shape of her warm body along mine.
‘You’re not so bad yourself.’ She runs her hair through my fingers, toying with the strands.
‘So you told me in my interview. I’m glad to hear I measure up,’ I say, pulsing up into her.
‘Oh, you do,’ she purrs. ‘You measure up just fine.’
Our lips meet, the tone of this kiss different from before. Our mouths are slow and languid, drawing our kisses into endless moments, our fingers teasing and light in their touch.
‘If I ever need a fallback career, you’ll put in a good word?’
‘I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,’ she whispers, the sound and shape of her smile pressed against my lips.
‘Why don’t we go to the bedroom and discuss the terms. This carpet is embedding itself into my arse.’
‘Tell that to my knees.’
‘Come on.’ I roll onto my side, keeping her tight to my body so she doesn’t sli
p. Also, because naked. Naked girl wins every time. ‘I’ve got some special medicine to remedy that.’
‘Is that so?’ She sort of giggles, the tone sultry. ‘What kind of medicine?’
‘It’s magical stuff. It works as a liniment, an oral supplement, and even a suppository.’
She sets off giggling again with her head tucked into my chest. The sound of her mirth is almost as intoxicating as her smell—the mixture of her floral perfume and our fucking.
‘Come on, up,’ I say, sliding my hands down to her round arse.
‘What, already?’ She giggles. ‘I doubt even you’re that good.’
‘No?’
Lifting her elbow from where it’s tucked tight to her chest, Paisley looks down the length of my body. ‘Oh.’ Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes shining as her gaze snaps back to me.
‘You were saying?’
‘I think I was saying we should get up from this floor and get into the bedroom,’ she replies quickly, scrambling to stand. ‘The early bird catches the worm and all that.’
‘It’s a worm now?’ I say, standing myself. ‘Funny, I don’t remember you crying out, your worm is so fucking good.’
‘I said no such thing!’ she retorts, her cheeks turning bright pink. She still has her garters and stockings on, though the latter are, quite frankly, fucked. ‘What are you smiling about?’ she chastises, crossing her arms over her ample chest.
‘Pretty sure you said something like that.’ I try not to smile, the corner of my mouth quirking as I pretend to weigh up my answer. Pretend not to look at her tits. ‘I remember now. Your cock. Your cock is so fucking good. That was what you said. No worms were mentioned as you came around it, milking it for all its worth.’
‘It’s worth a lot,’ she murmurs, watching as I wrap my fist around my cock. ‘Because that is no worm.’ It’s at home there in my hand. You might say well acquainted, especially during our allotted me time. And her watching? I’m A-fucking-okay with that.
‘Less worm . . . more like an anaconda.’ The second half of her sentence is delivered much later as she watches as I run my hand along my shaft, engulfing the end. ‘You still have your boots on,’ she whispers.
‘I do.’
‘You look so hot, with or without the kilt.’
‘You like the kilt, eh?’
‘It makes me want to get Chastity to make a little Outlander porn.’
I’m somewhat familiar with the TV show; romantic tales of The Rising and buff Scotsmen in kilts.
‘Why ask your friend when you’ve got the real thing in front of you?’
‘Will you let me call you Jamie?’ she says, giggling softly.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I reply, kissing her temple before thickening my accent for my next command. ‘Wench, get thee to thy bed.’ She sets off running, and fuck, if the sight doesn’t make my dick twice as hard.
I gather our clothes from the floor and follow her at a more leisurely pace, arriving just in time to see the bathroom door close.
I place our heaped clothing on the bottom of the bed, then switch on the bedside lamp to reveal a room tasteful in creams and pale blues. The Art Deco accents carry on in the form of square lamps and etched mirrors and retro wood. A long, padded bench sits at the end of the bed, and a minimalist chaise sits in front of the large window.
Taking a seat on the bench, I pull my phone from my jacket, feeling a twinge of guilt at the thought of calling home. It’s not so late, just a little after nine p.m., but I hope she’ll be asleep all the same.
The line rings just once before her wee voice squeals, ‘Daddy!
My guilt deepens. How can I not want to hear her wee voice? ‘Hiya, darlin’.’
‘Why aren’t you on the camera?’
‘Because, er, there are too many people about.’ I mentally kick myself for calling her wee iPod rather than the home phone because we always FaceTime.
‘Are you no’ in bed yet?’ I ask, which is a ridiculous question as far as questions about the obvious go.
‘Agnes said I could stay up and see the end of the film we’re watching on Netflix. Agnes and me are Netflix and chillin’.’ She giggles, though I know she’s too young to be winding me up. At her age, she isn’t aware of the connotations in that pastime.
‘Well, be sure to get yourself to bed afore too long.’
‘I want to wait up until you’re home,’ she says, her tone changing from sweet to petulant.
‘No, it’ll be too late for you.’ My eyes flick to the bathroom door, hoping to get off the phone before Paisley comes out. One-night stands don’t need to know the ins and outs of my life. Even one-night stands as lovely as her.
‘But I want to,’ she asserts. ‘And tomorrow is still the weekend.’
‘Be that as it may, you’re to go to bed once the film is done. Do you hear me?’ Sorcha doesn’t answer. She’s getting awfully good at dishing out the silent treatment. I sigh heavily, wondering, not for the first time, if playing mind games is part of her DNA. She hasn’t seen her mother since she was tiny, but the older she gets, the more worrying things seem. And what’s more, because she’s ill, I can’t even use tomorrow as bribery; I usually play rugby while she hangs out with Louis, my friend Mac’s wee boy. But illness means quarantine, and quarantine is no fun for anyone.
‘Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, you’d better put Agnes on.’ A tiny huff sounds down the line along with an equally huffily muttered, ‘Fine.’
‘She’s crabbit—just miserable,’ Agnes says in answer. ‘And it’s past her bedtime. Pay her no mind.’ As usual, Agnes is quick to jump to my daughter’s defence.
‘I know. Chickenpox is enough to make anyone miserable, I’m sure.’
‘You’re not to worry. Just you enjoy your night,’ she adds, her words pregnant with meaning. See, Will isn’t the only one who worries I don’t get enough sex, though I’m sure Agnes would argue she only means female companionship.
‘I’ll be home late,’ I say, glancing at the bathroom door again. ‘You’re okay with that?’
‘Aye, aye. Stop your fussing, and I’ll see you in the morning. Sorcha,’ she then calls in her no-nonsense tone, ‘come say good night to your daddy.’
‘Good night,’ says my daughter, much more contrite.
‘Night, darlin’. I’ll see you soon.’
I’m staring down at my phone when I sense I’m being watched. When I look up, Paisley stands in the doorway, completely naked now, her hair falling in dark waves around her shoulders.
‘You still have your boots on. And you’re married.’
‘One of those things is true,’ I answer wearily. ‘And one of them used to be true.’
‘So your darling would be . . . ?’
‘My daughter.’ I move a small way along the bench, patting the cream leather next to me. I don’t know when I’ve seen a lovelier sight as she walks hesitantly towards me. She was gorgeous in the coffee shop. Stunning in her blue dress, decked out for a wedding. Beautiful earlier, semi-naked and ruffled, and under my hands. But right now, unadorned and sort of vulnerable, she looks sublime.
I unlock my phone, opening the photo app, bringing up one of approximately five hundred images of my wee girl.
‘This is Sorcha,’ I say quietly.
‘She looks like you,’ Paisley says softly, which surprises me.
‘Most people say she looks like her mother.’ Shit, why did I say that?
‘Does Sorcha live with her mom?’
‘Nope.’ I feel my mouth twist. ‘Her mother has no part in her life. She lives with me and Agnes,’ I say, flicking to the next image of many, where I’ve caught the steel grey-haired woman with a rare smile. It’s not that she doesn’t smile; she’s just a bit serious, I suppose. And she has no love for cameras. ‘This is Agnes.’
‘Sorcha’s granny?’
‘As good as. Sorcha is the reason I said I couldn’t come upstairs wi’ you.’ On the admission, my accent thickens. ‘My life
has changed so much since her mother and I split. She is and always will be my world.’
‘Of course. That’s understandable. But you’re saying you don’t date?’ I shake my head. ‘Ever? Not that this is a date or anything,’ she’s quick to add.
I shake my head. ‘The past couple of times, it didn’t go too well. Women don’t seem to get that she’ll always come first.’
‘I’m not suggesting this is a date,’ she says with that gorgeous tinkling laugh of hers. ‘But you don’t . . . ’
I blow out a breath, rubbing my free hand through my hair. ‘Casual fucks. Is there such a thing?’
‘Well, I’m no expert,’ she begins, tucking her hands between her legs, drawing my gaze to where it shouldn’t be. ‘But I think there are lots of kinds of sex. Lots of kinds of relationships tied to sex. I mean, in my world, some people get paid to screw, then go out for coffee as nothing but colleagues afterwards. We go on location shoots, and the actors have sex, kiss, and do all manner of things to each other, but that might be the only interaction they have.’ Her gaze lifts, and what I see is hope, maybe. Misplaced hope. ‘And then there’s Max, Chastity’s brother. He offers to exorcise me almost daily.’
‘Exorcise?’ I repeat, the word conjuring up images of the movie, The Exorcist.
‘Yep, cleanse me of Robin,’ she replies a little too enthusiastically as she nods. ‘And the thing is, if I were even tempted, I know that’d be it. No strings attached—nothing more than an impersonal exchange of body fluids and then don’t let the door hit you where the Good Lord split you.’
‘The fella sounds like an opportunist.’ It’s the nicest description I can muster. The worst isn’t fit for feminine ears.
‘Quit giving me the side-eye. I’m not sleeping with him,’ she says primly.
‘I’m wondering if you feel like you still need exorcising?’ I ask evenly.
‘What? After what happened in there?’ she asks a little incredulously, pointing at the other room.
‘Aye.’
‘Not hardly,’ she answers with a cute snort. ‘That was a thoroughly . . . thorough exorcism.’
