One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘So formal, Dr Honey. And a liar to boot.’

  ‘When are you going to start addressing me properly?’ I ask through a smile.

  ‘When you tell me your name—your real name.’

  ‘The number of people who know that are few. You’ll never be among them.’

  ‘So a select few?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘I do,’ he answers as though we’re having parallel conversations. ‘I like the sound of that very much.’

  ‘Is this you saying you’d like me to add your name to my dance card?’

  ‘I’m no’ the cotillion type.’

  ‘Oh, that I believe. You’re more the horizontal dance type.’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ he murmurs, the smile evident in his words.

  ‘What about you?’ I ask, trying for the upper hand. ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Ladies first.’

  ‘No, I insist.’

  ‘Ladies should always come first.’

  What’s the appropriate answer to that? Panting? A sultry giggle? As it is, my reaction is to jump as the sound of smashing glass sounds from behind the bar. It’s quickly followed by a round of catcalls, accompanied by cries of, “Go’an ya’ walloper!” as the barman yells, “Get tae fuck,” in response. But I don’t have time to decipher their meaning as I’m suddenly aware of these noises seeming to playback through the phone in my hand. Which means—but he can’t be here, can he? The phone must be picking up the noises.

  Instinctively, I turn to face the room.

  ‘You’re . . . not . . . here?’ I inhale sharply at the possibility—the impossibility. ‘Are you?’ My heart begins to beat rapidly, my stomach twisting in anticipatory knots as I scan the tables and spaces, voices and suits.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be something if I were?’ His voice is low and teasing, making me think of bedrooms and teeth bared against my skin.

  ‘It would be . . . ’ Then, through the crowded bar, I see him. ‘Fucking amazing.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  BEA

  I hang up my phone, trying hard to rein in my smile as I watch Kit make his way across the packed space. Confident, masculine, and so bloody beautiful. People seem to part to make way for him. At the bar, his hand grasps the back of my chair as he leans in to press his lips to my cheek like we’re long-time friends who always greet each other like this. As he pulls back, everything south of my waistline tightens and clenches as I realise he’s also inhaling my scent.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, trying to tamp down my exhilaration and keep the excitement from my voice.

  ‘Would you believe I’ve been visiting my grandmother?’

  ‘Get out!’ My hand is on his chest, and I stare at it, not sure how it got there. I pat him lightly, once, twice, resisting the urge to cop a feel of the solidness beneath his jacket. Or maybe run my hand across his chest and up his neck. Pull his mouth to mine. I manage not to. Just.

  ‘It’s true,’ he says with that wicked quirk of his brow. ‘I was summonsed for my quarterly appraisal.’

  ‘Now I really don’t believe you.’ It’s tough to because he’s so hard to read in contrast to how easy he is to look at. Midnight blue pants and a white button-down with silver cufflinks.

  ‘I can take you to meet her if you want.’ His hand rasps against the scruff covering his jaw, and I suppress the shiver of pleasure rolling down my spine as my mind imagines what that scruff would feel like between my thighs.

  ‘That, ah, won’t be necessary.’ I slide a chunk of hair behind my ear, my heart beginning to pitter-pat as I stare up into his face. ‘Are you staying in the hotel?’ His expression doesn’t alter, though his eyes seem to darken.

  ‘If I said no, would you offer me a space in your bed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I’ve been in the city at a medical conference.’

  ‘And now?’ He slides his large frame into the stool next to mine, and with a mere raise of his finger, he summons the barman.

  I remember how effective those fingers are . . .

  ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with you, but I’m enjoying a drink. And people watching.’

  His eyes slide over my body in a way that makes my nipples pebble and between my legs feel wet. ‘You seem dressed for something else.’

  My eyes snap up to his immediately. It’s no use denying it, but I still want to wipe the smug smile off his gorgeous face. ‘Oh, I see. That’s what you’re doing in Edinburgh. So I must be doing the same?’

  He laughs low and sultry, thanking the barman for his newly delivered drink. ‘How is it the saying goes?’ He takes a sip. ‘To get over a man, get under a new one?’ As an encore, he swipes his tongue over his full bottom lip.

  ‘Is that an invitation?’

  ‘Didn’t I already make that clear in the hallway of the club?’

  ‘Been to your club recently?’

  ‘I have. Friday, in fact.’ His expression barely alters. ‘Why, Dr Honey? Are you after a bedtime story?’

  My heart jolts because yes, that would be amazing. I’d pay good money to hear about his latest bangfest, particularly if it’s man-on-man.

  I can always insert myself into the scenario. Later. When I’m in bed.

  ‘I’ve no idea why you would say that,’ I answer a little primly as Kit brings his glass to his mouth again. ‘Gin and tonic? I thought you were a whisky man?’

  Suddenly, he grabs the back of my chair, swinging me to face him. His long legs bracket mine, his forearm brushing my waist.

  ‘I don’t like the idea of you trawling hotel bars.’

  I snort to cover my flash of panic. Was I so obvious? How long has he been watching me?

  ‘Who do you think you are, my father?’

  ‘I’m not averse to being called daddy, but that’s a privilege you have to earn.’ The words roll like silk from his tongue; a tongue that’s especially skilled if I had to guess.

  ‘I’m not calling you daddy.’

  Then he leans forward, and with the backs of his fingers, he slides the curtain of hair from my shoulder, sliding them down my arm until my hand is in his. He’s all lithe movement as he stands, and I’m . . . standing along with him as he murmurs his answer.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  In the occupied elevator, Kit pulls me back to stand in front of him. We haven’t spoken, just walked through the hotel hand in hand. To anyone looking on, we probably look like we’ve known each other forever, and we’re just heading back to our room to chill. I doubt anyone would peg us as two people off to fuck.

  Oh, God. He’s going to break me apart.

  The doors ding and open. More people crowd in, and as I step backwards to make room, Kit slides his hand around to my stomach, pressing me to him. As I inhale, there’s a little catch in my breath. His hand is warm and solid, but it’s almost as though he’s touching the most intimate part of me

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s pierced, honey bee.’ His voice is barely a whisper with his lips at my ear. The pulse in my throat beats wildly, his large hand splayed across my stomach and over my belly button ring. He must’ve noticed it at the club in the corridor—it’s something I don’t even think about anymore. I’ve had it since I was seventeen! Oh, but I’m aware of it now, pressing against his hand. And more to the point, I’m aware of his hardness pressing into me from behind, which must mean—

  The monster in his trousers is pierced.

  I’m so turned on right now, but desperate to keep my hands to myself—to stop myself from turning, throwing myself up against him, and gluing my mouth to his face. And in another change of pace, I like that he has a nickname for me even though, technically, no one calls me by my real name. But when he whispers it like that, it’s like his own special claiming of me. Not that I’d ever admit it.

  ‘Are you thinking about it?’ he whispers as he toys with a lock of my hair before sliding
it behind my ear. I shiver and nod, my knees as unstable as a newborn foal, and my thoughts just as wobbly. Of course, I’m thinking about his piercing. Of what it’ll feel like against my tongue, of what it’ll feel like inside me, when he kisses the soft skin behind me ear and whispers, ‘Good girl.’

  The last couple steps out of the elevator. Only four more floors to go, according to the buttons on the panel. My room isn’t on any of them, but it seems Kit’s is.

  ‘Don’t turn around.’ His hand presses me against him again. But for a jagged exhale and a small nod, I don’t move, and I can’t find any words to answer as it dawns on me that I’ve never felt so turned on as I do now. And I’m going to pretty much let him do what he wants to me because his direction is turning me the hell on.

  His hand glides to my back, pulling on the ties of my dress. It gapes at the front but doesn’t open. At least, not until his hands begin to undo the knot. My heart beats like runaway hooves, my mind torn. I mean, I want to get naked with this man, I just don’t want to do it in public, or in a hotel lift that, no doubt, has security!

  Without real planning or thought, I lift my foot and prod his foot with the point of me heel in warning.

  Okay, so I’m not as open-minded as my lust-filled right brain would like to think.

  ‘No?’ He sounds amused. ‘Then give me your knickers.’

  How can that ridiculous word sound sexy?

  ‘What?’ I try to turn around with little effect, considering his hold on me.

  ‘You heard me.’ His hands drift to my hips, the smile in his words very clear. ‘Take them off. I dare you.’

  ‘What are you, twelve or something?’

  ‘I was fourteen when a girl first took her knickers off for me.’

  ‘And a boy? How old were you then?’

  ‘Ah. I see how it is.’ The husky timbre of his voice twists my insides. ‘You’re a fan of a little man lovin’.’

  I bite my lip to stop myself from responding truthfully, answering with a saucy, ‘And you’re not?’ when his answer whips any more wisecracks out of me.

  ‘I was seventeen. But he didn’t need to be naked to suck me off.’ I whimper, lost in the imagery—a younger Kit and a faceless man on his knees. ‘Take them off, darlin’. I’ll make it worth your while.’

  I slip my hands under the hem of my dress, sliding the scrap of cream lace down my thighs and stepping out of them. The feeling of the fabric of his pants cause a shiver to roll right through me. If he wasn’t holding me right now, I think I’d fall.

  As the doors open one last time, I turn and feed them into his hand with a kiss.

  Chapter Seventeen

  BEA

  The door automatically clicks open, and it’s game on. I’m not sure if Kit reaches for me or I for him, but in an instant, my back is against the wall, all grasping fingers and frantic tongues. My hands shake with desperation and need as I try to unbutton his shirt when I notice in the dim light my dress is on the floor, and his fingers have already loosened the clasp of my bra.

  ‘Nice.’ His gaze turns my nipples to hard points before he even has his hands on me. Bra discarded to the floor; he holds my breast full in his hand, his thumbs brushing the tips, backwards and forwards, as between my legs begins to throb.

  ‘I want to eat your pussy first,’ he murmurs. ‘I need that honey all over my tongue.’ His eyes are dark and his face earnest, and as I open my mouth to agree, he flicks the tip of his tongue across both nipples. ‘You up for that, little bee?’

  I nod, desperate. I have so much pent-up need that if we were bargaining right now, I’d give him anything to have him down on his knees.

  ‘Good.’ His mouth pulls away, and he pulls his shirt over his head. His skin is a pale golden colour, his chest broad and firm. And in a delightful surprise, the skin of his right arm, from shoulder almost to wrist, is covered in the swirl of black ink. I want to touch him—want my hand on the skin of his warm flesh, want to trail my fingers over the intricate patterns of his tattoos, when he spins me around. Somehow, my hands end up splayed flat on the desk next to me, my bottom jutting out.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen an arse as white as yours.’ He slaps me once, and I jump at the contact because I don’t think I’ve ever been spanked, never mind told my ass is too white. ‘I bet you look fantastic in a bikini. I’d like to see you in one. All that honeyed skin and the tiny bits of fabric covering the bits that are all mine. Mine.’

  I don’t have a chance to dwell on the meaning of his phrasing as his hand hits me again. My responding whimper is such a sound that it leaves no doubt of what I’m feeling.

  ‘It’s such a tiny wee word—mine—but I kinda like the feel of it,’ he murmurs, words breathing against my skin as his fingertips trail down the backs of my legs.

  Feelings, so many feelings, as his large, warm hands move my feet farther apart.

  ‘Nice.’ The word is part appreciation, part gravel as he pushes down on my lower back, pushing my ass out. ‘This is going to be as delicious as it looks.’

  With a groan of appreciation, his tongue slips between my legs. One lick and I’m already crying out, my fingertips grasping against the surface of the desk as though it’ll prevent my imminent fall. ‘I was right, darlin’. You do taste like honey.’

  His tongue swipes my length again before he buries himself between my splayed legs. I’m unprepared for the intensity, of how his tongue and mouth work me, and of his dirty words, promises, and growls because he keeps talking—telling me that he’s drunk on me, that he can’t get me out of his head. I’ve never experienced a high like it. I’ve never wanted to come so hard. He licks and tastes me like I’m something to be savoured, even more so as he spreads me wider with his hands.

  Sweat rolls down my spine. I’m desperate to touch him—desperate to feel him inside me. I can’t think—can’t focus on anything at all but the intense pressure building inside me, and how I want—need—his cock to fill me.

  ‘OhGodohKitOhmyGod.’ I chant a litany as pleasure, white hot and intense, crawls up my thighs.

  ‘You’re so fucking sweet on my tongue.’

  He pulls back, and before I process what’s happening, my backside is perched on the desk. My shaking legs draped over his shoulders, and his mouth, chin, and nose shine with my wetness in the lamp light. The sight is somehow obscene and wickedly delicious at the same time. He smiles up at me like the devil himself.

  And right about now I’m ready to sell my soul.

  ‘You were about to come.’ It’s not a question, which is just as well as I have no breath, let alone words. Cool air spreads through the room in a burst as the drop of sweat rolling down my neck starts to chill.

  ‘And you will, but I want to watch your face when you come.’ I roll my lips together to suppress a moan. ‘Would you like that? Me watching you.’ I nod again as he grasps my ankles. ‘Of course, you would, you filthy wee minx. It’s like dancing for me, only this time, I’ll be the one doing the torturing.’

  Then my heels are on the edge of the desk, and I’m spread so wide, so shamelessly, but I don’t have time to process or object as he slides two fingers inside my pussy. The intrusion is so slick and sublime, I cry aloud.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he grates against my flesh, the pointed end of his tongue pressuring and flicking my clit again and again. ‘Drown me in your fucking honey.’ I want to push into his face and bring my hand to his head as he teases me, but short of falling off the desk, I can’t. It’s like being tethered or tied. And I want that. I’m aware of every touch, every brush of cold air against my skin as I hold myself in place, panting and crying out his name.

  ‘I can’t, Kit! I can’t. I can’t stand it anymore. I need to come.’

  ‘Ask nicely,’ he responds in a quiet rasp, his gaze staring up at me between my legs. ‘Ask nicely, and I’ll make it so fucking good.’ His accent is heavier now, the need in his voice rendering the word something else entirely. I want to capture this mome
nt, his avid expression, his need for me, so I can play it again and again.

  ‘Yes . . . please. I want that—anything.’ I want it all.

  ‘And in the morning,’ he says with a wicked half smile as he lifts my legs and drapes them over his shoulders, ‘you have to promise to tell me your name. Your real name.’

  I nod, desperate, almost missing the bit where he seems to want me to stay the night. ‘I-I will. I promise.’

  And then his tongue is working me, his head buried between my legs, and his fingers spreading me open for ease. His tongue is divine, his touches so rhythmic, my orgasm goes from smouldering to white hot, burning flame. I’m coming hard—so hard—pushing myself into his face, his head in my hands as my orgasm crawls upwards from my thighs, exploding in a burst of blinding heat and ecstasy.

  ‘Fingers. Tongue.’ From his position kneeling on the floor, Kit stares up at me for several long, loaded beats before licking the small but triumphant smile on his face. ‘You know what comes next.’

  ‘Your tongue is obscene.’ I sound hoarse as if I’ve been running, and of course, I mean his expression, but my mind is currently useless, my body drained of everything but the aftershocks of pleasure sparking between my legs.

  ‘Obscene?’ He quirks one lewd eyebrow as he helps lower my feet to the ground. He leaves his hands on my knees, preventing me closing them. ‘I did’nae hear many complaints just now.’ I mewl as he swipes one finger through my wetness as though to prove a point.

  ‘It wasn’t a complaint.’ My eyes flick to the bulge in his dark slacks. ‘And speaking of obscene . . . ’

  His responding laughter is low and raspy as he stands and begins slowly unbuckling his belt. The grace of action is unhinging, my anticipation so great I find I’m holding my breath.

  ‘You look like a kid at Christmas.’

  ‘Stop talking,’ I answer. ‘I’m tired of imagining, show me the good—good God!’ As the side of his pants falls open, the monster I’ll be dealing with snakes from the band of his grey boxer briefs.