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“Bayne.” My fingers find his hair, grabbing at it to anchor me to the island. I hold him, my eyes rolling in the back of my head as I moan. “Bayne. God, that feels so good.”
He chuckles against my pussy, the vibrations traveling over my clit.
“I don’t think I can take anymore.” I want to push his head way. I want to pull it closer to me.
But I don’t have any choice in the matter. I’m not the one in control. He’s sucking, licking, nibbling, his beard buried in my wetness. God, he’s going to smell like me. Taste like me. The scruff of his beard moves against the inside of my thighs.
He pushes a finger deep inside me, thrusting it in and out, and the simple gesture is my undoing. My hands slap the earth, my fingernails digging into the loose soil as I scream, grateful only the sheep can hear my cries.
I don’t normally cuss but, “OH! FUCK!”
I’m coming, hard, the feeling closing in on me, making my sight go black, my head go fuzzy, sweat dot my brow. I try to push him off, but he won’t stop. Torturing me till he’s drawing another harsh climax from my body.
When he’s done, I’m left limp on the ground, my body useless and boneless. He sits up on his knees, a satisfied look on his smug face. I watch with heated shame as he drags the back of his sleeve over his mouth. “You taste delicious, little virgin. Best meal I’ve ever had.”
“Oh God.” No longer able to look at him in my shame, I cover my face with my hands, laying there half naked in a wet muddy patch of a mix of his saliva and my own arousal.
The man has ruined me.
Chapter Sixteen
Bayne
A week goes by since I chased her down on those hills of mine.
And not one of those days went by that my cock didn’t throb every time she walked by me, so comfortable in my house.
I’m going mad.
After that day on the hill, when she told me she was a virgin, I haven’t touched her. It wouldn’t be right. What if she wants to get married one day? She’s not mine to spoil, is she? After having a taste of her pussy, I don’t trust myself to stop if I were to lay hands on her, not until I’d stolen her innocence.
My house has never been cleaner. My belly never fuller. My cock never in more agony.
Unable to watch her bend over to put something in the oven without burying myself inside her, I pull a box of rice down from the cupboard. “You’ve been doing all the cooking. Let me make you dinner for a change.”
“I haven’t minded,” she says, sinking down onto her favorite barstool. She dries her freshly washed hair with a towel, the clean scent of her shampoo reaching me. “You have the most amazing kitchen here.”
She’s filled her days with cooking, cleaning, reading. She’s asked me to bring her a computer from the Chronicle and with Fiona’s help to sneak it out, I did. She works on it during the day, no access to the internet but old files and research she’s been going through. She doesn’t offer information on her work, and I don’t ask, trying to keep the delicate peace between us.
At night, I take her for long walks along the hills or down the shore so she can collect her shiny rocks she’s lined her dresser with. She gets fresh air, exercise, and never, ever is out of my sight. So far, no one has spotted her here other than the sheep.
I’ve been staying at work as much as possible, not only to keep the scent off of her but to keep her scent away from me.
Eamon’s homesick and has been threatening to visit. He swears if I don’t bring him home soon, the guys will get suspicious. We haven’t heard anything more from Collins other than his casual visits to gather the statements of all the Baynes and Burneses.
Obviously, we were all drinking together at Crank’s dad’s leather and wood pub, The Hobgoblin, the night of the fire. He’s never renovated since the place was built, or ever bothered to add CCTV cameras so there’s no footage of the evening, and with over twenty fellas holding the same alibi, surely the detective’s attention will move on.
I make her dinner. Nothing fancy, just a stir-fry with rice. She seems to enjoy it, complimenting me every other bite.
Conversation flows easily between us at dinner—as it always seems to do. Tonight, I’m telling her about the Burnes boy who’s just got engaged, proposing to his girl while riding through the sky in a hot air balloon, a story I thought she’d enjoy, and she does.
“Oh, that’s so romantic! Was she surprised?”
I move the rice around on my plate with my fork tines. “I didn’t think to ask.”
She peppers me with questions. “Well, did you get any other details? What did the ring look like? When are they getting married?”
In my sexual frustration, I make a tiny mountain of rice, one grain at a time. “I don’t know. I’m not a woman. I didn’t ask those kinds of questions.”
