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Lyric
Who knew I’d be so good at shaving a man’s knob? Okay, it wasn’t his actual knob, just the area around it. But still. I’m borderline professional at that shit. If this bookstore thing doesn’t work out, at least I know I have a calling in manscaping.
Ian strolls beside me, his hand wrapped around mine, as we walk into the first store of our shopping spree. I don’t know how long he’ll be in my world, but he needs clothes to fit in while he’s here.
Which is a damn shame, if you ask me. I’d prefer him in that kilt at all times. But we tend to get stares and strange whispers when we pass people.
“Let’s try on some jeans,” I mutter, grabbing some that look about his size off the rack. “Oh, this is the same color as your tartan. It’ll feel like home. And this—oh, this!”
I race around the store, gathering clothes in my arms as he follows along like an eager puppy. It’s cute. Not at all what I thought he’d be like in real life, but I’m not complaining one bit.
Finally, with a sufficient amount of clothing, I turn and shove it all at him. “Let’s try this on,” I tell him. He nods enthusiastically, but gives the clothes a skeptical look.
We go into the dressing room, and I take my place on the bench against the back wall. He drops his kilt, and I’m reminded there’s nothing underneath.
“Wait!” I leap up and rush from the room, grabbing a pack of briefs from the rack. When I get back to the dressing room, he’s standing there naked, his junk on full display. “Put these on.”
I toss him the undies, and he scrunches his nose before sliding a pair up his thick legs. They hug his privates and ass beautifully, and I plop back onto the bench.
“Give me a fashion show.” I wave at him, and he doesn’t hesitate to start trying on clothes. Watching him get dressed and undressed is the worst kind of torture.
All those muscles flexing and shifting with his movements, his penis and testicles swinging between his legs. My mouth waters, and the desperate need to rip those undies off him and suck his soul right out fills me.
I need him.
“What would it take to get you to fuck me?” I ask, and he pauses with his new jeans halfway down his legs.
“What?” He turns to look at me, and I shrug.
“I want you inside me.” Reaching down, I cup my mound over my leggings. “I want that big stick in my moist little hole.”
His face flushes, and his eyes darken. “Do ye now, lass?”
I nod as I grind against my palm, my heart lurching into my throat as he lets the jeans fall to the floor. His pipe strains against the underwear—I swear I can almost taste his musky flavor as I watch him mimic my movements and grip himself.
“What do I have to do?” I ask again, a desperate whine entering my voice. “Just tell me, and I’ll do it.”
“Marry me.”
I go completely rigid.
“Marry…you?” Is that even legal? Can I marry a fictional character? A man who doesn’t exist?
But he does exist. He’s right here.
And if it’s not legal, then no harm can really be done, right? It’s just a few silly words and us signing on the dotted line.
“That’s all?” I ask, and he nods.
“I’ll only sleep with my wife.”
His wife.
There’s something so incredibly hot about that.
“Okay,” I breathe, widening my legs. My weeping sex cave is desperate for some stretching.
Groaning, I drop my head back against the wall.
