Page 127 of Bonetide

He doesn’t soften. He doesn’t go anywhere. He’s barely finished and his hand is still around himself, and I understand that the thing I asked for in the sitting room is only beginning.

“Don’t get too relaxed. We’re not done. Not by a long way.”

He hauls me to my feet by the elbow and walks me through to the kitchen—his trousers undone at the hips, his shirt half-untucked—turns me to the counter, and leans into me from behind.

“Hands flat on the surface.”

I put them flat.

“Wider.”

I move them wider.

“Oh, that’s a good girl.”

Holy hell.

His hand goes to the small of my back and pushes me forward. I bend over the counter with my chest pressed to the cold surface, and he runs his hand down over the curve of my ass through the leggings I’m wearing, his other hand at the waistband.

He yanks the leggings down to my thighs, my underwear with them.

I’m bent over my own kitchen counter with my clothes at my thighs and his hand running flat over my bare ass, and he’s looking at me with a quiet intensity I can feel without turning around.

“If only you could see what I see.”

He smooths his palm over me, both cheeks, slow, then brings his hand down—not hard, a flat, firm smack—I jolt against the counter and cry out, and he croons, “Aye, foxglove. Aye, that’s the sound I’ve been dying to hear.”

He smacks me again.

Harder this time.

I gasp; the air knocked from my lungs.

“You’re going to take what I give you this afternoon. Do you understand me, lass? You asked for this, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Aye?”

“Yes, Alasdair.”

“And you still want it?” He breathes in deeply. “I can smell how much you want it, how wet and greedy and desperate you are, which makes me think you still want it.”

“I still want it,” I whisper hoarsely. And he’s right, because my cunt is throbbing, and my skin feels like it’s on fire, and I’m bent over the counter just waiting for him. Every second that he’s not pushing into me is a second that feels like I’m wilting on the vine.

“Good.”

His hand goes between my legs from behind. He drags two fingers through me and he’s right, I am wet—embarrassingly wet—which I’ve been since I dropped to my knees in the sitting room. He makes a low sound of approval, slides his fingers into me, and curls them.

“You came over to me to get fucked, lass.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how you want to get fucked.”

“I don’t know how I want it. I just…you decide.”

His fingers go very still inside me.