Page 56 of Bonetide

I think I’ll let this man do absolutely anything to me.

His mouth leaves mine and goes to my throat.

“You wore a skirt.”

“I did.”

“Was that for me?”

“Yes.” I breathe hoarsely. “I thought you’d want me to.”

He laughs against my neck, the sound rough.

“Aye, lass. I want it.”

His hand has come down to my hip. He’s gathering the fabric of the skirt up slowly, an inch at a time, his palm hot through it, the friction warm even through the wool socks where his other hand has dropped to behind my knee. The bark of the birch is rough through my cardigan, but all I can really feel is his other hand at the back of my neck, his thumb at the soft place behind my ear, the slow steady pressure of his mouth working its way down to my collarbone.

I feel like I’m being devoured on the spot, every single nerve singing up and down my body.

The skirt is up over my hips now, and oh, god. Part of me thinks this is moving too fast, that I’m too revirginized, too sheltered overall, to let him dive right into it. But I want it fast. I want him diving in. I want it all, and I want it now.

He slides his hand up the bare inside of my thigh, knuckles brushing lightly against me where I’m very newly bare.

And sensitive, holy Jesus.

Alasdair pauses, his hand pressing against me. He goes very still; his mouth comes off my throat.

He knows.

He pulls back an inch and looks down at the gathered fabric of the skirt where his hand is exploring under, and then he looks at me.

“You’ve got nothing on under here,” he says gruffly.

He closes his eyes again, breathing out through his nose. His hand has not moved from the inside of my thigh.

“Do you know,” he whispers, “what you have done to me?”

“Show me then,” I say. I’m a huge proponent of show not tell.

And at that, a sound comes out of him from deep inside, something guttural, primal. He kisses me again, harder, nearly bruising, and his hand on my thigh moves up. His fingers find me, and I’m gasping.

“Christ, Iris. You’re so very wet.”

“I walked here thinking about this,” I manage to say through a gasp, the feeling of his cool fingers against my warm, bare flesh close to sending me over the edge already.

“Tell me what else you were thinking about,” he growls.

Of course I will play along. Not to think of Ryan at a time like this, but he was never one to be verbal during sex, and didn’t seem to appreciate it when I was.

“Your hands,” I tell him, the boldness coming through easily.

“Where?”

“Where they are now.”

“Where else?”

“Everywhere,” I breathe.