Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
My insides ignite at the position, my back arching, papers crinkling as he sets his lips and his tongue and his fingers to such delightfully wicked purposes. I slide my hand through his hair and curl the other around the edge of the desk near my head as the knot of my orgasm begins to climb and build, as he tastes and teases and tortures, as he whispers such compliments.
You're so fucking wet.
So tight around my fingers.
So wet on my tongue.
I’m going to wear your scent like a cologne.
It shouldn’t work, the contrast of his polished accent and the baseness of his words. So why then does it feel like a layer of pleasure that only elevates the experience?
“That’s it. Feed me your pussy. Let my mouth make you come.”
“That . . . that’s not being quiet,” I rasp, biting my lip as I rock into him. It’s not helping me be quiet.
“This sinner’s mouth only wants to worship you.”
I think my brain shorts right there and then, blood pumping wildly through my veins, draining to the centre of me, growing heavier and heavier only to burst through me like a flame.
I roll my lips in to mute the sounds as my orgasm overwhelms me, my penitent continuing to worship between my legs. My throat hoarse, I begin to pant, tears leaking from my eyes with the effort not to cry out. But it’s no good, though I manage to bring my arm over my mouth just in time to muffle the sound.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he grunts, his fingers pinning me in place as his mouth works me wetly, twisting my orgasm, distorting it until it threatens to annihilate me. “So beautiful when you come for me.”
And I do. Again, crying out and not even caring if anyone hears me this time.
“Please, no more,” I beg, between my legs pounding and my thighs trembling. “I need—” I need him.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasps as he stands, wiping the back of his hand across his glistening mouth.
As though seeking confirmation of my body’s loveliness, he slips his thumb inside, parting me for his view. “You’re so pretty and pink, pulsing and trembling.”
The intensity in his expression is enough to make my insides begin to pound again, as if it wasn’t enough that he’s feasted on me like a starving man.
I whimper breathlessly, but before I have the wherewithal to signal for a time out, my perfect torturer is leaning over me, and I’m tasting my own arousal from his tongue. His kiss is savage and possessive, a signal of his own need as he slots himself between my legs.
“Yes,” I whisper desperately, bunching the dark-coloured wool of his kilt in my hands. I want this. I want him. I want his cock inside me. “Please, quickly.”
“You want me to fuck you,” his deep voice rasps.
“Yes.” More it seems than I want my next breath.
His lips ghost over my face, his forehead touching mine. “Darling,” he groans. “I don’t have a condom.”
“What?” My body jerks under his. “No even in that . . . that little fanny pack thing.”
Alexander dips his head, his shoulders shaking with a chuckle.
“You and I are going to have a conversation,” he mutters, and when he lifts his head again, a smile lurks in the corner of his mouth.
“About the fanny pack?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“It’s called a sporran.” Holy rolling r’s, that sounded delicious and more than a little Scots.
“I know what it is,” I murmur, pressing my teeth to his jaw. His responding growly purr is like a lick of warmth to my stomach. “I’ve watched Outlander.”
I also know what it’s for. It’s because kilts haven’t yet evolved to include pockets. Just don’t get me started on the way Brits use the word fanny.
“Someone wants a good spanking.” He narrows his gaze but can’t quite carry it off, given he’s almost grinning.
“Call me Sassenach, and I might let you,” I sass right back.
“My God, I love that dimple,” he rasps, pressing his lips to my cheek. “Everything about you is so fucking edible.”
I shiver deliciously because that sounded more like a threat than a compliment.
“Spankings are for bad girls,” he says with a grunt as he swipes the fat, silky head of his cock against where I’m wet.
“You don’t think I can be bad?” I ask, glad he can’t see how my toes curl. “And what are girls who strip naked in the equivalent of a museum?”
“Perfect.” His crown slides over the rise of my clit, and I think my eyes roll back into my head. “Oh, that’s . . .”
“Yes, it is.” His throat works with a deep swallow and, as I push up onto my elbows, we both watch between my legs. How darkly he glistens. How wet I am.
“I haven’t,” he begins, his eyes sincere as they lift to meet mine. “Not since you. Not since forever.”