He puts his lips to my ear and whispers, “Say it.”
I think of all the ways I want to murder him. As he is about to pull out of me, I dig my nails into his shoulders and hiss, “Please put your- your cock in me!”
He sinks in, hard, and we groan together. Every time with him stings. Every time the tip of his cock pushes up against my cervix and the tingle it causes zaps through me and down to my toes. And every time everything inside me collides and reforms and I come out better for it.
His arm snakes under me, lifting me to meet his kiss. The muscles in his thighs coil and move as he thrusts harder and his other hand shoves up under my bikini top, ripping it off and running a hot trail between my breasts and lightly cupping my throat. He leans up as he slams in and out of me, squeezing his fingers around my throat just slightly.
I could never imagine trusting a man enough to let him do this but now, with my husband’s face in shadow and his eyes half closed and looking like a darker twin, it is shockingly erotic. I groan, feeling the danger as his fingers tighten again, the burn, and a certainty that he knows just how much I can take.
“H- h- how can you be getting harder?” I wheeze, trying to get the words out between his thrusts.
“Because nothing else will ever feel like this; your pretty cunt gripping me like a fist, your pulse under my thumb-” his head drops as I tighten my thighs against his flexing muscles. Squeezing my throat one more time to get my attention, he growls, “Come with me, sweet girl. My good girl.”
It feels electric; like a spark tearing through my nervous system, flaring violently inside me as my husband is coming too, the heat from him sending up another flare of pleasure mixed with pain inside me.
He wraps his long arms around me tightly, his still-hard cock inside me, rocking me slightly in the hot, bubbling water.
***
Having a cackle - Scottish slang for joking around
A stonner - Scottish slang for an erection
Gantin on him - Scottish slang for getting turned on
Chapter Twenty-Six
In which scars are a map of pain and a sign of courage.
Alastair…
Two days later…
Sorcha’s sprawled on my chest, her burgundy hair flying everywhere and tickling my nose, but I don’t move her. She’s soft and warm and her sweet rosemary and lavender scent is soothing, slowing all the plans racing around my head.
We have to return to London tomorrow.
Ordinarily, I’d be eager to go after a day or two, but being here with my bride is different. I hadn’t expected the pleasure I find in taking care of her. Other than performing aftercare for a partner after a scene, pampering a woman has never interested me.
With her, the simple act of brushing her hair while we watched the sunset over the ocean gave me greater pleasure than my last weapons acquisition. I’m not certain how to handle this new feeling, so alien to me.
I can feel it before her first moan. Her body freezes, as if she’s been cast in granite, every muscle trembling like a taut piano string. Then the first whimper, a low moan, and her fingers twitch on my chest.
“No no no…” she pauses as if listening to someone, and then louder, “NO, no no no! Not them! Hurt…” Her hand flies up to her mouth, covering a scream.
“Shh… shh darling. It’s not real.” I cradle her in my arms, rocking slightly. “You’re safe. I promise I will never let anyone hurt you again. You’re safe.”
Her stiff muscles gradually relax and she sags against me for a moment as her eyes flutter open.
Kissing her shoulder, her cheekbones, her mouth, I murmur, “It’s not real, love. This is real.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, trying to move away. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
Tightening my hold slightly, I kiss the top of her head. “No, you didn’t. Can you drink some water? That seems to help.”
She sits up, pulling away and I let her, reaching over to grab a bottle of water from the bedside table and holding it to her lips. She takes a few shaky gulps before turning her head away.
“Have ya’ done this with me… ya’ know… before?” She’s staring at my chest, so I gently tilt her head up.
