His eyes are onfire,his jaw clenched, tendons tight in his neck and it is the hottest fucking thing, watching him hold back his orgasm, fighting for control of himself.
“You’re coming with me,bean milis,sweet wife. In one…” Two fingers roughly rub my painfully sensitive clitoris.
“Oh,god.”I choke.
“Two.”
“Three.”His fingers slap down on my poor clit and it’s explosive. Everything inside me is on fire, waves of pleasure hitting me over and over without stopping. His hard chest is sweaty, pressed against me and there’s the husky drone of his voice, telling me how beautiful I am, how perfect.
I slump against the couch, gasping for air. I didn’t know an orgasm could feel like that, like it was detonating every cell in my body. I’m boneless, shapeless.
Mason finally groans, gently untying my wrists and pulling out of me. A torrent of his finish and mine drip down my thighs and he runs his fingers through it, stuffing them in my mouth.
“Lick them clean.”
The taste of the two of us. Musky. Salty and a bit sweet. So much hotter than it should be because it’s both of us.
When he lifts me off the sofa arm, I blush, seeing that he’s perfectly put together again. He didn’t even take off his jacket and I am a mess. Tears and mascara smeared on my cheeks, my dress torn down to my waist and my undies nowhere to be found.
He sits on the much-abused couch, settling me on his lap and pulling a blanket off the back and laying it over me, wrapping me in his arms.
“You did so well for me.” He kisses my temple, his tongue lightly tracing the fluttering vein there. “So good.”
His long arms wrap around me and we sit while the sun sets and the sky grows dark until finally, my eyes close and I fall asleep.
***
Bean milis- Scottish Gaelic for sweet wife.
Chapter Twenty-One
In which everything is fine. Until it isn’t.
Afton…
My mother gave me a Scottish name because she was in love with the poem by Robert Burns, but her family is primarily Irish. Her mother, the grandmother I barely remember, was a dour soul. She embodied the worst of the Irish sour, superstitious roots. If it was sunny, Gran would squint up and mutter something about “hurricane weather.” Good things must invariably be followed by misfortune.
So, I shouldn’t have been surprised.
I’m limping around the house the next day, humming with a loose-lipped smile, so sore that even walking hurts but I don’t mind, and my phone rings.
“Afton?” The quavery voice of my sister makes me stiffen.
“Lucia? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
“Um…” She’s quietly crying. “Dad’s been screaming and stomping around. I wish he would go out of town. He and Sam have been fighting a lot.”
“Where’s Mom? Maybe you two can go take a short vacation somewhere. Or- or camp? You could go to horse camp again.”
Her laugh is different. There’s a bitter tone I’ve never heard before. “Well, if Dad has his way, I won’t be around for horse camp.” Another sob breaks loose. “Or the rest of high school.”
“What is goingon?”My fingers tighten on the phone. “What is he saying to you?”
“He says that he’s not going to have two disobedient daughters,” she sobs. “I don’t know what that means but he says that since your arrangement hasn’t worked the way it’s supposed to, he’s going to consider an ad- ad- advantageous match for me.”
I remember that look on Mason’s face when he was pounding that Kelly thug into the ground for threatening me. The look of white-hot rage, like he was blinded to everything else. I know exactly how that feels now.
“Okay, listen to me. I’m going to call Sam, and Mom right now. I want you to keep out of the way. Can you go to a friend's place to stay?”
