And then . . . and then . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
STRUAN
Never when I woke up this morning did I picture my day turning out like this.
Me, flat on my stomach between Ainsley Reid’s thighs, two fingers buried inside her while my tongue works her clit like it’s the only thing I was put on this earth to do. She’s so hot and tight around me, and Christ, she tastes unreal—salt and sweetness and something uniquelyherthat I already know I’ll be thinking about for weeks.
I’ve imagined this. God, have I imagined it—hand wrapped round my cock in the shower, or lying in bed after a restless night, picturing her legs thrown over my shoulders, her breathy moans.
But the reality? No dirty daydream I’ve ever had comes close to having her here, writhing beneath me, her thighs trembling against my ears, every sound she makes wrecking me from the inside out.
My cock is so hard it’s almost painful. Every pulse of her pleasure has me grinding down into the mattress, and I don’t care how pathetic that probably looks. Not when she’s makingthosesounds.
“Struan—” Her voice breaks. “I’m going to?—”
“Aye. Come for me, Ainsley. Let me feel it.”
I curl my fingers up, finding that perfect spot inside her, and her body clamps down around me in hard, frantic waves. She lets out this wild, broken cry—pure need and pleasure—and it goes straight to my cock like a live wire. Jesus, I’m leaking pre-cum into my boxers like it’s my first time with a woman.
If this is what it’s like making Ainsley Reid fall apart, I never want to stop.
She finally collapses back onto the bed, utterly spent. Flushed cheeks. Messy hair. Bare skin glowing. A beautiful disaster, and she’s in my bed.
For a second, I wonder if that’s it. If we’re done. Because she looks properly wrecked, and maybe I should be a gentleman about this. Lie here with her in my arms and count myself lucky.
But Christ, I’m greedy. All I can think about is having more of her.
Then Ainsley lifts her head just enough to find me between her legs. Her green eyes are hooded, dark with heat, and she crooks a finger at me—the universal sign forcome here.
I crawl up the bed towards her, and before I can settle beside her, she’s pushing me—none too gently—onto my back.
“Let’s get these off, Mr Walker,” she murmurs, fingers hooking into my waistband.
She makes quick work of my joggers, dragging them down over my hips with a determined wee tug. My boxers are all that’s left—straining, barely holding me back. When her palm skims over the bulge in them, I suck in a sharp breath through my teeth. Bloody hell.
Then she pulls my boxers down too, and my cock springs free—eager, shameless, ready for whatever she wants to do with it.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted, and I’ve no idea what she’s thinking.
Then she smiles. And it hits me right in the gut.
“My turn now,” she says.
Three words. Just three wee words, and somehow they make me harder.
She wraps one small hand around my cock and pumps slowly—once, twice—her thumb swiping over the head to spread the pre-cum down the shaft. My hips jerk before I can stop them, and I let out a groan that sounds embarrassingly desperate even to my own ears.
Then she shifts lower... and takes me into her mouth.
Hot. Wet. Perfect.
Every rational thought leaves my body in a rush. Releasing me with apop, she licks up one side, then down the other, then she swirls that devilish tongue right under the head before sinking down onto me again, slow enough to make my eyes roll back in my skull.
“Fuck . . . Ainsley . . .”
My hands clench uselessly at the sheets. Every muscle in my abdomen draws tight as a bowstring. She hums—a smug little sound that vibrates through every inch of me—and starts bobbing up and down in a rhythm that’s both torturous and brilliant.
