“Strip me,” he orders, his eyes aflame as I lick my lips and nod. “I want to feel your hands on me.”
I want to see him, to kiss and adore and touch his naked flesh, to feel his muscled strength and beautiful body succumb to my touch. I love that he gives this to me.
My fingers fumble at his waist, as I unlatch his belt and tug it through his trouser loops. I hand it to him bashfully, and he gives me a teasing look as he coils it up and places it on the sofa.
I've never wanted to speak to someone so badly as I do him. There are so many things I would say to him. So many questions that I would ask. But it's tedious having to write to him, and things don't always come out the way that I mean them to.
I want to ask him what happened to his brother. I want to know what he thinks about his future. I want to ask him about his childhood, ask him what type of parents he has, ask him if he has any aspirations beyond this beautiful place. I want to ask him his favorite food, his favorite color, and if he's ever been to the beach.
Does he want to marry? Does he want children? If so, how many, and what are their names? Does he dream when he sleeps, and daydream when he’s awake? What does he think of literature, socialism, and does he ever wonder what it’s like to walk upon the moon? Has he ever had a near-death experience?
And does he want to know… about mine?
But right now my only thought is stripping off his clothes, and feeling his skin against me.
He’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt over an undershirt, a surprisingly sexy look. He looks all rough and tumbled lumberjacky. I bunch the fabric at his belly, and give it a quick tug to take it out of his trousers. He opens his arms up in front of me to help me with the job, a surprisingly childlike gesture so rare from him it makes my heart thump madly.
I chuck my chin to the ceiling so he knows to lift his arms, and when he does, I drag the fabric up over his torso, over his head,and then over his arms until he’s bare-chested in front of me. I ball the shirt up and throw it into the corner with my clothes.
If the book I'm reading is any indication, the tattoos along his body all have meaning. I'm not exactly sure what they are, but I know some have to do with initiation rites, clan loyalty, and the crimes that he's committed. If I could speak, I’d ask him about these, too. I run my index finger along the ink on his shoulder, a circular tribal tat that puts me in mind of the runes. I look up at him questioningly, wondering if he’ll understand what I want to ask. He lifts my hand, and kisses the tips of my finger.
“You want to know what these mean,” he says, a statement, not a question. "Don't you?"
I nod. “This one’s the clan thistle. It’s part of our family’s heritage.” He frowns, looking at his arm until he locates another. “This means I was inducted as a Cowen Clan member at the age of fifteen.”
I wince, but if he notices, he doesn’t show it. Fifteen? Such a child. He was only a child.
And his eyes grow sad when he points to a small heart with a drop of blood at the very end. “And this is in honor of my brother. We all got this one after he died.”
I wrap my arms around his strong, muscular back, and tug him over to me. I kiss the heart tattoo.
“Go on, then, lass,” he says, nodding to his trousers. “Take ‘em off next.”
I reach for the button at his waist, and quickly unfasten them, shoving them down his narrow hips until they pool around his feet. He steps out of them, standing in front of me, the rigidlength of his cock visible even through his boxers. His legs are strong, and powerfully muscular.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, as he kneels beside me. The sofa beneath me is soft and warm, as the flames in the fireplace continue to crackle and lick at the grates. A wind howls outside, but in here it’s toasty warm.
“Want a drink, lass?” he asks quietly, pushing to his feet.
I nod.
He brings back the whole bottle. I know that he needs this, some way of letting go and finding peace with whatever it is that plagues him. He takes off the cap and takes a swig, then bends the bottle to my lips. I eagerly gulp it down. He smiles approvingly, but doesn’t place the bottle down himself.
He jerks his chin at me, his voice a low, seductive growl. “On your back, my bonnie lass.”
I shiver in delight, curious what he’ll do to me. The man is an enigma, filled with so many questions with no answers.
I obey, lying back down against a bed of cushions, as his gaze roves over my body. I feel as if we're on the cusp of something… But I don't know what. I don't know if it's because of my past, what I've experienced, or the belief that I don't deserve anything beyond the present. No future, nothing to look forward to, so much has been taken from me, I’ve given up hope that good things are in my future.
But we have tonight. And I’ll enjoy tonight. It might be all we have.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Leith
I dribblewhisky down the valley between her breasts, bend, and lap it with my tongue. It burns, but it isn’t enough. I need more to sear the anger in my heart. I pour drop by drop until her belly button pools with the amber liquid, lapping every drop up and relishing more than the taste of the liquor, as she squirms under my tongue, watching me with parted lips and wide eyes.
I hand her the bottle and she sips it, then runs her finger along the lip. A droplet clings to the tip of her finger. I bend and suckle it, watching as her eyes go half-lidded and she bites her lip. I imagine her moaning. I imagine her pleading. I want to hear her voice so badly, it’s an ache I feel deep in my belly.
