Page 126 of Bonetide

I can’t answer; he’s blocking the words. I think he wants me to try anyway, so I make another sound.

“There’s the lass who’s been pretending to draw all week. There’s the lass who couldn’t put her wee plant on the page because she was thinking of my cock spilling down her throat. Fuck, foxglove. Take it.”

He doesn’t move his hand and he doesn’t pull my head down on him, just holds me there with him at the back of my throat. The seconds stretch. I’m breathing through my nose in shallow, uneven pulls, the panicking part of me starting to climb up the back of my neck and the wanting part louder.

I make a small questioning sound.

I’m holding, please. How much longer?

I want to suck.

He pulls me off him.

Slowly. He draws me back by the hair until just the thick, purple head of him is at my mouth, and I gasp around him, saliva at the corner of my mouth, my eyes streaming. He looks down at me with a deep, dark pleasure I haven’t seen on his face before, the real pleasure under the careful facade, the one he’s been keeping under the man.

“Good girl.”

The words resonate lower than my belly, and I can’t help but make another sound, this one I’m embarrassed by, my cheeks going hot.

He grants me a small, slightly wicked smile, the late afternoon light illuminating his features, making him look otherworldly—which I suppose he is.

“Aye. You like that, too.”

He pushes back in.

He fucks my throat this time, and just as I asked, he’s not slow, not careful. He sets a pace and holds my head with his fingers wrapped around my hair and uses my mouth, and the only sounds in the cottage are the wet sounds of his cock in my throat, and the small, choked noises I’m making around him, and the low aye’s he murmurs as he watches himself fuck my mouth. He talks the whole time in a voice I haven’t heard out of him before, lower, older, the words slipping into another language.

“That’s it, lass. Take it. Christ, the look of you. You came here for this and you’re going to take what I give you. Aye?”

He pulls back enough for me to speak.

“Tell me what you are, on your knees on your auntie’s rug with my cock in your mouth,” he growls.

I swallow around him, trying to find the words.

“Mine,” he claims, watching me. “That’s what you are. Aye?”

I nod against his hand.

“Say it for me.”

He pulls all the way out, slick, my mouth open and wet and tipped up to him.

“Yours,” I agree, my throat already raw.

“Whose, foxglove? Be specific.”

“Yours, Alasdair.”

“Aye. Mine.”

He pushes back into my mouth and fucks it hard, and I feel his orgasm build—the rhythm faltering, his hand fisting tighter in my hair—and I’m ready for him, leaning into it, taking him as deep as he’ll go. When he comes, he comes down my throat with a low broken sound, holding me there, making me take the first of it, swallowing, greedy gulps that taste of the sea.

Then he pulls out, still going, still spurting lashes of cold cum, and finishes on me, across my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, his hand working himself through it with my chin gripped in the other, watching me wear it.

And I let him. I tip my face up into it because I want it, because some unrecognizable version of me wants to be marked like this, and the look that comes over his face when I do is the darkest thing I’ve seen yet.

“Fuck.” His thumb drags through the mess at the corner of my mouth, pushes it past my lips, and I take that too, swirling my tongue around it. “Now look at you.”