Page 129 of Bonetide

He works one finger into me, then two, slow and slick. He talks the whole time—that’s it, take it, you’re going to take all of me, lass, look at you opening for me, look at you taking this so well—and the talking alone nearly undoes me.

He pulls his fingers out and oils his cock slowly, the sound wet, taking his time. It’s enough to make me squirm in nervous anticipation.

Then he’s at me.

“You can tell me to stop,” he murmurs, positioning the head.

“Don’t stop.”

“Aye, lass.”

He pushes in.

The slow inevitable pressure of him opening me where I haven’t been opened. The oiled slide. The burn at the edge of it. He goes slow because he’s large and he knows the pace my body will accept, and he gives me that pace with the patience only an immortal man can have.

He stops with the head of him in.

I make a strangled noise, my body hot and tight and feeling like it’s going to explode.

“Aye, breathe through it, you can do it.”

I breathe.

He pushes in further, a slow stretch, and I’m gripping the counter so hard my fingertips are white, the cold of the worktop at my cheek.

He bottoms out.

And I can’t fucking breathe.

He’s in me to the hilt and the feeling…there isn’t a word. Full isn’t the word. Owned is closer. He holds himself in me without moving, his hand on the small of my back and the other at my hip, and he leans over me with his breath at my ear.

“Look at you, foxglove. Look at what you came to me for. Bent over your own counter taking my cock where no man has been. You asked for this. You asked for the man who has been taken off the leash.”

I try to tell him I did but the words are garbled, choking in my throat.

“Tell me you wanted it.”

I breathe in through my nose, out through the feeling of it all.

“I wanted it,” I eke out.

“Tell me you want me to fuck you here, right here in this tight arse of yours.”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Fuck me, Alasdair. Please.”

He lets out a growl, low and inhuman.

Then he does as I’ve asked.

He fucks me slow at first because he has to, my body needs time to warm up, then faster as I open for him, his hand coming around to my front, between my legs, his fingers working me where I’m already swollen and wet. The combination is going to undo me in a way I haven’t been undone, because the fullness of him in the place he is and the deftness of his fingers on me at the same time is something my body hasn’t been asked to process before.

He talks the whole time. Low and filthy at my ear in his old-Scots cadence—good lass, and take it, and that’s my cunt, that’s my arse, that’s all of you, Iris, that’s the whole of you mine now, and you’ll feel me leaking out of you when you stand up, foxglove, and you’ll feel me in you tomorrow when you sit at this table to draw your wee plants—and I’m crying into the counter, not because it hurts, but because it’s so much and he isn’t letting up.

And then, out of nowhere, I come.