Page 86 of Bonetide

He works me with his fingers, slow, the curl of them finding the place inside me he found yesterday. I am already close. I am already so close it’s embarrassing. He has barely touched me and I am already shaking.

And just like that, I come.

I come on his hand, making a small high sound that’s half a cry and half a gasp and my hips lift off the bed and his fingers do not stop, and I am riding out the orgasm with my hand on the back of his neck and my forehead against his shoulder, holding on for dear life.

He works me through it until the waves subside, then he brings me down.

Then he’s between my legs again.

This time I feel him.

The blunt hot head of him at my entrance.

He does not enter me immediately. He drags himself through my wetness, slowly, the head of him moving along my folds, against my clit, back down, the slow steady tease of a man who is going to enter me when he is good and ready and not a second sooner. The sound is so loudly wet it borders on pornographic.

“Alasdair,” I moan, greedy and impatient.

“Patience, foxglove.”

“I want…” I breathe.

“I know what you want.”

“Now, please,” I beg, because damn it, I am begging. “I want you inside me now.”

He laughs against my throat, a rich low, almost menacing chuckle.

He lines himself up.

He enters me slowly.

Inch by inch. The kind of entry where I feel every single part of him going in. He is so big and I am so wet and we still have to take it slow because my body has not been opened to a man in a long time and certainly not to this much of one. He stops halfway. He lets me adjust, lets me find my breath. He kisses my mouth and goes a little deeper.

He stops again, fully seated, to the hilt.

He is so deep in me I can’t breathe.

He holds himself there. He puts his forehead against mine. His breathing has gone uneven for the first time.

“Iris?”

I make a whimpering sound.

“I’m not going to be careful with you much longer.”

“Good.”

“Foxglove,” he warns.

“I mean it. I’m not going to break.”

He kisses me again and starts to move.

The first stroke in and out is slow. The second is slower. The third is the same. He’s keeping the discipline, even with all of him inside me, even with his control as thin as it’s ever been before. He’s working me up to him. He’s letting me feel every withdrawal and every return, and the rhythm is the rhythm of a man who’s decided to ruin me in stages.

This is just the first stage.

And I come again.