Or maybe I just feel like I ought to.
The soft nap of his velvet jacket makes pebbles of my nipples, the coarser woollen of his kilt fabric a tantalising brush against my butt and thighs as we dip behind a folding screen, almost as tall as Alexander. Painted in the classical style with urns of flowers and little fat cherubs, I know (thanks to Chrissy) these were used to block out draughts when the family gathered around the fireside long ago. Set behind the screen is a lady’s desk with cabriole legs, writing paper laid out on the surface aids the sense that she’d just abandoned her morning correspondence. It crackles under my thighs as he lowers me to the desktop and begins pulling the bobby pins from my hair.
“Someone ought to paint this sight,” he murmurs, resting his hand against my collarbones, encouraging me onto my back along the length of the desk. “And call it The Triumph of Holland.” His hand draws down my body before he spreads my legs, his eyes glinting in the darkness as his thumb dips between them. My body jolts as he brushes the pad across my clit. “You’re so wet for me, my darling. Maybe you like the thought of being caught naked and spread out like some bacchanal feast.” He bends and quite suddenly swipes his tongue along my wet ribbon of flesh.
“Don’t tease,” I rasp, bucking up into his mouth, refusing to be drawn into the temptation his words create. But it isn’t much of a complaint as I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out as Alexander’s tongue begins to swirl and tease, painting my clit with my own arousal.
“Let me have you here,” he whispers. Bringing his body over mine, I taste myself from his mouth as he kisses me. “They won’t see. Not if you’re quiet.” Which is exactly the opposite of what I am as he draws my earlobe into his mouth.
“Shush.” The sibilant sound is a taunt, his smile pressed against my neck.
I suddenly decide one of us is wearing too many clothes and begin to grapple with his jacket, pushing it from his shoulders until Alexander begins to tug it down his arms. I move my attention to his snug-fitting vest, and I don’t know which of us is more startled by my actions as a button flies off, pinging against something on the other side of the room. Something that sounds very much like china that then sets to wobbling.
“Sorry,” I whisper when it becomes clear there’s no following crash. I’m so sorry that I’m already stripping him from his shirt. “But I want to see you.” I slide my calf up his leg, catching the edge of his kilt. “All of you.”
Alexander gives a satisfied hum, though as my leg rises higher, he grasps it, lifting it over his shoulder.
I swallow a gasp as he pushes his fingers inside, my body bowing as he twists his wrist. As he works me. As he watches. As he presses a kiss to my ankle before dropping to his knees on the floor.
My insides ignite at the position, my back arching, papers crinkling as he sets his lips and his tongue and his fingers to such delightfully wicked purposes. I slide my hand through his hair and curl the other around the edge of the desk near my head as the knot of my orgasm begins to climb and build, as he tastes and teases and tortures, as he whispers such compliments.
You're so fucking wet.
So tight around my fingers.
So wet on my tongue.
I’m going to wear your scent like a cologne.
It shouldn’t work, the contrast of his polished accent and the baseness of his words. So why then does it feel like a layer of pleasure that only elevates the experience?
“That’s it. Feed me your pussy. Let my mouth make you come.”
“That . . . that’s not being quiet,” I rasp, biting my lip as I rock into him. It’s not helping me be quiet.
“This sinner’s mouth only wants to worship you.”
I think my brain shorts right there and then, blood pumping wildly through my veins, draining to the centre of me, growing heavier and heavier only to burst through me like a flame.
I roll my lips in to mute the sounds as my orgasm overwhelms me, my penitent continuing to worship between my legs. My throat hoarse, I begin to pant, tears leaking from my eyes with the effort not to cry out. But it’s no good, though I manage to bring my arm over my mouth just in time to muffle the sound.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he grunts, his fingers pinning me in place as his mouth works me wetly, twisting my orgasm, distorting it until it threatens to annihilate me. “So beautiful when you come for me.”
And I do. Again, crying out and not even caring if anyone hears me this time.
“Please, no more,” I beg, between my legs pounding and my thighs trembling. “I need—” I need him.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasps as he stands, wiping the back of his hand across his glistening mouth.
As though seeking confirmation of my body’s loveliness, he slips his thumb inside, parting me for his view. “You’re so pretty and pink, pulsing and trembling.”
The intensity in his expression is enough to make my insides begin to pound again, as if it wasn’t enough that he’s feasted on me like a starving man.
I whimper breathlessly, but before I have the wherewithal to signal for a time out, my perfect torturer is leaning over me, and I’m tasting my own arousal from his tongue. His kiss is savage and possessive, a signal of his own need as he slots himself between my legs.
“Yes,” I whisper desperately, bunching the dark-coloured wool of his kilt in my hands. I want this. I want him. I want his cock inside me. “Please, quickly.”
“You want me to fuck you,” his deep voice rasps.
“Yes.” More it seems than I want my next breath.
His lips ghost over my face, his forehead touching mine. “Darling,” he groans. “I don’t have a condom.”
“What?” My body jerks under his. “No even in that . . . that little fanny pack thing.”
Alexander dips his head, his shoulders shaking with a chuckle.
“You and I are going to have a conversation,” he mutters, and when he lifts his head again, a smile lurks in the corner of his mouth.
“About the fanny pack?” I ask, wide-eyed.
“It’s called a sporran.” Holy rolling r’s, that sounded delicious and more than a little Scots.
“I know what it is,” I murmur, pressing my teeth to his jaw. His responding growly purr is like a lick of warmth to my stomach. “I’ve watched Outlander.”
I also know what it’s for. It’s because kilts haven’t yet evolved to include pockets. Just don’t get me started on the way Brits use the word fanny.
“Someone wants a good spanking.” He narrows his gaze but can’t quite carry it off, given he’s almost grinning.
“Call me Sassenach, and I might let you,” I sass right back.
“My God, I love that dimple,” he rasps, pressing his lips to my cheek. “Everything about you is so fucking edible.”
I shiver deliciously because that sounded more like a threat than a compliment.
“Spankings are for bad girls,” he says with a grunt as he swipes the fat, silky head of his cock against where I’m wet.
“You don’t think I can be bad?” I ask, glad he can’t see how my toes curl. “And what are girls who strip naked in the equivalent of a museum?”