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He nodded at her comment and tested the drape again. It slid smoothly, and he drew them close.
“I’ll give you Malcom’s Laird’s attire,” she complemented.
Their eyes meshed. “It’ll be an honour,” he replied.
“You’ll look good in Darroch’s plaid,” she admitted.
“You don’t like mine?” he jested.
“Oh, I do all right.” Her callused hands rested on his bare knees.
His guts reacted instantly. And heated as her hands climbed up his thighs.
“Darroch—” it came hoarse as he trailed off, forgetting what he meant to say.
“You’ve just become a Darroch too,” she said, her hands going under the green, black and white plaid.
“True,” he rumbled as blood travelled to the right place at the wrong time.
Her palms reached his already erect member. “What are you doing,” he rasped.
Full of wicked intentions, her hazel eyes alighted on his. “Checking the new Darroch’s…jewels.”
One feminine hand curled around the base of him while the other cupped his eager balls. The first pumped, the second caressed him deeply.
“Bluidy hell!” he cursed as he went
rock-hard.
Transfixed, he watched her working under the tartan. He had taught her how to… Goddammit! He swore under his breath as her thumb spread his pre-cum over the bulbous head of him.
“Do you like it?” she asked unnecessarily.
“You’ll drive me insane, that’s what!” he threw back at her as he sagged against the rungs shedding all resistance.
“Poor husband,” she mock-lamented.
But the infernal waif had other things in mind. One hand lifted his tartan, putting his erection in the right direction of her delectable mouth. The view of his moist glans pointing at her pouty lips almost had him on his knees. Worse, he nearly came undone.
Her mouth opened and the tip of him received a hot breath through the rungs. Those lips closed around him and hot became a furnace. His large hands whitened on the side rails.
He swore grotesquely.
She sucked him to her throat, bobbed back and attacked him again. And repeated the process. His balls tightened.
When he thought he was about to shame himself, she took him out of her mouth and darted her tongue out to lick his slit. He saw stars.
The feminine head lifted to him as her hand never stopped the threatening pumping.
“You never told me when is your birthday.”
Curse the lass!
Pump, flick of a tongue, and the poor member was out in the open anew. “You don’t know?” she insisted.
“Put me back in.” Was all he had condition of saying.
Her fingers loosened and the tips barely whispered over the hardness. Still, he leaked.
