Page 71 of Bonetide

Fuck it, I can’t focus on them anymore, because he’s sliding his hands up the insides of my thighs and pushing them wider, wider. And his mouth has come down to me; the first long, flat stroke of his tongue against me is the kind of thing that takes the air out of my lungs.

“Fuck.”

He laughs against me. Low. Pleased.

“Aye. Quiet, foxglove. The whole castle will hear you if you start now.”

The whole castle? Who else is here? I raise my head to meet his eye, but his attention is elsewhere. And then my attention is elsewhere.

He goes slow at first and licks me like he’s been wanting a taste for a long time and has decided he’s going to finally enjoy it. The flat of his tongue, then the point of it. The slow drag from where I am wet to the place where I need him most. He works me there with the tip of his tongue, small steady circles, while his hands hold my thighs open, and his thumbs press into the soft skin of my inner thighs hard enough to bruise.

I have never been done like this. Ryan only did this once and said he didn’t like the taste. But Alasdair is making sounds against me that suggest the opposite, small low groans that vibrate through me, like he’s the one being pleasured.

He shifts. He flattens his tongue and licks me long and slow from the bottom up, and at the top of the stroke he closes his lips around my clit and sucks, gently, and I make a noise that’s borderline embarrassing.

“That’s it,” he speaks against me. “That’s it, foxglove. Let me hear you.”

“I thought you said…”

“I said quiet. Not silent. Let me hear you.”

He puts his tongue back on me. He puts a finger inside me, then two, and the curl of his fingers finds the place inside me I’ve read about and never properly found in myself, the combination of his mouth and his fingers and the low steady pressure he is keeping has me undone in less than a minute.

I come on his mouth; a loud gasp turned into a breathless moan that fills the room. He keeps his tongue moving on me through it all, slow, easing me down, and his fingers stay inside me, the steady pressure of them the only thing keeping my hips from bucking off the bed.

When I am breathing again, he kisses the inside of my thigh.

He makes his way up.

He kisses my hip. My stomach. The space between my breasts. He kisses my throat, and my jaw, and my mouth—his mouth on mine tastes of me—and the way he kisses me with my own taste in his mouth is something I’ll dream about for a long time.

He pulls back and looks at me, just the faintest touch of red on his cheekbones, the gloss of me on his full lips.

“Turn over, foxglove.”

“What?” I eke out.

“Turn over for me. On your stomach.”

I do as he asks, with his help, his large hands around my waist. The quilt is cool against my front; my face half-turned into the pillow. I can hear him moving behind me, can feel the shift of his weight. The sound and feel of his hand sliding up the back of my thigh.

“Spread your knees.”

I spread my knees.

“Wider, foxglove.”

Oh, lord.

I move them wider. I am embarrassed and turned on at the same time, and the balance is shifting fast toward the second one.

“Christ.” His voice has gone lower. “Look at you. Look how wet you are.”

His hands grip my hips. He lifts them slightly, so I am on my knees and my chest is still against the bed, and the angle puts me on display for him in a way I have never been on display for anyone.

Oh my god.

“Alasdair…” My voice is muffled against the pillow.