Page 87 of Bonetide

I didn’t even know I was that close, the orgasm slamming into me from nowhere. My hips are lifted slightly, and he’s hitting something inside me at this angle, and the slow, steady pressure of it builds and builds and breaks in a wave that has me digging my nails into his back, making sounds against his throat that I have zero control over.

He fucks me slow through the whole of it, and when I am limp and breathless and crying a little, he kisses my temple and pulls out.

“Turn over, foxglove.”

I turn.

I’m on my hands and knees on his bed just like last night. The cool of the linen is against my breasts and my forearms. My ass is in the air. I am offering myself to him again like this, only I know this time will be different.

His hand lands flat on the small of my back.

“Christ. Look at you.”

“Look at me what?” I prod, wanting to hear it.

“Look at you on your knees on my bed waiting for me to fuck you, foxglove. I’ve wanted this since the day I first saw you through the window.”

He enters me again.

From this angle he is deeper. I make an inhuman sound as he drags himself out slow, then pushes back in. He sets a rhythm that is harder than the first one, the slap of his hips against my ass quiet in the room but real, his hands at my waist holding me steady, his cock moving in me at a depth I didn’t realize it could go.

“That’s it. That’s it, lass.”

“Alasdair.”

“Take it. Take it for me. There you go.”

I take it.

His pace builds. He is using my hips for leverage now. He’s no longer being careful with me. The discipline has stopped being the discipline of a man holding back; it has become the discipline of a man taking what he has been allowed to take, and the difference is in his rough hands and his raspy voice and the angle of his pelvis against me.

He fucks me harder.

He fucks me like a man who has been promised this for a long time.

He fucks me until I’m crying into the bedspread and my arms have given out and I am face-down with my ass in the air and his hands at my waist and his cock moving in me in long deep strokes, and the guttural, primal sounds I’m making echo around the room.

He pulls out.

“No, please don’t,” I cry out, suddenly bereft and desperate for him.

“Up, foxglove.”

“What?”

“On your knees. Properly.”

He pulls me up by the waist, off my elbows, onto my knees on the bed facing the headboard. He puts my hands on the carved wooden post of the four-poster at the corner of the bed. He wraps my fingers around it.

“Hold.”

“Alasdair…” I breathe.

“Hold on, foxglove. I’m not done with you. I never want to be done with you.”

He’s behind me again. The four-poster’s post is in front of me, dark wood smooth from a hundred years of polish, and I am on my knees on the bed with my hands wrapped around it and my forehead pressed against my own knuckles, and his hands are at my hips, and he is sliding back into me.

The angle from here is different. It is deeper still. He drags himself out slow and pushes back in and I make a noise that is closer to a sob than a moan, and the wooden post under my forehead is the only thing keeping me upright.