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She bolts her hands around my arms. "Faster, please, faster and harder."
Bracing myself on both elbows, I swing my hips back and slam into her with so much force that her body bows up and her mouth falls open on a strangled cry.
"More," she pleads.
I raise my body, using two straight arms to buttress me, and drive into her so many times so fast that my hips piston wildly and my cock pounds into her like the fevered rutting of a stag. Our bodies slap together with every punishing thrust, eliciting a wet sucking sound, and she fastens her legs around me, gripping my arms so fiercely it hurts, but I donnae care. I grunt with every lunge while sweat dribbles down my skin.
And she comes for me.
Every muscle in her body snaps taut, then the orgasm seizes her. She thrashes her head on the pillow while her inner muscles grip and release me repeatedly and the need to pour everything into her body becomes almost unbearable. Her frantic cries spur me to unleash a hoarse shout as I pummel her body twice more, punching into her so hard that I throw my head back and roar as the indescribable pleasure of coming inside her lush body seizes me.
Just as the first pulse of my release spills into her, she comes even harder.
With two more thrusts, I'm done, collapsing onto the bed next to her and rolling onto my side. Between gasping breaths, I say, "Thank ye for that."
She eyes me like she thinks I might kick her out the door now.
"Relax." I cradle her to my body and frisk my hand over her back. "It's a compliment. You are a passionate, spirited woman."
"Thank you." The lass snuggles into me with her face against my neck. "This was unexpected, but I'm glad you asked me to stay with you tonight."
"I'm glad too." I thread my fingers through her hair and kiss the top of her head. "A pleasant surprise. Most of my lovers aren't as enthusiastic as you."
She pulls her head back to look at me. "Are you saying you do this kind of thing a lot?"
"Aye." Why does it matter to women? I know it does, and so I squint at her, then curve my lips into a slight smile. "Well, not a lot. I indulge in the occasional fling, but it's not a long-time habit."
The lass is still watching me, though I cannae fathom why.
"No more talk," I say.
She doesn't object when I recline on the bed and pull her half onto my body with one of her arms over my chest and one of mine around her shoulders. I stretch out my free arm to shut off the light on my side of the bed, leaving only the lamp behind her for illumination. As I tug the sheet and blanket over us, I make sure to cover the lass up to her shoulders.
"Sleep," I whisper. "I've worn you out, haven't I?"
"Mm."
While I caress her arm with my fingertips and watch her slowly give in to sleep, I wonder what the bloody hell I'm doing. Staying the night? I never do that. Sleeping with her seems like a ruddy awful idea, one that's sure to backfire in the morning when she realizes I can't—won't—give her what she will eventually decide she needs.
I can't be her boyfriend or husband or even her lover. Not for more than tonight.
Her breathing grows shallower, barely a whisper against my skin. I can't resist sniffing her hair and running my fingers through the silky locks. She is bonnie and the best lover I've ever had, but that doesn't change anything. Still, with her warm body tucked against mine, I find myself relaxing and drifting away into sleep.
Sometime later, I wake with an inexplicable need pulsing inside me. I need to experience the American lass one more time, so I rouse her and lose myself in the sensual pleasure of burying my cock inside her body, swallowing her cries with my mouth. We both fall asleep again, but I wake later with the same need urging me to ravish her one last time. But I resist it, refusing to succumb to this hunger for her ever again. I know I could get addicted to her so easily.
Hours later, I rouse and extricate myself from her body so I can go to the window and peek out between the curtains. The sun is just rising, though I can't see the orb itself. The glow of sunrise has begun, which means it's time for me to leave. I walk into the living room, or whatever they call this large room, and find a pad of notepaper in the drawer of a table, plus a pen, so I write the lass a note. Keeping it simple seems best. I scrawl a brief message: "Thank you for last night. Don't forget your money." Does that sound bloody stupid? I've never been good at coming up with romantic words to impress a lass. I'm a solicitor, not a poet. And I don't care about romantic gestures. The lass I shagged last night was only that—a lass I shagged.
As I'm heading back into the bedroom to put my note on the nightstand, I catch sight of the twenty-dollar bills the lass had concealed in her bra and which I removed and set on the table by the armchair. Her mobile is also on the table. I grab both items, but the banknotes are wrinkled now, so I iron them out as best I can. Then I take the note and the money into the bedroom and leave both where I hope she'll see them, using her mobile as a paperweight.
I allow myself one more look at the beautiful, sensual lass in the bed.
And then I leave.
