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“Why don’t you call me sir?” he asked, donning a posh English accent. Incredibly husky, with that tinge of wild man. It thrilled me. “Sir Cameron of the Castle.”
We held straight faces for about five seconds before we both laughed, a little tipsy from the ouzo we’d had at dinner to wash down our anchovy pizzas.
“I’ll have you know,” he said, in that accent again. “I’ve been offered a knighthood, actually.”
I shook my head. “Are you joking?”
“Nae, his Highness offered me it. I said no thanks, sonny. I dinna think the choice is mine, however.” He raised one sharp eyebrow, grinning.
I raised one back. “How’s about you call me Lady Cameron of the Hill. Notting Hill. Sounds good, right?”
He snickered; we were nervous and trying to lighten the mood.
“Love you,” he said, then prowled to me, pinning me to the bed. “All mine, tonight?”
“Yes,” I said, coquettishly, “but I might let you do really bad things if you speak in that English accent occasionally.”
He pursed his lips. “Lady Cameron of the Hill, won’t you lie back and think of England?”
“God, yes,” I acquiesced, raising my own arms above my head, eyes closed, waiting for whatever he’d decide. “Don’t hold back, Sir Cameron.”
He began by slapping my boobs playfully. “These gorgeous titties have got tight and high again now you’re no feeding.”
“You prefer them droopy and big?”
“Aye, but a man canna have all he wants. For instance…” He moved off me and threw me over onto my belly so roughly, I was nearly winded. He began a thorough massage of my bare backside (I was in a thong) and growled, “I’d take just a good arse. But you’ve also got these legs… this long, supple back.”
He leaned down and blew air against my back, making me shiver and bite my lip, giggling. Then he reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out oil, straddling my thighs before he slicked my buttocks, then began a deep massage.
Caelan had massaged me before and was really good at it, having trained as a PT and learnt how to help people with cramp, muscle discomfort etcetera. Plus, it didn’t stretch the imagination to believe he knew a few things about the human body. Any killer worth his salt would.
“Is that good?” he said.
“Yes, Sir Castle,” I spluttered.
He grunted and I could tell he was struggling not to laugh.
“Why, Lady of the Hill. You’re a naughty one, I can tell. Need a good bonking?” He was using his Oxford accent again. “Or is it a good rogering?”
“A good fucking if you please, Sir Castle.”
“Filthy language, coming from a lady.” He slapped me hard across the rear and it shocked me. My fists grasped the edge of the pillow I was resting upon. “Say something naughty again.”
I caught my breath. “I’d like some cock, if you please, sir.”
Another thrash.
This time, it really hurt. I had to breathe through it.
The scary thing was, he wasn’t even really trying to hurt me. That’s how strong he was.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice so deep, I thought it was someone else.
He commenced a painful massage of my reddened bum cheeks and it stung so much, I frequently had to bite the pillow beneath my face. Spreading my cheeks apart with his ministrations, I felt the thong getting thinner and thinner, my cleft becoming more exposed the more he worked. All I heard were grunts.
On and on he went, those big hands squeezing, kneading and pulling my buttocks apart. The pulsing inside me had begun and my clit zinged as he kept up with that ruthless massage.
“You’re wetting your tiny drawers,” he said, clucking. “Quite a lot. And I can smell your filthy arousal.”
