One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Don’t ask me how I feel if you already know,’ I half cry. ‘I know I enjoyed it on some fucked up level, pushed you to it, even.’ I duck my head into the crook of my arm, my body sagging into the bed. ‘That’s the bit I especially want to ignore.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he growls, pushing away my hand. Chaos consumes his eyes, rendering them dark, angry depths.

  ‘Join the club,’ I reply acidly. ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’ I turn my body from him, ending our conversation. Why must he push? Is this part of his kink? Torture by embarrassment?

  So we lie in tandem, a dividing line of hurt and confusion slicing the bed. I don’t have words of explanation. None to offer comfort, either. I took pleasure in receiving pain. I’ve relished the bruises, his marks on my body, and come back for more. I lie rigid with the terrifying realisation of how far down this seductive rabbit hole I’ve gone.

  ‘I don’t ever want to be vulnerable again.’

  Laying his hand on my shoulder, he pulls me into his arms. ‘What’s wrong with being vulnerable? Tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘I like that you . . . hurt me. I let you. How can it be I like . . . that? I came here to avoid pain and humiliation; how can I be happy finding it in your arms?’

  The pain past and present isn’t strictly the same, but this man could hurt me in more than one way, when all is said and done. Realising this doesn’t make me feel strong. In fact, it makes me feel the opposite. Is this how the new Kate is supposed to be.

  ‘You . . . you’ve done this before?’

  ‘No.’ I blow out a breath of air. ‘Shane, he—’ I shake my head, unable to find the right words. ‘He hurt me emotionally. Betrayed me. He was the only man I’ve ever . . . known. Before now.’

  ‘You’ve only ever slept with one man?’

  Trust a man to pick up on this out of that sentence.

  Two now, doubled my total.

  ‘I gave him everything. I thought I’d never recover from the humiliation. And here I am.’ One arm rises and falls to the bed in an expression of futility. ‘Letting you. For fun.’

  He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move for a moment, mindlessly stroking my arm. ‘You know this isn’t the same. I would never betray you. These are the choices you’re making—I’m not doing this to you, this is a journey we’re on together. And sweetheart, you shouldn’t be humiliated by his idiocy.’

  ‘When you’ve had your legs in stirrups in the STI clinic, you can decide whether humiliation is optional. Thankfully, at least that was fine.’

  Oh, fuck. Can I demean myself anymore before breakfast?

  ‘I get checked often enough,’ he says quietly, folding the top of the sheet over his waist. ‘Even though I always . . . always dress for the occasion.’

  ‘Wha—Never mind.’ I refrain from following this line of questioning, the explanation dawning late.

  ‘For safety’s sake. For health reasons. Not that I’m at high risk when I always wear—’ He clears his throat, tone changing as he adjusts his position in the bed. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that. That you’ve suffered. But what you have to understand, last night, I did no more than you allowed me to. You weren’t vulnerable. You were in control. The situation may not have been the best, but your responses were honest. You drove us both on.’

  ‘That makes no sense. Who’d consciously choose to be hurt?’ I whisper.

  ‘Lots of people do. You did. You do,’ he says earnestly. ‘Even before last night, like when I bite you, your body melts and you rise to my touch. You can’t deny it any more than I can deny my joy in marking you in those times. And, habibti, seeing you vulnerable, knowing you would trust me in those moments, fills me with a passion so raw and pure, it’s like nothing else.’ His face, like his words, is intense and passionate. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been hurt, but you never have to be afraid with me.’

  ‘But the more I give to you, the more I risk.’ And there it is: my hopes and fears in one little four letter word.

  ‘Everything in life is a risk. The question you must ask yourself is, is what we have worth that risk?’

  I ignore his question; the potential answer is frighteningly clear.

  ‘How can I—why do you like . . . what you do to me?’

  He shrugs lightly, shoulders rising and falling, unaffected. ‘Why do any of us like what we like? For some, it’s cerebral, for others the endorphin driven high. I think for me, it’s a combination of both. I relish the ritual, the rawness. I desire your surrender to me, above anyone else. But it’s your trust that gets me most.’ He shakes his head almost ruefully, fingertips touching my cheek. ‘I can’t put it into words what it means to have you.’ Any more words from him and I think I might melt right off the bed. He smiles, sort of bashful, before his eyes find mine again. ‘And when I see your need rise, watch my own reflected in your eyes, it makes me want to push you further, so high that you feel you may never come down.’

  I stare at him. How can I not? His eyes burn amber with passion, the cadence of his voice softly seducing, his words alone making me feel high. But a pragmatic voice in the back of my head whispers, he’s talking about making you vulnerable, causing you pain.

  ‘But you also enjoy—want—to hurt me, I can tell.’ It’s a statement, not a question, my breath catching as I speak, exhilaration and fear rippling along my spine.

  ‘Sometimes. And no more than you want to be hurt. All relationships have give and take. All involve a little power play on some level, too.’

  ‘So for you, it’s about power, not sex?’ I lick parched lips, my mouth suddenly dry.

  ‘You know what they say, everything in the world is about sex, except sex itself. Because sex is about power. And sometimes control.’

  ‘You want to control me?’ I ask part horrified, part turned on.

  ‘On some level. Don’t look so shocked. Look, sex shouldn’t conform or be a certain way. It should be what you and I decide it to be. I want all your pleasure, to be the cause of all your pleasure. And I want your pain because I kind of get off on that, too.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘I don’t know . . . if . . . I can’t . . . God, I don’t know!’

  I cover my eyes with my hands. I’m not entirely sure I like the sound of being in pain, intellectually, at least. But the fervour and passion in his words; it’s hard not to feel a little seduced. I shiver, mind and body at odds. What he does to my body is sometimes painful, sometimes shameful. But somehow always plain wonderful.

  ‘You’ve felt it, Kate, what’s between us. We have such a connection. This hasn’t been some kind of conscious seduction.’ I twist my face in scepticism and peek through my fingers. At least he has the good grace to look uncomfortable. For a moment. A short moment. When he speaks, it’s with passion once more. ‘Okay, the seduction I’m guilty of, but I haven’t lured you by some nefarious means. Your body speaks for you. You enjoy what we do.’

  ‘But it makes me vulnerable. I promised myself I would never be in that position again.’

  ‘I want to deserve your trust. That you would trust means everything to me.’

  I shake my head vehemently. ‘Your terms are too much. I can’t surrender, submit—’

  ‘Submission can be an affirmative action,’ he interrupts fiercely. ‘An act of will, not an escape from it, don’t you see? You have to have the power in the first place in order to give it up. I can’t do this without you. Duet, not duel, remember? Don’t go looking for things that aren’t there. I ask only that you consider this. An us with this, for you to listen to your heart, and know that I would never hurt you.’ He frowns briefly before one eyebrow rises ironically. ‘No more than you would have me.’

  My sweating palms grasp the sheets. ‘How long have you . . . been into this?’

  He shrugs dismissively, like it’s of no consequence. ‘It’s not something that rules my existence. It’s just something I enjoy.’

  �
�You and Sofia?’

  ‘Don’t,’ he says softly, lowering his gaze. ‘Let’s not.’

  But I need to hear it. Looks like torture’s part of my kink, too. ‘But you and she . . . it wasn’t an ordinary affair.’ Not that being half of a bisexual marriage can be considered ordinary in many circles.

  ‘If you’re asking did we play, then yes, though not exclusively. That was the basis of our arrangement. Misery does acquaint men with strange bedfellows sometimes.’ With a rueful chuckle, his gaze slides away. Meanwhile, the word play hangs like an expletive in the air.

  ‘What do you mean played?’

  ‘Played. Scened. Had sex. With the consent of her husband, of course.’

  ‘And is that what you want to do with me?’ Sometimes he’s playful, sometimes he’s pretty rough; is that the same thing?

  ‘No.’ His answer is immediate and not a little incredulous. ‘Of course not. We have a relationship, an emotional connection. We don’t just get together for sex.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Know nothing, more like. ‘I was just checking. Anyway, you’ve never seemed miserable to me,’ I waffle. ‘A bit arsey, maybe.’

  ‘I wished I could make you understand what I feel. How you make me feel.’

  I can’t think of a response; a coherency breakdown of the brain. But my heart swells a little, all the same. Then he smiles, his face resuming its usual urbane, cynical facade.

  ‘Arsey?’

  ‘Yeah, uppity. You know, a general pain in the butt.’

  ‘Be careful, kitten.’

  ‘Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere near my arse again. Not today.’

  He seems as surprised by my words as I am. But then he laughs loudly, distracting me.

  ‘Spoilsport,’ he murmurs. ‘No, I won’t be going anywhere near you in that manner until you’ve had time to think. I can’t do it like this, Kate. You have to own your sexuality. I don’t think you understand how much it hurts to see you belittle the connection we have.’

  My heart plummets, but still I spew words. ‘And if I decide I don’t want to . . .’

  ‘If you decide to fight your nature, will you want me to fight mine?’

  ‘So it’s nature versus nurture, kind of. Satin sheets and kisses or being fucked hard against the wall—those are my choices?’ I pluck a loose thread from the pillowcase at my head, not sure I want to hear his answer.

  Grasping my chin, his eyes are intense, his faint freckles begging to be kissed. ‘All of the above. There are no choices to be made. I’d ask that you acknowledge what we have. Get to know your own body while I get to know your mind. I want to be your lover in all senses of the word. How does that sound?’

  I nod slowly. It’s the best I have to offer as if I open my mouth to speak I might be compelled to swallow him whole. Swoon! That’s about the measure of it.

  ‘And you like fucking hard. Don’t forget that.’

  The word goes straight to my non-existent knickers, where it stays, pulsating.

  ‘So, we can eat?’ he asks, his expression changing as fast as the subject.

  ‘Sure, if you’re offering,’ I manage to croak out, blood and sense having drained to places elsewhere.

  ‘You still aren’t going to offer your guest hospitality?’

  ‘I think my guest has pretty much availed himself to the facilities in full.’

  ‘That’s not a very pleasant analogy. And this is exactly what I’m talking about—I took advantage of nothing.

  ‘I’m still not making you food,’ I grumble, turning red. I try very hard to ignore how I feel, how I’ve made Kai feel. Biting my tongue, I quite literally keep my emotions locked inside.

  Crawling over me, Kai deliberately brushes his nose against my skin as he moves. His feet touch the floor and he strides to the bathroom, very naked and very beautiful.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We spend the next couple of hours doing pretty much nothing, which is an absolute first. I rise shortly after him, we shower separately—my bathroom is barely big enough for one, let alone a six-foot spunk plus one. I make coffee, Kai makes fun of my empty kitchen, and I spend a blissful hour perving. My heart is content and my libido ravenous as he wanders around my apartment wearing nothing but his low hanging suit pants. I manage to keep my hands to myself but my eyes not at all. They devour each dip and vein, feast on every tendon and curl.

  Lounging on the sofa with my feet in his lap, Kai reads aloud from my smutty book, bemoaning my taste in vulgar literature and complaining vociferously about his empty stomach. I tell him unashamedly his voice nourishes me, though really I’m so hungry I think my bum would eat my knickers, if I had any on, that is. I’m still waiting for him to notice that part, but I really should’ve popped to the corner shop for a loaf, at the least. Conversation flows effortlessly as we carefully avoid the difficult topics of earlier. I wished I could say the same about my brain ignoring those subjects, or my slightly warm butt.

  As the doorbell rings and startles me, Kai slides my feet away and jumps to open it. I pray to all possible deities that it’s not be Matt come to burst our bubble in a totally non-neighbour-ish way.

  ‘Rashid, marhaba!’

  Kai sounds positively buoyant as he greets his reserved employee as, with a hand on his shoulder, he pulls him inside. Rashid trails Kai to my tiny kitchen, the pair crowding the small space. Kai leans his hip into the counter as Rashid places several bags on the counter top, then hands over a leather weekend bag to Kai.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘La. Shukran. Nothing, thanks. The car’s downstairs?’ Kai asks absently, rifling through the bags. He’s enthralling, this happy-chap Kai, distracted and eager, like a young boy on an adventure. Or up to something.

  ‘Of course. The keys.’ Rashid fishes a set from his suit jacket, dropping them into Kai’s hand. ‘If that is all?’

  Kai nods, smiling distractedly. ‘Shukran jazeelan.’

  ‘What was that all about?’ I ask as Kai closes the front door behind Rashid.

  ‘Supplies. I sent out an S.O.S. I’ve never seen a kitchen stocked as poorly as yours. A man could die fulfilling your carnal desires with so little to sustain him for his endeavours.’

  ‘Would he die happy, though?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he replies, deadpan.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting company. It’s so difficult getting around in cabs and it’s just so hot,’ I whine. ‘But I can shop now, ‘cos I have a new car!’

  ‘So you do,’ he says, eyes bright. ‘Come, let’s eat.’ Kneeling, he begins to unload the of the brown paper patisserie bag to the coffee table.

  ‘Is that cake?’ I sit up as he opens a cream-coloured box.

  ‘Not just any cake.’ He waves the now open box under my nose. ‘Chocolate ganaché, coffee butter cream. Every mouthful a small bite of heaven.’ Digging a fork into the deliciously dark portion of cake, he glides it past my face.

  ‘Where’s my piece?’ I ask as he slides the fork into his mouth.

  ‘What happened to self-service?’ he taunts, ploughing the fork into the box once more.

  ‘Whatever.’ I sigh my pretence of indifference and he meets my feigned apathy with a quirk of his brow, raising me one by daubing a gooey forkful against the centre of his bare chest.

  ‘Don’t let me deprive you. Self-service waits right here.’ Rubbing a finger through the chocolaty smear, he raises it to his lips, withdrawing it with a lip-smacking pop. The sound echoes, a sudden energy filling the small space between us.

  I close my eyes as molten carnality floods my veins.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he whispers. ‘They’ve been devouring me all day.’ Trailing his finger against my torso, his eyes are clouded with want.

  I push his shoulders with the flat of my palms, his legs unfolding awkwardly between us as I crawl the length of him and straddle his hips. There’s just me and him and a lick of chocolate right now. Gone are my concerns of dominance and surrender, I don’t need to wo
nder if what I’m doing is wrong.

  My gaze travels his torso, up past his neck where his pulse jumps in anticipation. My own response starts in my stomach, warmth growing along my spine, as I bend and firmly lick the length of chocolaty smear, sealing the action with a kiss at the patch of now damp skin.

  ‘How’s that for self-service?’ I whisper, rising and seating myself on his thighs, his legs settled between my own.

  ‘Worth starving for,’ he murmurs. ‘But you’ve left a bit.’ As I raise my fingers to my mouth, he catches them in his own, pulling me against him where he skims my lips with his tongue. ‘I live to serve,’ he whispers salaciously against my cheek. His hands slip to my face as we kiss slowly, a sensual, coaxing dance between our mouths and tongues.

  ‘Take me inside you,’ he whispers against my mouth.

  A dark, captivating chasm opens up inside me, and as his mouth meets mine, I kiss him hard, with a force that shocks us both. Mashing my mouth against his, teeth clash and tongues collide as he struggles to rise, to meet my passion, to take command. I run my hands through his hair, pulling at the ends, relishing the masculine noises sounding in his throat. His hands pull at my clothing, the tempo for our coupling set. Grasping the hem of my tennis dress, he pulls it from my body, forcing our mouths to part momentarily, smiling at the realization I’m not wearing any undies.

  ‘How could I have missed that?’

  ‘Shush, just get ‘em off,’ I hear myself snarl, my hands tugging at his zipper, pushing his own away as he pushes my bra straps down my arms.

  His trousers are a joint effort; he pulls at the fastening as I tug them down his thighs. His fingers dip into me, teasing and spreading my wetness, then he’s inside me, filling my need, my heat. I rise in response to his coaxing hands on my hips, his mouth alternating between wet kisses on my lips and breasts. We don’t speak—we don’t need to—our bodies saying all that’s to be said. I ride him instinctively, the force of him intense as I impale myself on him over and over again.

  It’s so deep. So much. So sublime.