One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  His mouth finds my neck, his lips bringing me comfort the moment his words sweep it away. ‘You’re strung so tight, baby.’

  ‘Stop,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t call me that.’

  His response is a rasping sort of chuckle, but he doesn’t say it again.

  My hands trussed to his, his mouth works its way down my body in sharp, biting kisses. As he reaches my bra, he bites my breast over the cotton cup. I cry out, my body jolting, the feeling brief but so intense. I try to rise, pushing against him desperately. It’s all to no avail as he moves lower, continuing his biting and torturous touch.

  Roughly, his fingers slip into the waistband of my shorts, jerking them off one hip before moving to the other. It’s an almost comical dance as he pulls them halfway down my thighs, leaving them there, shackling me.

  ‘If you move your hands, I won’t let you come.’

  My eyes fly open—I’d been concentrating on his progress with my pants, silently praying that they’d just somehow melt away—and he said . . . what again? Why is he unravelling the rope from his hand?

  ‘Well?’ His voice is lower now, but not sharp. A commanding echo of other times.

  ‘I won’t,’ I promise as his words spill a multitude of images across my mind, each one of them enough to make me squirm a little more. ‘Please, Kai, I—’

  Words die in my throat as his free hand trails down the sensitive underside of my arm before slipping into my bra. His finger circles and massages, tightening slowly; the waves of his attentions threatening to drown me in sheer sensational bliss. I arch my back, swallowing a whimper; his fingers now unyielding until he moves the fabric under my breast, replacing the torture with his tongue.

  I shudder—I gasp.

  ‘You always rise to my touch.’ His tone is almost considering as he makes tight circles with the tip of his tongue, sucking the pebbled flesh into his mouth.

  I moan loudly, moving to hold my fettered hands over his head when his growl halts me, my nipple now hard between piercing teeth. So I don’t. I lower them, trying hard to lie still as I’ve promised, trying to smother my reactions as he tortures and teases that tiny piece of me until I’m fit to burst. Like a dam, I imagine the sensation overcoming me, breaching and overflowing walls, when he suddenly sits up, transferring his attention to the fly of his jeans.

  Oh thank god.

  Because if my heart beats any faster, it’s likely to stop.

  In an instant, he grabs my ankles, pulling my feet flat against his chest before whipping my undies and shorts the rest of the way off. My feet are gritty still with the remains of the sand from the beach, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he wraps his hands around my knees.

  ‘Comfortable?’ His hands stroke my legs and I nod, seemingly not yet in charge of my vocabulary. ‘Then I mustn’t be doing it right.’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’

  His eyes flick up the bed to where my wrists lie, unmoved. Tied yet unrestrained. I’ve yelled at him, yet physically I haven’t stirred. At my realisation, his wolfish smile rises again.

  ‘You like to be pushed out of your comfort zone. You like . . . cruel.’ He pushes forward, sliding my feet over his shoulders, the momentum of his bodyweight bending my legs almost over my head. ‘You like a little torture on the way to coming. You just don’t like to be called out on it, do you, babe?’

  ‘You’re an arsehole,’ I spit in reply.

  ‘Ah, but an arsehole is useful . . . has lots of scope.’ His hand suddenly sweeps between the cheeks of my butt and I stiffen. ‘Is that what I am to you? Useful? Used just to get you off.’ His fingers part my cheeks further before I feel the pressure of his thumb—where it shouldn’t be. Conflicted, I’m not sure how to feel about it—how I should feel about it—as a simultaneous burst of heat and discomfort prickles my skin, spreading a warmth through me.

  Is it shame?

  Both hands move back to his zipper, the weight of his body over mine a little less as I turn my head, unwilling share my conflicted relief.

  Then my body jolts, shuddering as I find his tip hard at my exit—because that’s sure not an entrance—in the place of his thumb. I’m a tornado of emotions, my thoughts muddied, suffocated by this need and ache to be filled by him. But surely not like this? It’s wrong, I’ve always thought so, and right now it still feels forbidden, but also a tiny bit all right. Because I know he’s trying to punish me, push me to submit—and I want to. I also know he’s better at this game than I’ll ever be.

  And right now, I’m not so sure I don’t want to succumb.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong, I tell myself again as he slips forward and begins to stroke his hard cock against my wet ribbon of flesh. Backwards and forwards, his rhythmic motion spreads my own dampness against the depths of me and the length of him. He adds a little more pressure as his tip once more reaches that part of me; pinched tight not to let him in.

  ‘Come on, make me use you. I know just what you need.’ I struggle with the ease of his tone, how his words drip into my ear and shimmer down my spine. Persuasive word, callous in meaning, his gaze indifferent; the contrasts have me at sea.

  ‘Stop.’ I whimper as his gaze bores into mine, daring me to deny him physically, deny his words as truth.

  ‘Khallas?’ he asks sardonically.

  Do I want this to stop? Stop everything?

  ‘I know such a lot about you, Kate. Know how to push your buttons, make you come hard. Know how to love you. But you? You seem to know nothing about me. Do you know how that makes me feel?’

  I blink rapidly, a large knot forming in my throat. Yes, he can make me come—with more ease than any man has a right to—but the rest? I know in my heart he’s been faithful, but he hides things. His father’s plans for his marriage, for a start. Thoughts continue to swirl without much sense or meaning, the physical ache for him still overriding everything. But one last ridiculous thought floats free: He’s using lawyer speak. He’s trying to get off, get me off, on a technicality.

  My thoughts are no more as his hands move to grab the cheeks of my arse, lifting me, my legs lying over his shoulders now. Hope, fear and need ball low inside, and having him inside me now is everything.

  After an age of a moment, he changes our angle, sliding his cock across my wet folds and slipping inside me easily.

  But it isn’t the whole thing. Literally. Just the tip.

  It sounds like a joke doesn’t it?

  Then why am I not laughing?

  His gaze bears down, a little less hard now, but no less calculating. I bite my tongue from the torrent of abuse I have for him—for this moment—and concentrate purely on the visceral. I close my eyes and swallow, hide from it all. Hide from him.

  ‘Open them,’ he demands, grasping my chin. ‘Look at me. See me, not who you think I am.’

  ‘See only what you want me to see, you mean.’

  He retreats and my clit pounds in distress. ‘I said who, habibti. The rest is just bullshit and inconsequence. We’re going to be married, after all.’

  I inhale a double-quick breath. I know this, but why is it not at the front of my mind? I think the answer to that is because of who lies between my legs. A man with the ability to make me forget everything but pleasure. A man who gives and takes all on his own time.

  But staring into his face, I see signs of his weakness, his own need. A pulse pounds in his jaw; his arms tremble, and not from the weight of my legs. It seems he’s as affected by this as I am.

  As though reluctant to show his desire, his eyes move slowly from mine, gazing down at where we join. I don’t look—won’t. I refuse to acknowledge my need and strain in front of him. Instead, I close my eyes and conjure the image from memory, my wetness glistening against him as he continues sliding torturously slow along my slit.

  ‘No, habibti, no running away. Open your eyes.’

  And with that, he slides inside—barely—once again.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I hate how whiney
my voice sounds, hate how my body struggles against him fruitlessly.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’ I almost screech. ‘I’m not doing anyth—’

  ‘So you like me withholding your breath? Your neck clasped in my hand?’

  ‘No,’ I reply instantly. I didn’t, I don’t think.

  ‘Then you want me hard in your arse?’

  My reply isn’t as quick this time, though I use the same word. I turn my head and refuse to look at him. He grips my chin hard, turning me to face him.

  ‘Then why would you let me?’ he demands.

  Because around you, I’m defenceless. ‘Because I want to come,’ I reply instead.

  ‘And you want me to make you come?’

  ‘Yes, god damn it, I do!’

  ‘Why?’

  My eyes clench tight as he pulls out, resting a delicious weight onto my pubic bone. My clit pounds as he tortures me, pushing me to the end of my endurance. Pushing me to want to scream. I’m so annoyed by his stupid questioning. So infuriated that he refuses to screw. The point isn’t that I couldn’t give him an answer, even given the use of a compass and a divining rod.

  Imagine my surprise when I hear my reply ringing furiously in the air.

  ‘Because there’s no one else like you, you absolute . . . fucker! No one else who’s ever made me feel as brave or as daring or as desirable as you do!’

  ‘Then why did you leave me?’ he asks quietly, unmoving, his weight still balanced against me. ‘Why can’t you trust? Why did you run?’

  ‘Because I thought it was you. You know that!’ I full-on yell, heaving chest and bulging eyeballs, bucking against him; equal parts desire and rage. I want him inside me, on the floor in a heap. Want to ride his face. I want it all and I want none of it, because right now, nothing makes any sense.

  ‘I know that,’ he says very softly, slipping my stiffened legs from his shoulders and lowering them to his waist. ‘What I don’t understand is why you left without some sort of confrontation? Why wouldn’t you fight—’

  ‘Because I don’t trust myself around you.’

  And there it is: the reason. Something lurking beneath my consciousness.

  Self-preservation dragged me from the hotel. Without leaving, would I have had the strength to stay away?

  All at once he pulls away, swinging his legs over the other side of the bed.

  ‘Defenceless.’ His voice is strained, like he’s trying not to yell. ‘I think I know a little of how that feels.’ Hands clasped tight to his thighs, the muscles across his shoulders stand taut as he exhales a breath that’s almost a shudder. ‘Until you left, it was just a word, but I understand better now. You left behind a wreck, struggling to work out what went wrong, wondering what the next step was. I warned you Faris wasn’t to be trusted. Told you his speciality is throwing shadows against cave walls.’

  I move behind him, wanting to reach out and comfort him, but not daring to touch.

  ‘But what does it matter, you left anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ My voice is barely more than a breath. ‘I should’ve—’

  He cuts off my words, his hand covering mine as he turns his head.

  ‘You know, my first instinct was fuck you.’ His words strike me almost physically. I try to pull away as his grip tightens. ‘You changed my life, Kate, and I didn’t ask for that. When you weren’t there when I got back from Riyadh, what was I supposed to think, supposed to feel? Be grateful for having known you? For finding out through you that love fucking hurts?’ His eyes blaze, daring me for an answer; every elegant line of his body drawing tight once more.

  ‘I’d always believed I thrived on stress. On tension. Always seen it as something as a cause, rather than an effect. Something to push you onwards. Something to drive you to jump for that goal. But this—’ His short laugh is almost rueful. ‘This was something else. Something shaped like a Kate-sized hole. Tension in my shoulders and in my stomach. This hole, I thought I shouldn’t let it fester, maybe go back to living my life as before. Heal a thousand other ways.’

  A thousand other women, more like.

  ‘Did it?’ I ask acidly. Did you? Images rise between us, faceless women wrapped around Kai. A dark-haired siren on her knees at his feet; the vision I fear most. Distress twists my stomach, jealousy burning in my chest as I try to pull away.

  One eyebrow raises above his fierce gaze, his hand like a vice against mine. ‘Do I look like I’ve been screwing half of Dubai? Where would I have found the time, considering I’m here? I said I thought about it. Call those thoughts delusions of inexperience, because you can’t fool the heart, and that’s where I hurt the most. I’ve known for some time. Kate, for me, there is only you.’

  I blink heavily, trying to absorb his words. That he loves me, despite trying not to. That I’ve hurt him.

  His hands cradle my face, his thumbs wiping away tears I’ve no recollection shedding. ‘But more than finding you’d fled, and only guessing at the reasons, I arrived in Australia this morning to discover this . . . deception, this tarnishing of my fidelity, caused you to leave. You left because you saw me as him.’

  ‘Him?’ I repeat, not understanding, before recalling uncomfortably how I’d opened the front door to Kai. In my undies. Shane’s hands all over me.

  That him.

  ‘It wasn’t, we weren’t—’

  ‘I know,’ he says softly, my face still in his hands. ‘Seeing him at your door, knowing he’d hurt you, I wanted to tear him apart. But finding out you thought I could betray you as he did, that you could believe so little of me—it hurt. More than I can adequately express,’ he adds solemnly. ‘And then you slept. You looked so peaceful, so normal. My sleeping Kate. How could you sleep and not feel my rage? My despair that you could think the same of me as him?’

  ‘But you—Shane—I didn’t think the same, at least not at that moment. Not in the hotel.’ My words fall in a rush, because this wasn’t my first instinct on finding Sofia on her knees that night. I hadn’t considered Kai—or as it turned out, Essam— as callous as Shane. I certainly hadn’t railed against men as all being lying, cheating scum. I’d left, quite simply because I was crushed. ‘Maybe later,’ I admit after a beat. ‘Later, when I’d taken to berating myself for being so stupid a second time.’ My chest falls with one, harsh breath. ‘That I could’ve ignored what was right in front of me. Again.’

  ‘But I was there in front. Always. Begging you to trust me, and loving you with every ounce of my strength.’

  ‘Let me finish, please.’ His hands are softer as I take them in my own. ‘Leaving Australia was never about Shane. Sure, I wanted to get away from him, but more because I was angry. I thought I was heartbroken, but apparently heartbreak hurts more than that. I left because I was done with him; I just didn’t want to deal. This time, leaving Dubai, don’t you see—I had to go away. I had to not be near you, because even after everything, everything I got wrong, as it turned out, I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to stay away from you. That was heartbreak. That was hurt.’

  My vision becomes liquid, tears blurring my gaze.

  ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he whispers, pulling my damp cheek to his, the momentum of his body pushing me backward onto the bed.

  Our kisses turn from gentle to fierce, his hands feeding into my hair as his mouth touches me everywhere. One arm under my knee, he bares me open, laying me flat across the bed. For a moment he just stares, his gaze passionate in its golden liquor blaze. I blink back my tears, the soft bristle on his face rasping against my palm. Taking my outstretched hand in his, he threads our fingers together, lowering both back to the bed, and in one smooth motion, he’s inside me. All of him.

  I cry out; the physical sensation, my emotional state, his revelations, threatening to overwhelm me. My chest heaves again, relief this time, released into his mouth as he kisses me, his beautiful lips against mine, against my cheeks and my eyes.

  Whispers like fingertip
s caress my skin as he thrusts, exhaling deeply, spilling words and passion. Filling me.

  ‘You are too easy to need.’ He punctuates each of his words with a deep drive inside.

  Skin slides against skin, tongue against tongue as we twist and writhe, not able to get close enough for either of our satisfaction. I lie beneath him, hands clasped in his, legs wrapped tight around him, like I could climb into the protection of his skin.

  ‘I need you. Want to own you.’

  His dark lashes flutter closed, his body stilling as he pushes in deep. Savouring the brief moment, his body is an elegant arc over mine, his expression a strange combination of torture and peace. Once more withdrawing, he pushes my knees wider, driving himself into my heat again and again. Tempo increasing, he ploughs deeper, each stroke igniting my insides. Punishing thrusts drive me to the edge of pain, sensations coalescing with each stroke. An exquisite torment. An all-consuming pleasure. A sign of all that is right.

  ‘Look at you with your skin of polished ivory, your fuck me mouth.’ A hand in my hair, his mouth plunders mine.

  Lost, my body responsive to his every touch, I cry out, arching into him, my hands moving to his backside, pulling him closer.

  ‘I fucking worship you,’ he rasps, his voice echoing through the room. ‘And I will own you.’ Pulling my hands from behind him, he threads his fingers through mine, grasping them once more by my head. He rocks into me again and again as I arch my back to meet each of his thrusts. I cry out in the agony of ecstasy, all thought, all cellular cohesion, breaking apart.

  Aftershocks ebb and flow as he lowers his head, unintelligible utterances whispered into my hair. I place my lips against the pulsing vein in his neck, the vein that feeds life into his heart, the place he tells me my name is carved.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Mrs. Khalfan.’

  My heart jumps, like an engine that has stalled, lurching as it misses a beat, quickly righting itself when Kai’s hand rests against my shoulder.