Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

I swallow the black stab of jealousy—the knife of misery.

‘You’re wrong,’ I say gruffly. And as the words leave my mouth, I realise I’m not lying. Bri/Rhi is definitely wrong. About some of it, at least. I’m not closing my eyes and imagining her as someone else. I’m closing them because she looks like her.

Because they all fucking do.

I’m a sick fuck. A repeat offender. A man who likes to punish himself by surrounding himself—by sinking himself—into facsimiles of the woman he loves. The woman he can never have.

‘I’m wrong, am I?’ Bri/Rhi purrs, bringing me back to the moment. But it isn’t really a question. More a dare.

‘Listen,’ I say, sliding my free hand through my hair. ‘I’m not sure what you want—’

‘That’s easy. I want you to fuck me.’

In a blur of motion, I have handfuls of her arse again. Pulling her against me, I smash my mouth on hers.

‘Yes,’ she whispers between hard kisses. ‘That’s what I’m talking about.’

But I don’t answer. I’ve found I can drown out my thoughts in one of only two ways. One is throwing myself into work, and I’ve done plenty this past year—driving the length and breadth of the country, meetings with investors, expansion plans and implementation. The second is physical activity—lengthy gym sessions, rugby practice at the arse crack of dawn, the subsequent and often violent matches held on Sunday mornings, and fucking. Lots and lots of fucking.

I’m not inside my head any longer—I’m out of it. With lust. With motion. My fingers are hard and grasping, my mouth questing, my tongue seeking hers. Grabbing her knee, I hook her thigh over my leg, my fingers sliding under the slippery satin to seek her hot centre.

‘Oh, God,’ she groans, throwing her head back, thumping it off the wall. ‘Fuck! That hur—Oh, Mac, yes! Right there.’

I smile into the soft skin of her neck right before I bite it, pushing a sigh from the depths of her. A sigh or a yelp. I can’nae be sure which; I only know that by the way she’s rocking desperately into my hand, she’s as into this moment as I am.

‘See, I don’t need my eyes open to find this.’ My words are a hot growl in her ear as I slide two fingers in deep.

‘Yes!’

Angling my wrist, I curl my fingertips. ‘And I don’t need them open to find this.’ As I brush that spot inside her, her eyes glaze and her mouth falls open, telling me all I need to know. It’s always a calculated risk—not all women like a little G-spot action, but this one clearly does. Grabbing her knee and anchoring it against my hip again, I prevent her from sliding down the wall.

‘You like that, do you?’ My biting kisses travel across her neck and shoulder as my fingers work her internally.

‘Oh, God.’ Her groan vibrates under my lips. ‘It’s too soon. I’m going to . . . I’m going to—’

‘Aye, you are. You’re gonna come all over my fingers, then you’re gonnae lick them clean.’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ she pants. ‘Keep talking. Like that—’

‘Oh, I’ll talk, because one of us will need to keep the conversation going. See, it’s hard to speak when you’ve a mouthful of cock’.’

‘Yes! Oh, God, your cock. I love your cock.’

‘Do you now?’ I smile, though try not to chuckle. ‘How much do you love it?’

‘So much.’ I change the angle of my fingers, touching her as I would her clit. ‘So, sooo much,’ she mewls. ‘Don’t stop, please—’

‘And where would you love my cock, sweetheart?’

‘In my mouth.’ Her fingers dig harder into my shoulder now; her words expelled through gritted teeth as she throws her head back again.

No complaints this time.

‘Where else?’ I demand, licking the column of her exposed neck.

‘In my pussy . . . buried hard in my pussy!’

‘You’ve a filthy fucking tongue on you.’

‘You make me filthy, Mac.’

‘Is that so? Tell me how filthy. Use your words, hen. While you can.’

‘I want you in my mouth,’ she mewls, her body working in time with my hand. ‘I want you to fuck me so hard I’ll feel you inside me for days.’

Some invitations come by text. R U up 4 a pint? Some come in print. You are cordially invited. Some invitations hit your inbox in the form of a photograph. A naked selfie is an invitation of a very particular kind. Or an image of a woman in a white dress, the arms of another holding her. An image of the woman you’ve loved since your little sister brought her home, aged twelve. A picture of the woman you’ve loved in secret, looking so fucking happy it hurts.

An invitation, accompanied by an unwelcome announcement.

Fin and Rory got hitched on holiday!

Come join us in celebration when we get back.

And some invitations? Distraction or not, they’re just too tempting to be ignored.