Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

16

Ella

‘This is seriously demeaning,’ I grate out, blowing a hunk of hair from my face. My body balances across his knee, my fingertips touching the dark-stained floorboards.

‘Then get up. No one’s keeping you here.’ His tone holds a note of challenge, amusement lurking there. And as he speaks, he runs his hand down my back, smoothing it further over my butt cheeks.

He’s right; I could move. But do I seriously want to, or do I just feel like I should? How did I get from thinking about a box of condoms in the kitchen to this? And what’s with the daddy stuff? I should be cringing—I don’t have daddy issues—and I would be if I wasn’t so turned on. I want to do this, but I don’t want to be homeless, either. Or out of a job. But I also don’t want him to stop touching me. Because the lady doth protest way too much.

‘You know we’re not going to fuck, right?’ He uses that tone again—the one that makes me lose my marbles and makes me want to rip off my clothes. And what’s with the whole I’m not even blonde thing? Because if he’s not interested in me, what’s he doing hiding a cucumber in his pants? I push away his words—the things his friend had said.

Don’t let Mac fool you. He doesn’t date nice girls. He likes his . . . relationships casual. And he only likes blondes. Give me your number. Let me take you out.

And I’d given it to him for no other reason than to make him leave me alone.

I should’ve given him a false number. He’s already text me twice.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe Mac won’t ever fuck me. Because I’m not blonde—or because I’m a virgin. I suppose time will tell.

‘No fucking? Maybe we’ll see about that.’ My response sounds like a taunt, as if the idea of us fucking is solely up to me. Get me, Ella, the seductress. The femme fatale.

‘You’ve got such a lovely arse, Ella. Anyone ever tell you that?’ His accent seems heavier, rendering the words something else. You’ve got such a lovely arse. Rough and rasping, even if it’s just flattery.

‘Don’t be a tease. It’s like a bag of laundry.’ Like a bag of my laundry. As in large.

He laughs then. Quite loudly. ‘No, hen, this is an arse meant for touching,’ he murmurs, doing just that. ‘For holding. For sitting on a fella’s knee. It’s pretty fucking perfect.’ And holy rolling r’s. Purrrfect. Even if I know I’m anything but.

Butt!

My resulting laughter evolves into a throaty moan at the brush of his fingers between my legs. Teasing. Touching. His attentions make fire rise in my veins.

‘I want you so badly,’ he whispers, sliding my sleep shorts over my bottom. ‘I want to spread you out. Taste you. Sink into you inch by slow inch until you can’t take any more and I’ve no more to give.’

‘Yes!’ I hiss out as his fingers find my opening, the sound strangled as he pushes them inside my slickness. As he works me, he whispers things I don’t quite hear. Murmurs of appreciation, words that say I’m so ripe and ready. That he wants to come inside me. That the sounds I make are so sweet.

‘Tell me you won’t see him.’

His strident words penetrate my lust-filled stupor, and I turn my head over my shoulder to look at him . . . right before his hand connects with the left cheek of my bum. Hard.

‘Ow!’ I yelp, coming to my senses with the impact. ‘What was that for?’ Fingertips pressed against the floor, I struggle to push myself up—to rise—which becomes impossible as Mac places his hand between my shoulders, the other on my smarting bum.

‘Tell me you won’t see him,’ he says oh-so-reasonably. ‘Tell me you won’t go out with Will.’

‘I will do no such thing!’ I yell back, still struggling. ‘Get off.’

‘Would you look at that. Your arse is a lovely pink.’

‘Stop that!’ I squeak as he rubs the smarting skin. ‘I don’t think I want to play anymore.’

‘Who said we’re playing?’ The smug bastard holds his hand to my stinging cheek, slipping it between my legs as I struggle to close them but giving in as he reaches where I’m wet. ‘And who says you’re not enjoying this?’ he adds, rubbing his fingers along my slick ribbon of flesh.

My protest, if you can call it that, is an inarticulate mewl as his hand slides away to stroke my heated skin . . . right before he slaps me again. On the opposite cheek this time.

‘Look at that. A matching pair.’

‘You bloody deviant,’ I squeal as his hand connects again.

‘Takes one to know one, darlin’,’ he answers delightedly. ‘I fucking love that you’ve never been spanked before now.’

‘H-how can you tell?’ I aim for the tone of a teasing coquet, though fall about a mile short as I wiggle against him, getting a very real reminder of how long and hard he is right now.