Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘Please,’ I whisper, pushing against him, not sure what I’m pleading for, not sure how he can be so hard yet so reluctant. Is the idea of hurting me turning him on? Or is he just as desperate for me as I am for him?

Mac flexes into me, and I whimper. It’s such a tiny, insignificant sound, though it lengthens into a libidinous moan as he pushes his booted foot between my own.

‘Pull your pants down,’ he rasps, but when I try to bend, I can’t move for his fist in my hair.

‘I want you so badly, but I can’t do this easy.’ His words are low and throaty and heavy with warning. A warning I don’t heed. ‘You don’t want this. Not for your first time.’

‘I don’t want you to stop. I need you inside me.’

‘In this window?’ he growls. My eyes rise to the bank of glass, the balcony and the buildings beyond. If I look closely enough, I can see into several living rooms—a couple of bedrooms, window dressings open and lights turned on. Could they see me? Watch me dance like Mac’s marionette?

‘You like the sound of that.’ There’s a hint of surprise in his words. A measure of taunt. But mostly, there’s pleasure. Desire and want.

A pounding pulse hammers between my legs as he yanks on my ponytail, resting his forehead on my shoulder, and with one heavily expelled breath, he says something that sends my pulse into overdrive.

‘Pull down your pants. Show the world what’s fucking mine.’

Unzipped hoodie, knickers and yoga pants around my knees, nipples rimming my bra, and Mac’s hands on me. The words might not paint the sexiest of pictures, but as he spins me around, pushing my bottom against the cool glass, I know I’m wetter than I’ve ever been.

‘Who does this belong to?’ he murmurs, getting down on his knees in front of me.

‘I-it’s yours,’ I pant, my palms flat against the glass.

‘Put your fingers inside. Open yourself up to me.’

It should sound disgusting and dirty, but it doesn’t. It feels intimate, like a secret shared or a pleasure owned. I slide my hands down my stomach, one hand making a V over my lady bits, sliding them farther apart to pull the skin aside.

There is only the stillness of the room. My arousal. The sound of our breathing, and Mac in front of me, his eyes unmoving from where I bare myself.

‘You’ve got a very pretty pussy, Ella.’ My skin prickles as his gaze crawls up my body, eventually capturing mine. ‘Anyone ever tell you that?’ I shake my head.

‘How many people have seen this pretty pussy? More specifically, how many men?’ I feel myself frowning. People watching—anonymous and amorphous neighbours watching us get it on is a turn-on. Not the mention of doctors or old boyfriends. ‘Did your previous daddy see this pussy, Ella? The man you worked for in France? Have you been flashing this cunt anywhere else?’

‘No.’ My denial sounds more like a groan as his breath caresses my heated flesh.

‘You’re sure?’

It doesn’t sound like a question, more like an accusation. One that has me wrapping a hand in his hair. I forcibly tilt his head back, his dark, angry gaze intent on mine.

‘In Paris, I worked for a woman,’ I say carefully.

I don’t have time to process the relief in his expression, or wonder where this has come from, as Mac leans forward and kisses my clit. Yes, kisses it. Just one soft movement of his lips that pushes a sigh from my chest.

‘Don’t move your fingers,’ he instructs. One hand on my pussy and one still in his hair, my whole body melts. With the flat of his tongue, he laps. With the point of it, he flicks as he sets to work making out with my pussy until I’m writhing against him, desperate for relief. Arching my back from the glass, I participate the only way I can. Wrapping my fingers in his hair, I push against him as he envelops my clit with his mouth, sucking and swirling, licking and flicking, releasing and repeating again and again, until words have no meaning and thoughts don’t exist. There’s just sensation, heat, and need, building between my legs.

‘That’s so fuckin’ sexy,’ he says, his accent rougher now. ‘I can’t wait to feel you around my cock. But for now, my good girl, come fuck my face.’

My body quakes, his words and actions just too intense. I run my hands through his hair, touch my breasts, desperate for the white-hot pleasure to crest as Mac fucks me with his tongue and I hump his face.

When I think I can’t take any more, he hums his pleasure, the feeling and the meaning behind his articulate noise almost too much to bear.

‘That’s it. That’s fucking it,’ he growls against my hot flesh. ‘You taste like fucking honey,’ he says, parting me farther and setting straight back to work. ‘Give it to me.’