Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

I don’t know if his grunt is a reprimand or a demand for more as I writhe beneath him. But, as he moves, I instinctively tense, though he’d only slid himself through my wetness, blowing out a harsh curse, ‘Jesus Christ.’

My face in his hands and my name on his lips, he pushes inside me with one solid thrust. Mac blows out a breath as I breathe in sharply at the punch of his hips and the resulting sting. Immediately, I feel stretched. Bruised. And, as he pulls back, I place my hand on his chest—an instinct to push him away—but am surprised by the sudden and very empty ache. As he drives forward solidly again, the pain takes on an edge of pleasure, the combination strangely pleasurable.

‘Oh . . .’

My hands grip him tighter because I’m doing it. I’m really doing it! There’s no way to describe the sensation—the tumult of emotion building. The weight of Mac’s body over mine, his look of absorption and ecstasy. The low growl he makes as I tilt my hips to meet his next thrust; it’s all so heady. So unravelling.

‘So fucking good,’ his dark voice rasps, the room filling with the sounds of our pleasure. ‘Fuck. Fuck.’ Pushing up on his forearms, he slides a little deeper, and I close my eyes unable to watch the intensity in his expression. ‘No,’ he grunts, lowering to his forearms again and holding my head in his hands. ‘Keep your eyes open. Watch me.’

Our bodies are so close and the pressure of his next thrust rubs my clit. The tone changes suddenly, my fingers hard on his back as I urge a repeat. And he gives it to me, hard and fast, pushing himself up onto his hands once more, working himself deeper and deeper until there is no Mac and Ella, just our driving need.

His tempo increasing, the sensation between my legs borders on the most exquisite kind of pain, my hips rising to meet his where the sensation coalesces with pleasure. With desire. With love.

I whimper and mewl, curse and pray to God as Mac’s movements turn urgent, a burst of garbled words breaking free from his throat.

‘You’resofuckingtightyoufeelsofuckinggood.’

I arch my back, pleasure crawling through me. The feeling building is too intense, and I strive to close my legs until prevented by his reprimanding grunt.

‘God. Oh, God. I’m . . . I’m . . .’

‘Thank the fucking Lord,’ he mutters desperately, and with those final words, he holds me there, undulating above me as I ride out my orgasm against his body, my movements shameless and free.

‘That was a thing of beauty,’ he whispers when I’m finally sentient. Without giving me time to catch my breath, he kisses my head and returns to his thrusts.

‘You’re so wet. And you’re so fucking mine. Mark my words,’ he begins, grunting the words with each drive. ‘You. Were. Made. For. Me.’

With one final thrust, he grows completely still, his expression a bittersweet mixture of agony and ecstasy. And I did that to him. Me. I never realised my body was capable of such movement. Of such pleasure. Giving and receiving.

‘Raphaela Alescio.’ Mac’s laboured words bring me out of my own head. Still inside me, our bodies are a tangle of limbs and sweat shining skin. ‘At some time in the not too distant future,’ his voice rumbles, ‘you’re going to marry me.’

I do just what you’d expect of me right then. I cry—bursting into floods of tears. For a million reasons, and none of them sensible, I weep big, fat tears.

‘Darlin’, don’t cry,’ he whispers, taking my head in his hands. He kisses me with a loving kind of ferocity, his power and strength restrained above me. Around me. Why do I feel at home in his arms? Protected. Accepted. And, dare I say it, loved. ‘Does that sound so bad?’

‘Crying always sounds bad, but it’s what I do.’ My words are all wobbly, but I can’t move my gaze from his. ‘I cry at the drop of a hat.’

‘I’m not droppin’ any hats,’ he says, staring down at me, collecting my tears with his thumbs. ‘But I am asking you to marry me.’

‘That’s your dick talking!’ The words burst from my mouth without thought—words I probably picked up in a magazine or something. Words never to trust, post orgasm.

‘Contrary to popular opinion, a man’s dick doesn’t rule his head.’ He smiles down at me. ‘Does marrying me sound so bad?’

‘You don’t really want to marry me.’ He can’t mean it. Can he?

‘Ella, listen very carefully,’ he says all possessive and growly, ‘because I mean every word I’m about to say. You’re mine, little girl. Until the end of my days.’

I open my mouth to apologise—to tell him I’m sorry for what happened tonight—to repeat my love for him, when distantly, a bang sounds.