Page 67 of Married to the Scottish Player
We kiss like we’re starving.
Touch like we’re on fire.
I whisper her name into her mouth, into the hollow of her throat, into every place my lips can reach—until her moans melt into mine and we’re a tangle of limbs and heat and water, the night around us holding its breath.
I am so fucking hard.
Can’t think or see straight.
She gasps when I lift her, water cascading down her bare body, and set her gently on the edge of the dock. Pull her closer, lining myself up to her pussy, taking my dick in my hands and running it up and down her slit ... teasing her ... getting her wetter still ...
She tips her head back, eyes fluttering shut as my fingers trace lazy circles on the inside of her thigh.
“You’re making me crazy,” she whispers, voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the water. “God, I want you to fuck me so bad ...”
“Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Callum ...” She moans, desperation on the tip of her tongue. “I want your dick inside me.”
Fuck me . . . I want your dick inside me . . .
A groan escapes my throat, loud and guttural as she takes my cock in her hand, guiding it toward her entrance, moving her hips on the dock, inching forward so I can thrust into her.
One inch.
Two.
Then another, and we’re both groaning, moaning, gasping as I rail her on the pier, every movement so fucking intense. Her head tips back, and I kiss her throat, her collarbone, her lips—anywhere I can reach with my mouth.
I lick, suck. Pump my hips and fuck her, my head tipping back as my pelvis thrusts. I am lost in her. Impossibly deep.
I swear I’ve never seen anything more stunning in my entire life. I cradle her face with one hand, brushing my thumb along her cheekbone as I move inside her again and again.
“Don’t stop . . .”
Don’t stop, don’t stop . . .
Drunk on her. Drunk on tequila. Drunk on this insane night and the way she’s made me feel something I didn’t think I had left in me.
I shift, adjust, give her every last inch I’ve got, watching her unravel beneath me. Her lips are soft. Her mouth opens for me like it always belonged to mine.
And then I grunt, hoarsely—the words slip out before I can stop them: “I think I love you.”
They slip out like a secret, hot against her throat as I bury my face there.
She gasps—shudders—and her hips roll up to meet mine with more urgency. Then her fingers thread through my hair, tugging until I look at her, eyes glassy, gorgeous, completely undone.
They lock onto mine. “I love you too.”
I kiss her hard.
Hungry.
We move faster, rougher, caught in the surge of everything we can’t say—so we say it with our bodies instead. With every thrust. Every kiss. Every breathless moan that spills between us.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck ...
When I come, my body jerks, my breath catching in my throat as everything inside me rushes forward in one tidal wave of sensation. I bury my face in her neck, her skin damp and warm and smelling like fresh air and sweat and tequila and her.
