Page 26 of Dirty Rotten Love

I shake my head. “This way is fine. I like being told what to do. You like telling. I have no idea what I’m doing. You do. It’s all good.”

MacLeod exhales. It sounds like relief. I’m relieved too. I still haven’t fully untangled whether it was the gayness or the being bossed aroundness that rocked my world last time. It could be a combo. I do know it’s MacLeod, and that I don’t want to change a thing.

He moves again. A gust of air brushes over my bare ass. I think he has dropped to his knees.

I figure out what he is going to do a mere fraction of a second before he does it. There is no time to brace myself. No time to mentally prepare.

Hot, wet, softness laps over my rim. The sensation shoots through me, and the noise that explodes out of my lungs is positively unholy.

MacLeod shows no mercy. His large hands take ‌hold of my hips and he holds me firmly in place. Right where he wants me.

And he feasts. He eats my ass like a starving man, while I wail helplessly.

Nobody has ever eaten my ass before. And I’m rapidly learning that is an absolute tragedy. So many wasted years. So much missed opportunity.

MacLeod’s tongue laps over and over. Around and around. It pushes in. It flicks out.

Every single thing he does with his tongue is pure ecstasy. The sensation is electric. My hips are trying to rock. My nipples are pebbled. My cock is leaking. The noises I am making are obscene.

Euphoria builds and builds. My balls tighten, I throw back my head in preparation for yelling my joy.

The crescendo eases. It calms. Everything was ready to crest and brim over, but now the tempo is reducing. MacLeod’s licks have turned soft. Gentle. Teasing.

I whimper in protest. He doesn’t relent. He just keeps licking pleasure into me. Not enough for me to cum, but far too much for me to come down.

I whine and twist and pant.

MacLeod stops. “No cumming until you are on my cock.”

I make a noise of pure dismay. “Both?” I manage to plead.

He huffs. “Don’t worry, boy, you aren’t leaving here until I’ve milked you dry.”

I groan and shudder. That sounds great. Fantastic. Wonderful. But I’m so close right now. So close it nearly hurts.

“It will be more intense if you wait. Trust me.”

“Aye,” I wheeze. Because I do trust him. Trusting MacLeod is easier than breathing.

I yelp as his soft tongue traces over the ridged skin of my rim. The shot of pleasure keeps me tottering on the edge. I relax into it and allow myself to soar.

I’m in MacLeod’s hands and nothing could be better.

Chapter ten

MacLeod

The shower is hot. Hot enough to sting, which is how I like it. The rig provides many things adequately and very few things well, but the water pressure on the supervisor’s deck has always been good, and this is one of the small, private mercies I have learned to be grateful for over twenty years of offshore rotations.

I stand under it and do not think.

This is a skill I have cultivated carefully over a long time. The ability to be nothing for a few minutes. No noise, no expectations, no requirement to interpret the world or respond to it or perform the particular version of myself that keeps everything running. Just the hot water and the hum of the rig and nothing else required of me.

It works for approximately forty seconds.

Then my brain, which has never once in thirty-eight years done what I tell it, serves up Rory Gallacher.

Rory Gallacher, who has just left my bed to sneak back to his bunk. Rory Gallacher, who just spent a fair few hours in my arms.