Diaries Of A Bad Girl #2
There are few places as beautiful in the summer as Scotland. I’m not from there, originally, but sometimes I wish that I could say that I was. There’s just nothing quite as gorgeous as the rolling heath out there, nothing quite as sexy as a man in a kilt, whispering sweet and sensuous love into your ear in the kind of brogue accent that makes women like me instantly weak.
I was 21 the last time I went to Scotland, out on my own with a friend, on the hunt and aching for some new things to try, some new studs to get tangled up in. “Old enough to know better, young enough not to care” my friend was all too keen at reminding me, and even then I knew she was right, breathing a moment of clarity between shots and grins. That’s why we take precautions, why we go through the trouble of birth control, and why we never use our real names on one night stands.
Except by accident, right?
We were three days in when I made my mistake. I remember the look on my friend’s face clearly, the shock mixed with the kind of wry smirk that a couple of shots of the good stuff will give you. For a moment, I considered blowing it off and giving them a different name anyway, brushing it off as a misspoken word, as the whisky or the jetlag talking, but neither of the two guys we’d picked up outside of stirling were drunk enough to buy it, and I knew I’d had too much of the bottle to be able to pull it off. “Amanda” I repeated, and grinned. Only my friend saw the gesture, the conspiratorial wink.
For two hours, we talked about nothing. The two guys we’d picked up told us stories about Brian Boru and William Wallace that could have come straight out of a travel brochure, mixing tales of Ireland with Scotland in drunken weavings of grins and triumphant clinks of glasses in honor of history’s fallen heroes, but they were cute, and they kept buying our drinks, so we listened and grinned with them, as if they needed liquor or cheap talk about men in kilts to get them laid. Both of us were eager and hot the instant we set eyes on the two– all it would have taken was a wink, a kiss, and I would have let either one of them do anything to me. Two hours in, I could barely stand it, was rubbing my thighs together almost impatiently as I thought about pulling one of them in, cradling him between my thighs, my feet keeping him trapped between my legs as he moved and moaned. I think it was the kilt that really did it for me, something about the easy access to the parts that count that does it for me. In the car, on the way back to the bed and breakfast where we were staying, it was hard to focus on much else, hard to think about anything when the only thing between the one part of him I really wanted, the part I needed, was the open bottom of my skirt and the open bottom of his.
There was no small talk when we parked, just a hurried, brisk walk to the door of the bed and breakfast and then up the stairs to our room. Eager hands caught me the instant the door was closed, squeezed, caressed, and I couldn’t help but let out a little moan, my lips creasing in sultry lust. I didn’t even care whose lips caught mine, just kissed back harder, nibbled and pulled in a deep, passionate breath as my clothes fell free. I heard my friend gasp in pleasure, felt myself being walked steadily backward, lowered onto the bed, my body open and eager, ready to receive. My eyes rolled with passionate need as I heard a kilt hit the floor, knew how close he was, how close I was, how badly we both needed the touch, the contact.
That night, we were fire and water, and where we came together in shivering passion, everything was hot steam. I remember the sounds of his moans, his cries mingling with mine, remember the way he quivered against me, strong arms holding me, holding me. I think at some point I begged him to give me what I wanted, what I knew he wanted to give me, and as he surged against me, strong and beast like, I felt myself slipping away, felt the explosive force of love like a burst of white light. My hands flexed against his back, legs locking across his back, unwilling to let him escape, giving him only the sweet bliss of my chest to collapse into. In that moment, I sucked in a deep breath, held him, buried my face into his hair and pulled in the sweet smell there. In that moment, I knew heaven, knew bliss, and even as I heard my friend cry out, her moans mingling with those of the other man, I smiled.
My Scottish boy and I... we’d reached heaven first, and in the succulent afterglow, we knew all that she and hers would soon discover.