Claiming Her

Her body jerked. “Aodh,” she sobbed.

He flicked into the dark heat, then moved in deeper, tasting her with long, sweeping strokes, circling through her slick folds as she cried out, then he flattened his tongue and brushed over the nub again.

Her head rolled on the table. He tasted her again, a long, deep sweep, from the bottom to the top of her and when she froze, her spine held, half arched, her body taut and waiting, he nudged his tongue hard into her.

A sob broke from her body and her knees fell apart. He half rose out of the chair, his head bent low to her, and took her relentlessly, with tongue and teeth, quickening the pace. Her body jerked and, dizzy with lust, his body taut with restraint, he pushed two fingers up inside her, deep into the swelling tightness.

“Aodh, oh, please.”

He curled his fingers slightly and did it again. And again, attending which strokes made her leap and shudder, then doing them slow and deep, then faster, and harder. When her head began to toss on the table, when her cries became helpless moans, he straightened and stretched his body over hers.

Keeping his fingers deep inside her, he leaned to her mouth and rasped, “This is you, Katarina. This, now, is you. Your fire.” And he pumped again.

Katarina exploded. Jolting, wicked pleasure, the climax came so hard and fast, her body bucked up and she flung her head, crying out as the spasms rocked through her like a storm.

He was there, bent over her, hot and approving, kissing her, whispering half in Irish, half in English, “Och, mo ghrá thú, you please me.” His arms went around her, picked her up.

She was heedless, senseless, knew only that his arms were enfolding, his body hard and strong, his kisses hard, over her neck, her cheeks, her lips. She turned her head, trying to meet them. She had no desire to ever move again.

He laid her down on the bed, and knelt above her, and sense came rushing back. It sliced like a knife through her consciousness, cutting through the stupor of passion, the drugged pleasure of being at the center of Aodh’s attention.

He was pulling at the laces of his breeches. The long hard curve of his erection bulged at the front of his hose.

“Oh no!” she cried, dazed and dragged out of the sea of pleasure. “No. No, Aodh, no.”

He went still.

Passion mingled with dark fear as she stared up at him. His gaze burned into hers, fierce and furious, then raked like a brand down the length of her still-shuddering, half naked body.

He was utterly silent, completely motionless, except that his arms were shaking. Rampant desire, thwarted and bent.

“Marry me,” he commanded, his voice a low stroke of desire.

“I cannot,” she whispered, a caution more to herself than a rejection of him, for Aodh could not be rejected. She saw that now. The most she could hope for was to hold on.

But what he wanted from her—treason—she could not do that.

Everything on him was taut with restraint: the muscled arms propped on either side of her, the painted chest and stomach, only inches away, radiating heat.

She reached up and ran her shaky fingertips down his face. A shudder moved through him. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Such a strange, tortured place.

“Just let me take you,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

Her body shook, she wanted him so badly. “No.”

His head dropped and for a moment, the hard power of him was motionless. His head hung an inch above her body, in the valley between her breasts, his breathing ragged.

Then without a word, he pushed up off her and left the room, locking her back inside.

She shook all night. With fear. And desire. Desire of the heart as much as the body. She was steeped in want, distilled in Aodh.

*

DOWNSTAIRS, he sprawled in front of the raging fire in the lord’s chambers. His hose were loosened, his hand around his cock. He stroked himself, long and hard, picturing Katarina with her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her knees spread for him, hot pink flesh glistening with her own desire, her little moans as she let him trail his fingers through the wetness, then his tongue, her voice whispering his name…

That was Katarina, barely unleashed, laid out on a table for him, her fingers in his hair. She had more to give. She was barely tapped.

Abruptly, furious that he was using his hand and not inside Katarina, he flung himself up and out of the chair. His cock stood at attention, aching with want.