Claiming Her

“Oh, Aodh.” The words caught in her throat.

“I do not want to talk of Rardove,” he said harshly.

“No. No, we must not.”

His body almost vibrated with lust. His hair felt as if it stood on end; his blood churned. He debated, briefly, leading her to the bed, but even that much movement might blow a breath of reality on the moment and she might spark away again. In any event, he was perfectly happy to have whisky in his blood and Katy on her knees, so he sat back and let her be.

Head tipped back slightly, chin in the air, she skimmed her fingers down the length of his erection. It quivered. He hissed in a breath, and she released a little pant of desire, then tipped forward, bringing her hot mouth closer to him.

“You best be certain, Katy,” he rasped.

“I am,” she assured him, her words breathy, and curled her hand softly around the length of him and gave a little stroke. His hips jerked up.

She did it again, a light stroke. Her eyes, bright with excitement, lifted to his. “Like that?”

“Not quite,” he said tautly. “Harder.”

Her body trembled. “Show me.”

Swiftly, he curled his hand overtop hers and made her squeeze tighter, much tighter, then moved their hands in a stroke up the length of him, a long, hard pull.

“Oh.” She was all hot breath and pink cheeks. She was excited.

Katy would try anything. And love it, he thought with fierce, grateful affection. Her adventurous spirit was entirely unappreciated by any man but him, thank God.

He drew their entwined hands up the length of him again, faster this time, and his bollocks tightened.

“So hard,” she whispered.

“Aye. Hard. That’s how I like it.”

A little pant broke from her as she tried it herself, moved her fist up him, a fine, hard stroke, then looked up at him.

“Is that proper?” she whispered, trembling.

He smiled. “Not a’tall, lass. ’Tis quite wicked.” He moved their hands again.

“Wicked,” she echoed, her lips parted in a pretty, wet pant.

“You like wicked, Katy girl?”

Passion-heavy eyes lifted to his. “I like your wicked.”

“Then take me in your mouth. You look good. I want to feel you.”

Her head tipped back helplessly. Words alone could take her to a climax, he realized now. One day, he’d set himself to the task.

She leaned over him, and took his cock into the hot, wet cave of her mouth.

Every day, the whisky.

Leaning her forearms on his thighs, she took him in, her head bobbing, her hand gripped beneath Aodh’s, circling the root of his shaft. Together they pumped him in long, rhythmic strokes, up to her mouth, then down again. Then he loosed his hand and sat back, lifting his hips ever so slightly, not wanting to frighten her, but wanting very much to have deeper carnal relations with her mouth.

She let him in.

He made an inarticulate sound, something between a growl and a curse and a plea. He would marry this woman, if only she would let him.

“Can you take more, leannán sidhe?” he murmured, coaxing. He rested his hand lightly on the side of her head and tipped his hips up. Her body trembled and she shifted on her knees and moved down on him, taking him in deeper, to her throat.