Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

Forbidden, indeed. And the strongest thing she’d ever felt in her life. Stronger even than her fear.

Opening her mouth, she tipped her head a little farther back, curved her spine, and pushed her hips into his erection.

She froze, feeling giddy and lightheaded. Her fingertips were warm from the fire, but cold from excitement.

Máel had not moved. His breathing had not changed. His erection was pressed against her pelvis bone and curved up the small of her back, teasingly light.

Her breathing grew ragged as she moved again, a soft, almost imperceptible rock against him. She stared down at his large hand, resting on his thigh.

Slowly, an inch at a time, she moved her leg, so the outside of her thigh touched the inside of his. A hot gasp slid from her. His leg was hard and warm.

Closing her mouth only to swallow, she arched her back and pushed the heel of her foot into the ground, then leaned back into the length of his erection.

This time, he moved.

His hands encircled her waist, a hot band of restraint.

His mouth, close to her ear, still breathed slow and steady, but he was surely awake now, and she was terrified.

And aroused beyond measure.

“Be sure,” was all he said.

Fire scorched across her breasts. She tipped her head into his collarbone and arched her spine again, telling him with her body rather than her words that she was very, very sure.

It took no more than that to unleash him. But it happened very, very slowly.

His knees came up. At a languid pace, he slid one hand into the tangle of her hair and roped the long, knotted length of it aro

und his wrist. Gently, inexorably, he tugged her head back.

The pressure unleashed a wave of chills through her body. He guided her head to the side, her face tilted up for him, and held her there.

In the moonlight, his eyes were obsidian black. She was drowning in them.

“Aye?” he said.

“Oh, aye.”

His mouth closed over hers, slow this time. Not like the kiss of the tent, which had been all test and challenge. This kiss was exploration and…possession.

He tasted her with deliberate slowness, taking her mouth deeper, forcing her wider, his tongue lashing her straight into carnal madness. And she gloried in it.

His hand slid up under the warm cloak. He cupped her breast through the tunic; his tunic. She arched for him, giving him access, wanting more.

And finally, finally chivalrous, he gave it to her. His other hand came up and cupped her other breast. His thumbs swept over the hard nubs of her nipples, a decisive, confident stroke.

Her head jerked back.

“Aye.”

One hand continued to caress her breast, but the other…oh, it slid down, down her ribs, down her belly, and pushed it between her thighs.

She trembled as he guided her legs out, spreading them for him.

She was awash in shivery ribbons of desire, unfurling from their source: a pounding, beautiful ache down low in her body.

He circled his hand around her inner thigh and slid it up, dragging the chemise as he went, exposing her bare legs to the cool air and his scorching sensual confidence. He knew precisely where he wished to go; straight into the slippery hot apex of her. His hand slid into the wetness.