Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

“You’re beautiful,” he said in a low, harsh voice. He leaned forward, covering her breast with his mouth.

She held onto his shoulders as he teased and taunted her again, his lips and tongue and teeth a dangerous, sensual amalgam of craving and affection. He was so rough, so forceful…and so careful. Every move he made conveyed care and attention. Everything he did, he did because it pleased her.

And everything he did pleased her. It was as if he’d once memorized her body in a dream, and now was tracing the pathways he’d learned, testing how well he’d mastered them.

His hands tightened around her waist and he urged her upward. She went up on her knees, pressing into the earth. He reached down and tugged at the ties of his hose and ripped them apart.

His erection strained free.

It curved up against his stomach. He curled one of his hard hands around the base and she felt dizzy with want.

“Please, Máel,” she whispered, shaking.

He guided her upward with one hand, the other still curved around himself. When she was positioned directly above him, he guided her back down again, then entered her, hard…velvet smooth…hard, so thick, filling her.

“Go slow,” he cautioned, his voice taut.

She looked up to find his gaze pinned on their union too.

Jerking strands of pleasure ripped through her. She wanted more, and more, and more again. All that he had, she would take.

She closed her eyes, tilted her head back and lowered herself, slowly, so slowly, just as he’d told her, taking him in deeper. Each inch spread her open farther, making her gasp and hold.

“Slow as you need,” he said, and she looked up into his eyes.

She lowered herself another inch and flung her head as the stretching fullness ratcheted pain and pleasure through her.

“Och, woman,” he murmured thickly, uncurling his hand from his erection to slids it down between their bodies.

Their eyes held as he stroked her with his thumb. His touch pushed back the edges of pain and brought pleasure surging forward. Long, undulating threads of it, thickening to ribbons that snapped through her blood.

Gazes locked, he lifted his hips the smallest bit.

She dropped her head on a low gasping moan, and he did it again, a little higher, a little harder.

She wished she knew foul words like Máel did, for she wanted to use them all right now.

He began to move faster. His free hand circled her waist while the other stayed between their legs, his thumb continuing the carnal, stroking beat that drove her forward.

She leaned over him, her wrists on his shoulders, and began to pump back.

“Aye, ban sidhe. That’s it.”

She laid a hand on his chest as he picked up the pace, moving her into a faster rhythm. As her body adjusted, she matched it.

There was silence in the woods as they rocked together but for the sounds of her ruination: her silky, broken whispers, his guttural murmurs of approval, her sharp cries of excited shock whenever a new shudder rippled through her.

He leaned up, his hips still lifting her, his thumb still stroking her. “More lass. I want more. Do you want more?”

Her head fell forward, stung by pleasure. “Oh…please...yes.” Always more with this man.

He clasped her ribs in one wide palm and guided her to lean back against his bent knees. His thighs were solid behind her as he laid an open hand on her breast and held her there. Their eyes locked as he pumped, his hips lifting her off the earth. Each powerful stroke pushed him high and deep inside her, spread her wider.

Her body began to jerk in a staggered, unsteady, glorious beat. She curled her fingers around the forearm holding her down, Her head rolled against his knees as breathless exhalations broke from her body and he told her she was magnificent with his body and his whispered Irish words of endearment. She knew they were endearments; she saw the truth in his eyes.

Her body shuddered as a huge rolling vibration shook her.

“Máel, oh…please,” she panted to the dark night sky. She felt as if she were made of half-broken glass, her body shattered.