The Irish Warrior

His body rippled slightly, like wind over waves. She felt every muscle in his body shift, very minutely, very definitely. He brushed his thumb once over her parted lips. Her breath shuddered out.

“Did ye tell me to kiss ye, Senna?”

“I did.” Her whisper trembled.

“Why?”

“Because,” she whispered, “if I’m going to die, it will not be lacking all the things I am lacking at present.”

A pause. “Ye’re lacking a kiss, then?”

She nodded.

For a moment, everything held suspended. Then he cupped the back of her head and turned her to him. His eyes were unreadable, with no hint of a smile, but something else was there. Something dark and masculine.

Each inhalation she attempted was short, chopped. Each exhalation came out long and slow and hot. It made her head spin. He bent to her.

She felt warm breath on her cheek. Soft, teasing kisses danced across her cheeks, her eyelids. She sighed and he tightened his hold ever so slightly on the back of her head, as if holding her still. He cupped her cheek with his other hand and his lips finally settled over her own, whisper light, coaxing her: Remember you are a woman.

He bent lower and nibbled her lower lip until, as if he’d uttered a password, she parted for him. He slid his tongue between her lips, a single hot swipe. Ribbons of desire uncorded between her thighs.

He pulled back and whispered through her hair, “Is that what ye were thinking of?”

In the distance, the riders passed down the highway. Finian said nothing. She heard nothing. Leaning forward the barest inch, she grazed his full, warm lips with hers. He exhaled lightly. She liked that.

Her tongue slipped out and glided across his lips and another deep, masculine groan rumbled out. Her body quivered. Repositioning herself on her feet, she tasted him until she felt the tip of his questing tongue. Pushing boldly, she slipped her tongue inside his hot mouth.

A flash of touching, a swipe of tongues, then she withdrew, barely capable of drawing breath. Panting and enf

lamed, she whispered in his ear, “Oh.”

Her word came on a hush. Indeed, a squirrel in the tree above would not have heard it. But Finian did. Finian felt her warm, sweet breath against his cheek, drifting into his ear. He shifted, as the hardness between his legs stiffened further.

He was not on a mission of seduction, but there was nothing to be done about this moment. It was happening. And he was suddenly powerless to be the one to end it.

They stood together without touch; there was only the exchange of heat and breath between their bodies. Such closeness was highly erotic.

“The riders have gone,” he said reluctantly, waiting for her to step away.

But she didn’t. She stayed, her breasts barely skimming his chest. One heartbeat, then another. “Have they?” she whispered.

With deliberate slowness, he splayed his fingers around her ribs, then slid them down, to the curve of her waist.

“Have ye had yer kiss, Senna?”

“Have you?” she murmured against his ear.

The breath shot out of Finian’s lungs as if chased by a demon. No, he had not had his kiss.

Gently, he ran his fingers up her back, breathing steadily in her ear, the tip of his tongue teasing the skin just below. She shivered and clasped her hands hesitantly behind his head. Heaven, these sweet womanly curves, this arching spine, this feminine breath grown ragged.

He entangled his fingers in the braided knot at the base of her skull and with a few swift tugs, pulled it loose. Her hair tumbled over his hands and wrists. He groaned at the softness sliding between his fingertips and buried his face in it, murmuring sweet, approving words. He slid his other hand ever downward, to the dip in her spine, pulling her closer, until her breasts pressed against him, and he bent to her mouth.

When her lips parted, her tongue met his, and the sigh she surrendered shot another bolt of desire through his groin.

His kiss intensified, his tongue no longer slow and dancing, merely coaxing her to flirt with danger. Now he demanded, laid claim. He pushed her for more, hotter, deeper kisses, using his carnal knowledge against her innocence, until she gave him his response; she whimpered and pressed up to him, offering her curving body, her mouth open wide, her tongue wet and hot in his mouth. And he took. His hands roamed her back, her ribs, coming close but never touching the soft rounded breasts so close to his thumbs. She shifted and shimmied, wanting the touch.

Lust churned through him, dark and purposeful. He slid his hands down in a bold move and cupped her bottom, his hands spread wide, almost lifting her.