The Irish Warrior

His gaze swung back around slowly. He pinned her with a long look, then got to his feet. “I’ll have us some food before we hike out tonight.”

“Tonight?” Her voice curved up high with incredulity. Horror. “We walk more this night?”

He paused in the act of bending to sweep up the bow he’d set on the ground. “Ye had a different plan?”

“Sleep?”

He cradled the smooth curving wood of the bow in hand. “Not ours yet. Just a few more hours.” He turned away.

“Where are you going?”

“Hunting.” He started out of the clearing, into the woods beyond.

“Wait. I can help,” she called, furious to be so expendable, to be treated in such an offhand manner. To be so…left behind.

He drew to a halt, his wide shoulders almost, if she was seeing correctly, slumping. He turned around slowly. “What did ye say?”

“I can help.” She gestured toward his bow. “Hunt.”

/> His glittering eyes held hers. “Is that so?” he said, in such a low, feral tone it didn’t sound like a question at all. It didn’t even sound like he was the least bit pleased. “Then by all means, come.”

He extended his hand in a mockery of politeness, allowing her to go first.

She swept haughtily by. “I’ve no notion what this mood is about, Finian, but I do wish you’d scratch whatever itch is causing it, for your mood is most foul.”

Before she could finish the L in foul, he had her arm locked in his grip and her body backed up against a tree.

“Scratch my itch, is it?” His eyes glittered dangerously, and Senna recalled he was a warrior first.

Then he spoke again, and in the onrush of deep, tempting fear, she understood he was a man first and last. A prime specimen of raw masculinity, virile, potent, hunting.

“Ye’re my itch, Senna. I want to scratch ye. No notion?” He stepped closer, his fingers gripping her arm like a vise. “Shall I give ye a notion? Shall I give ye some small inking of what I want to do to ye?”

And like that, she was panting, her head spinning. One of his hands was on her arm, the other fisted against the tree over her head. In the dimming light, he was all solid, dark outline, his body taut, looming over her, closing in on her, dark, male energy about to consume.

He bent close to her ear. “Shall I tell ye, Senna, what I want?”

She whimpered something. Was it yes? Please? Whatever it was, he mustn’t stop. She would die from the want of him.

“I want to run my hands up your side, take ye in my mouth. I’ll start wherever ye want. I’ll kneel down before yer body and worship ye.”

Her knees weakened. He caught her and his hand moved just as he’d said, up her ribs, so tightly she felt he was lashing her with rope. His powerful thighs bunched and he pressed forward.

“I want to taste ye. Can I do that, Senna? Will ye let me do that?”

“Oh, Jésu,” she whispered.

“Can I slide my hand up yer leg? Can I feel how wet ye are? Can I be inside ye? I want to be inside ye. Hard.” His voice was like dark, perfect fury. He pushed his hand across her belly. “Do ye want me inside ye?”

“Aye,” she said in a hot whisper. She threw her head back and banged the tree. His thighs were hot on hers, then his erection pressed against her belly. She pushed back urgently, recklessly, one wrist hooked around his neck, her body moving of its own accord, her breath coming out in hard, sharp pants.

“Do ye have a notion now, Senna?” he growled, his voice thumped by the rocking of her hips.

“Aye.”

“Do ye want more?”

“Aye.”