The Irish Warrior

He slid his hands under her buttocks and lifted her, so she was sitting on his hips, her thighs parted, dangling over his.

Trapped between the tree and his hot, sculpted body, she went senseless. Dimly, she heard herself whimper. The long, hard length of him pushed up between them, sliding over everything that throbbed in her body. Her hips pumped forward and he shoved into her, so every inch of them touched from hips to chest. Then he growled in her ear, “Do not move.”

She went still. Every toned muscle of his body was rigid against hers. He shuddered slightly, and they stood absolutely still for half a minute. All she could hear was his ragged breath and the blood thudding inside her skull. Then he bent his head, his mouth by her ear, his words a dark, sensual threat. “I’ll watch ye come, lass.”

Rampant shuddering chills jammed down her body as his mouth claimed hers in a deep and savage kiss. She returned every plunge of his tongue with one of her own, her fingers twisting into his hair. Her tongue, her teeth, her lips, he claimed everything, relentless in his pursuit, drawing senseless gasps and whimpers from her body until he finally came up for air, and dragged his lips along her neck and shoulder, leaving behind an amoral trail of heat.

He yanked down the collar of her tunic, revealing the tops of her breasts. She leaned her shoulders back to allow him access, her fingers in his hair, inviting him to do more, much more.

His eyes held hers, level and unreadable, as he pushed his hand up under her tunic, over her hot skin. Then his thumb brushed roughly over her breast. She closed her eyes, arching up. With a muted curse, he shoved her tunic up as high as he could, bent slightly to the side, and closed his hot mouth over her nipple.

Her breath came exploding out. He locked his hands around her hips, his mouth claiming her breast with confident, damaging skill. Dark hair fell down over his face as he licked her and, gripping her hips with both hands now, holding her immobilized, he tilted his hips, sliding his erection in a long, slow skate against her leggings and the shuddering, quivering, questing flesh beneath.

Her world exploded. Hot, rippling undulations rode through her muscles, fast and greedy. Her head dropped forward, then back, as she cried out, stunned. Nothing like the explosive power of this man had ever entered her life before. Nothing so potent, nothing so vital, not in her fettered life.

When she finally stopped shuddering, he lowered her feet to the ground. But he didn’t step away, and he didn’t let go. He just gave her a moment to gather herself, without allowing her to crumple into a boneless heap on the pine needles and dirt. How chivalrous.

His body was still taut with restraint. His breathing was still ragged, his muscles gilded with sweat, his eyes hard and merciless, which he’d never been before, so she was really rather concerned to find both those things now directed at her.

She pushed away. He stepped back. She stumbled only once, over nothing, then righted herself and gave her tunic hem a sharp tug down.

The world looked much the same as it had a few minutes ago. How peculiar.

Had it even taken minutes? she wondered helplessly. Or had he done that to her in mere seconds? It felt like he’d simply breathed on her and she’d come apart for him.

“Wait by the fire pit,” he said curtly. She was dearly weary of curtness.

If I take off my clothes and let you have me, will you smile at me again? is what she wanted to say, which was so pathetic she almost hated herself for it. How weak she’d become in the face of Finian.

“I’ll not wait by the fire,” she retorted, keeping her eyes slightly averted, her chin slightly aloft. The latter helped to remind her to maintain at least the semblance of dignity. “I’ll be eating some of that game, so I’ll help bring it down. I told you before, I was taught to use a weapon.”

His darkness regarded her. She could feel it. “Ye also told me ye were no good at it.”

She almost laughed. “I’m not good at so many things, Finian, I cannot let that stop me anymore.” She turned on her heel and walked into the forest. His measured footfalls followed behind.

“In any event, I said I was no good with the bow,” she added, clarifying.

He pointed over her head to the right, where the sunsetting light coming down through the trees was a bit brighter. A clearing must be nearby. He looked down at her. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” she said, turning to look in his eyes, which she had not done since he made her world explode into the hot, perfect waves of pleasure still shuddering inside her, “I am fairly skilled with a blade.”

He paused. “How do ye get close enough?”

“I don’t.” He stood with his hands at his side, bow light in hand, his eyes unwavering on hers. “I throw it,” she said, and turned away.

“Senna.”

She stopped but didn’t turn.

“I’m sorry.”

Oh, sweet Mother. He must have seen the hurt in her eyes. He was addressing it. Could she be more shamed? Perhaps she should just paint the words in her blood, to show how exposed she was. How on earth had that happened? In a matter of days. For shame. For shame, for grief, and the love of God, what had happened to her?

She nodded, her back still to him, her turn to be curt. There was a small squirrel in the tree before her.

“Did I frighten ye?”

No. I manage that quite well myself. “’Tis naught. We lost our heads.”