The Irish Warrior

Finian opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, her hair tickling his arms. The curve of her body was clear as anything, the rise of her breasts just inches from his nose.

“What are ye doing, Senna?” he asked carefully.

She didn’t leap back, as he’d expected. Instead she straightened and knelt, knees tucked under. So prim and proper, her stance. An instinctive seductress, to the tips of her dirty fingernails. And she was smiling. He frowned.

“Ye’re a’right?”

“Finian, I wanted to ask you something.”

She sounded shy. He closed his eyes and said a brief prayer. “Aye?”

“Do you remember what happened? Before?”

“Before, when?” he asked warily.

“Before,” she waved her hand. “Before we hunted, before. After the boat ride, before.” Her words slowed. “Against the tree, before.”

He groaned and wiped his hand over his face, his shaft already hard.

“Do you?”

“Jésu, woman,” he rasped. “Do ye expect me to forget?”

“I was thinking.”

“Stop, then.”

She leaned down a little closer. Her hair tickled against his neck. “I was thinking, that thing that happened to me,” he groaned, “I don’t think that happened to you, too.”

He gave a muffled curse and threw his arms up, over his face, bent at the elbows. “Senna,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Did it?”

“Nay,” he grated. “What’s got into ye, woman? I can’t take this, ye know.”

“I know,” she crooned, then bent to his ear. “’Tis the whisky.”

“Not the whisky,” he said grimly.

“The yarrow, then.” Warm feminine curves pressed onto his inner arms, his cheek. Her breath came into his ear. “Finian, I would like that thing to happen to you. I would like to watch it happen to you. Like you watched me.”

There was absolutely no defense against this. Her lips fluttered over his arms, and he let his elbows drop to the earth. With her hair a curtain around them, she kissed him in the moonlight, slow, light kisses over his cheeks and nose and chin, and finally, his lips.

And although he wanted to descend upon her, grasp the back of her neck and pillage her rampant femininity, he held himself in check, letting her hesitant, testing kisses inflame him to the point of pain. All he did was bend his arm and rest his palm against the curve of her hip, not guiding her, not caressing her, just holding on.

She knelt facing into him and slid her lips down his neck, her mouth leaving soft butterfly kisses behind, then to his collarbone. She glanced up, eyebrows arched in query, and tugged on the edge of his tunic.

“If you’re cold…”

He ripped it off in a quick second, and listened to her slow exhale as her gaze traveled across his body. She bent low and breathed deep, then her tongue slipped out and licked across the smooth side of his rib cage.

“Senna,” he managed between gritted teeth.

“My turn, so hush,” she whispered. Then she licked his nipple.

He suppressed a growl and ran his palm up the curve of her buttocks. She froze, except for her breath. It came out in a hot rush over everything she’d just licked wet.

“Don’t stop,” he murmured thickly.