The Irish Warrior

A corner of his mouth curved up. He ran the tip of his thumb across the edge of her lips. “Ye seem destined for short relationships, lass. Why so brief?”

“He died.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. It was hard to see her face. He shifted slightly, so the moon would shine across her features, and then he saw she looked sad. “Me. I happened. He was old, and cruel, and that was that. I was with child, but lost it. It was…a terrible time. The physick said I could have no more.”

“Och, lass,” he murmured. He reached up and brushed the whole of his palm and fingers across the side of her head. Warming her cool cheeks, not asking anything more.

Senna didn’t want talk either. She didn’t want anything of the world, and certainly not the old world. She didn’t want anything but Finian.

“’Twas a wondrous thing you just did to me,” she said into his neck.

He ran his hand down her side, over the dip in her waist. “I’m pleased to hear it,” he rumbled in that calm, playful, seductive voice. “What ye did to me was most fine, too.”

“When will you do it again?” Senna whispered shyly, glad of the curtain of curls that had fallen over her face.

Strong fingers parted the curtain and Finian’s dark eyes peered in at her. “When do ye want me to do it again?”

Shocking herself, she tightened her inner muscles around him and squeezed.

He closed his hand around the back of her head and pulled her slowly down. His eyes were dark and inscrutable but they did not hold humor, Senna saw that much. There was something other, something solid, considering; as she had never seen such a look before, she didn’t understand it.

And as hot and passionate as had been their previous encounter, this one was gentle and solemn.

His tongue touched hers as if seeking something delicate, something that might be swept away if he moved too quickly, like a glistening in a spiral of sand under clear water, or a feather on a rock. Senna’s heart flipped over and she responded in the same slow way. His eyes held hers as his tongue slid into her mouth, his thumb caressing her chin.

It was, in fact, a reverent kiss.

He explored her with erotic tenderness, gliding over her tongue, her teeth, every inch of her mouth, kissing her until she was breathless and hot and whimpering. Slow and languid, tender and sweet, the gentle kiss ignited the same fires as the explosive ones had before. His manhood grew heavy and hard inside of her, and she sighed.

A morning breeze crept up the hill. It lifted her hair, insinuated itself between their sweaty, passion-burned bodies. Senna kissed his eyes, his cheeks and high forehead. Her fingers danced over his eyebrows and lips. Sweet, good, peace. She knew she was lost. Utterly lost.

He stroked her cheek and traced soft kisses across her jawline until she begged for more, until the tenderness evolved into raging passion yet again. He lifted himself inside her, plunging deep, over flesh already quivering in readiness. His thrusting hips pushed her legs apart, his hands gripped her hips and pushed her farther down onto him. Then, without warning, he rolled them over and propped himself up between her bent knees, keeping up a measured, rocking penetration.

She gripped his hips, trying to make him move faster, but he kept his movements deliberate and slow. He buried his shaft deep inside her then pulled himself out slowly, so slowly she keened. With only the thick tip of him resting inside her, she squirmed and writhed.

“Don’t torment me, Irishman,” she reprimanded, reaching for him.

Clasping her hip in one hand, he dragged her up against him, the long, slow ride enough for her body to begin humming again. The hum quivered out of her lips as senseless purring. Hot and possessive, he was like a velvet rod, burrowing into her swollen, heated flesh.

He whispered in her ear of how she pleased him, told her how to move, asked her what she wanted. Bending slightly on his knees, he fitted his hips hard into hers and moved his body from side to side. When her hips bucked against his, a corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile.

“Tell me, Senna, does this please ye?” he demanded, knowing she was quivering from her toes to the ends of her bouncing chestnut curls.

“Finian,” was her only gasped reply. The trees marching down the side of the valley learned his name. She whispered it like a mantra and he grew satiated on it, affirming him as the only thing in her world, the center of her universe.

’Twas more than good.

Slipping his hand between their locked bodies, he pushed her hips to the ground with the back of his hand. Sliding his thumb between them, he flicked once against the nub at the crest of her.

“Oh,” she cried out, never having imagined such an intense, specific, hard, good feeling.

“Aye,” he agreed in her ear, and did it again.

Senna threw her head back and panted. What she’d done to herself was nothing like this. Her head spun, and the slow, huge wave of pleasure rode up her legs and down her back.

“Why don’t ye come for me, lass?” he murmured, his finger massaging her. Over and over, his fine touch stroked her pleasure point as his thick shaft thrust deep into her swollen warmth. Deeper he moved, his thumb wicked in its fluttering, sensual torment. Out from this radius her body flamed, burned, knew only his touch.