Outlaw (Medieval Trilogy 3)

“Leave me be, you bastard!” she half screamed, her fists raining blows on his neck and shoulders.

“Ahh, my lady,” he said as he held her and stared into her furious eyes. “If only I could.”

She tried to step away, but could not, and when his lips, cold with the night, found hers, she gasped. Her skin was instantly alive, her heart, already drumming, beginning to beat an erratic, wild tempo. She could not trust herself to kiss him, to touch him, to feel his body against hers, but neither could she stop.

Inside, her bones melted as surely as a candle left too close to a flame, and a wild storm of yearning began to rage deep in her heart. As his tongue parted her lips, she opened to him, unable to resist, hot blood flowing through her veins. A primal throbbing started deep within, yearning and moist, and his mouth was savage, his tongue merciless in its assault.

The wind swirled around them, billowing his cloak, stirring the dry leaves clinging to the branches. Moaning, desire pulsing through her body, she closed her eyes, lost in the scents of smoke, leather, and that musky odor that was only his.

His mouth was insistent, his tongue bold, his hands possessive as the kiss deepened. Denial formed in her mind, only to skitter away like the stars fleeing the dawn. Her arms, as if they had a mind of their own, wound around his neck, and the world began to spin. She didn’t protest when he lifted her from her feet and carried her to the base of a strong fir tree with its soft carpet of needles.

“Say no,” he begged in a deep rasp as he untied her mantle, but no words formed in her throat. “By the gods, Megan,” he insisted, his face tense, his eyes filled with a savage fire. “Stop me.”

“I—I cannot.”

Before the words were out, he kissed her again, his mouth warm and wet as it touched her eyes, her cheeks, her throat. He yanked the mantle over her head, and soon, her tunic as well. Her breasts, straining upward, proud nipples erect, beckoned him, and with a tortured groan of surrender, he dropped his mouth over one proud point and began to suckle.

Megan jolted, her body arching upward, her spine bowing as she held his head close. He captured her buttock with one big hand and held her close to him, letting her feel, through the rough fabric of his breeches, his hot, swollen member. He kissed and suckled, teased and tormented, until the silk fabric was wet and cool where the wind caressed it.

“This is wrong,” he said with a fatalistic groan. He lifted the garment over her shoulders as if it were a bridal veil.

“Nay, ’tis right.”

The breath of winter skimmed over her naked flesh, and Wolf stared down at her an instant, before reaching for the ties of his breeches. Slowly, he undid the knots, and Megan, watching him, lost her breath.

Discarding cloak, mantle, and tunic, he kicked off his boots, then, with his breeches open, he guided her hand to his crotch. “This is how much I want you,” he said when she felt his hard, hot flesh. “I ache and yearn for you, and I would do anything if I could end this torment another way.”

Leaning forward, he kissed her lips. “I planned this not,” he said, in a voice filled with conviction, as his weight carried them to the tangle of clothes that was their bed. “I wanted to hate you.”

“Aye.” Reaching up, she touched the side of his face, feeling the stubble on his cheek against her palm. “And I wanted to detest and thwart you.”

“Do you still?”

She couldn’t hide the mischievous smile that played upon her lips. “Aye,” she agreed, wrapping her fingers around his neck and drawing her face close to his. “Can you not tell how much I despise you?” Laughing, she kissed him, and he groaned.

“ ’Tis serious, I am.”

“Then prove it, outlaw.” She held his gaze, and as he cast off his breeches, she felt only a tremor of fear. She loved this man with all her heart. ’Twould always be so. ’Twas right that they joined, as natural as the turn of the seasons.

His lips crashed down on hers again and he covered her body wi

th his, keeping her warm as his knees pushed her legs open, and he touched her breasts with hard, eager fingers.

“You are a virgin?” he asked, his breath a warm balm against her skin.

“Aye.”

“Then I will be gentle.”

“Nay,” she said, looking up at him, feeling wild and reckless, her skin on fire, her pulse pounding. “Take me as you would to pleasure yourself, Wolf. Let me feel what it is you want.”

With only a second’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her middle and splayed his fingers over the curve of her spine and the cleft of her buttocks. “We will pleasure each other, woman,” he said slowly and lifted her hips to kiss her abdomen and the thatch of curls between her legs. His fingers and tongue were magic. The world swam again and Megan let go, losing herself in the uncharted waters of desire. He touched and kissed her in the most intimate of places, teasing her, heating her blood, bringing her to the brink so that she bucked up against him, demanding more as she cried out in sweet, sweet torment.

“In time, little one,” he promised against her thigh, and she arched upward again and again, straining for a release only he could give.

“Please,” she begged under the gentle, relentless assault of his tongue and fingers.

He was sweating despite the frigid air, and she saw his face, tight with restraint, as he climbed upward, spreading her legs wide. Without kissing her, he took her in one, strong swift thrust that caused her to let out a cry as raw as the night itself. A bright burst of pain knifed through her, but he held her fast, withdrawing slowly only to enter again. “ ’Twill be all right,” he assured her, and his lips found hers again.