With a rumble low in his throat, Brodie moved his kisses along her jaw, and she gasped and dropped her head back, enthralled by the sensations he was raising over her sensitive skin.
His teeth nipped at her throat, then his lips gentled the delicious sting. And she was lost.
It wasn’t until she heard his crutch hit the floor and felt the counter at her back, that she realized what was happening. He’d backed her up to this point, supporting himself out of sheer will and the brace Wynda had designed.
“Wha—?” Fen managed to murmur, lost in a haze of arousal.
“Up,” he said, and that was all he said.
She reared back, trying to focus on his face, trying to understand. And then his big hands were around her waist, and despite his wounded leg, he lifted her. Lifted her until her arse was planted on the counter, and he stepped closer.
“Better,” he grunted, one hand cupping the back of her head.
Nay, not cupping, but wrapping his fingers through her hair and tugging her head back, so he could place his mouth on her neck once more.
With a grateful sigh, Fen’s knees dropped apart, and he hummed as he moved between them.
Now she sat on the counter, her legs bracketing him, her arms draped around his shoulders, as he bent over her, drawing incredible sensations from her.
And not just on her skin, but deep within her.
With his hardness pressed against her like this, Fen felt…free. Free to use him, free to let her needs be fulfilled.
St. Jennifer, aye! Aye!
The familiar pressure was building above her core, but it felt strange with her legs spread open like this, instead of clamped tight around her own hand, late at night beneath the blankets. But instead of her palm, there was something even bigger, harder, to ease that ache, and she took advantage of it.
As his lips trailed hot kisses up her jaw, Fen experimentally rocked her pelvis forward, and was rewarded when they both sucked in a sharp breath.
Aye.
She did it again, and still again, her aching core cradling his thickness where she longed it to be. Each time she rocked, she felt the pressure—the pleasure—building.
“’Tis the way, lass,” he murmured against her skin. “Use me.”
St. Jennifer, the phrase was so similar to what she’d been thinking, Fen gasped and pressed herself against him even harder, hooking her ankles behind his legs. That was when she realized he was supporting himself with one hand planted flat against the counter, his crutch long gone, and that display of strength—for her, in order to fulfill her needs—made her whimper with desire.
“God’s teeth,” he growled, “ye are—”
He broke off on a groan as she rocked against him, and then he pushed himself forward, thrusting his thickness against her core.
The noise she made must have encouraged him, because he did it again, then again. Each thrust brought her closer to the edge she was reaching for and tore a panting mew from her lips.
St. Jennifer help her, she was so wet and aching already, and too many layers of wool and linen stood between her core and his manhood. But despite her gown and chemise, and his kilt, she imagined she could feel every line, every vein, throbbing for her.
And then he released her hair and dropped his hand to her bodice. With one deft movement, he’d untied the neckline of her chemise where it peeked above her faded blue gown, and reached inside.
When his hand closed around her breast, she whimpered again and pushed her pelvis against him.
He was breathing as heavily as she was, but she thought she might’ve seen his lips curl upward, just the slightest bit, before he hefted her breast up and out of her bodice.
The shock of the cooler air against her delicate skin should’ve calmed her ardor. That, and knowing she was perched on the counter, desperately riding him like a bitch in heat, where anyone could walk in and see her.
It should’ve shamed her.
But instead, it just inflamed her need and her excitement.
And when his mouth closed around her nipple…? She gasped his name aloud, ending on a desperate little whine.