Warlord

“I’ll be gentle with ye, Genevieve.” He kissed her neck, nipped her lightly, and breathed her in deeply. “I’ll make ye feel so fooking good.”

“Bronson.” She moaned out his name, and he felt her grip his biceps.

“Ye’re so wee compared tae me, darlin’.”

She made another small noise and dug her nails into his flesh. But that sting of pain mixed with his desire. He breathed harder, felt his cock stiffen even further, and knew he had to claim her now. There was no more time for him to woo her, even if he had been that type of man. He had been trying to go slow, easy, and make her see he wasn’t the brute he really was.

“Oh, lass, what ye do tae me.” He growled as he dragged his hand up her belly and over her ribcage to cup one of her breasts. He did the same with her other breast and tweaked both her hard nipples between his fingers. When she moaned from his touch, he thrust his pelvis forward, ground his cock into her soft, full belly, and growled out again.

“Bronson, ye’re making me feel so… so—”

“I kno’, lass.” He continued to suck on her neck, dragged his tongue up the slender column of her throat, and thrust back and forth into her softness. In the next second, he pushed the rest of her gown down and then forced himself to take a step back. Her body was meant to take a man inside, to take him inside. She was built to withstand the type of passion from the kind of breed he was. He would try to be soft, but deep down, he was rough, hard, and didn’t know the first thing about being a gentleman.

He looked down at her body, at the curves that made her all woman, and stopped at her breasts. He might have already looked at them, felt them, and seen how they hardened under his ministrations, but he would never get tired of gazing upon them. They were big, round, and her nipples were this dusky red color that reminded him of the sky when the sun set. He lowered his gaze over her nicely rounded belly, one that wasn’t concave like many of the women he had seen last week before he laid eyes on his new wife. He went lower still and stopped at the trimmed, darker red hair that covered her pussy. Her thighs were thick, made to be wrapped around his waist as he pounded his cock in and out of her. She was so nervous, and he could tell as much by the way she was breathing and the light sheen of sweat that covered her body.

“Ye look at me as if ye wish tae devour me.” Her voice trembled.

He saw her throat work as she swallowed, and he stepped closer. “That is because I do want tae devour ye, lass.” He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, pulled her forward, and lowered his head to lick the curve of her throat from collarbone to ear. He couldn’t get enough of her succulent flesh.

She gasped and brought her hands up to cover his. “Please, Bronson, I need more.”

“I’ll give ye more than ye can possibly handle, love.” He breathed in deeply and continued to take both her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers and tweak them. She gasped and then moaned, and then when he couldn’t handle it anymore, he dipped low and sucked a taut peak in his mouth. Her flesh was sweet, smooth, and he felt the crown of his shaft grow slick as his seed dotted the tip. He let go of her nipple with an audible pop and scooped her up in his arms.

He quickly carried her the rest of the way to his bed. The manor was one of wealth, though not by Bronson’s doing. Although he cared not for the elaborate things in life, he was glad he was able to take his bride for the first time in luxury. He laid her upon the green damask canvas bed that not only had layers of straw and wool, but also had a plush featherbed atop that. He took a step back and gazed upon Genevieve. She was gorgeous atop it, with her long, flowing red hair fanned out over her shoulders, her shyness an aphrodisiac as she tried to shield herself with her arms across her breasts and her legs slightly crossed.

The ornamented canopy had richly embroidered hangings, and the bed had only the finest linen sheets. In the room, this piece of furniture was the most elaborate, and he was pleased his bride would lose her innocence to him in such richness.

As was customary for his clan during the wedding celebration, he wore only his kilt and boots. A display of his power, of the physical strength he had, and that he could protect his bride was of the utmost priority. But Clan Lyon was far more ruthless than many others in the surrounding territories, and they lived by their own set of rules. He first removed his sporran and set the leather and fur pouch on the small stool beside the bed. He was pleased his wife wasn’t shying away as he undressed, but he did notice her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. Next was his kilt pin, a replica of his father’s sword, the one that now hung over the great room’s fireplace in honor of his fallen da. He removed his kilt hose and flashes and took out his sgian dubh. He set the hidden knife on the table by the bed. And then when his boots were off, he stood before her nude and unashamed of the scars that littered his body. In fact, he was proud of them, because each one represented a wound he earned on the battlefield.