Forbidden Warrior (Midsummer Knights)

A sharp cry burst from her body, breaking the stillness of the night.

He pushed further, his long finger coasting into the slickness. With two fingers he spread her folds and with a third he circled her, deliciously, deliberately slow, as if seeking something. As if he was waiting for something. She felt as if she was waiting.

She released staggered, stuttered breaths.

He skimmed higher yet and traced a fingertip across the nub that was the source of the pounding, beautiful ache.

Her body jerked as if yanked on a string. Her head fell back with a ragged gasp.

“Aye,” he said. It was a harsh, beautiful male sound of approval and conquest.

He stroked again, and again, skating through her slick heat, a controlled, debilitating caress. Pleasure snapped through her like a whip being cracked. Her spine arched, pushing her breasts up. He cupped the offering with one hand while he continued his sensual torment below.

“Bend your knees. And spread your legs further,” he said in her ear.

Trembling, she followed the command. But it was not enough for him, for he scooped a hand under her leg and hooked her knee overtop his, then spread his legs farther apart, forcing her wide.

“Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she was pleading for.

But he did. He slid his hand a little lower and, with maddening slowness, breached her with a curled finger, pushing up inside her.

She sobbed from the perfect touch. He pushed in further, pumping deep, his wrist rubbing in her folds, sliding along the pressure point that would send her mad. She wanted to be mad.

She lifted her arms and bent her elbows, reaching over her shoulders, clumsily trying to encircle his neck.

He flexed his body, lifting his hips off the ground, carrying her with him, suspending her on his hips and thighs. He buried his face in her neck and sucked the flesh into his mouth.

He did it again, his mouth tugging on her neck, his teeth a beautiful threat, all the while, rocking his hips in the air, his erection hard against her bottom as he worked her with his fingers. She threw her head back with a broken cry.

“Tá tú thar barr,” he rasped, his face buried in her neck. Then without warning, he tumbled her over onto the blankets.

Propping himself above her with one hand, he pulled at her tangled chemise with the other hand, his fingers slippery from having been inside her. His eyes were as fierce as she’d ever seen them, but now she wanted his fierceness. Ached for it.

“Take it off, lass,” he rasped. “I want to see you.”

She sobbed with pleasure and lifted her chemise for him, until her breasts were bared.

His gaze dragged down her moonlit body, then swept up. Eyes locked on hers, he slid a finger back inside her, a long, slow push.

“Máel,” she almost wept.

He dropped to an elbow and lowered his head and kissed his way down her body. Down her neck. Over the line of her throat. Down the valley between her breasts, then over to claim one. His mouth closed over the hard nipple. Hot, slippery, pressure, pulsing, rolling…then the sting of his teeth.

She sobbed, arching her spine, pushing to get closer to him and his touch, to experience more of whatever he was offering. He slid his arm under the bridge of her back and continued his mission to destroy her.

She had no thoughts, no mind, no reason. She was an instrument of his doing, plucked and made to sing, to vibrate, however he pleased.

It pleased him to nudge her knee out farther with his forearm. Cords of pleasure tightened through her body as he kissed down father, over her belly, even further, until the rough scratch of facial hair scraped the untouched skin of her inner thighs.

She flung her arm over her panting mouth.

“Nay, Cassia, I want to hear you.” He reached up and took hold of her hand and moved it down…down, then folded her fingers in his hair.

World tilting, body humming, she peered down the length of her body at him.

“Show me how you wish it done,” he commanded in a low voice.

She stared into his glittering eyes. “How I wish…what?”