He slipped his tongue in again, and his hands were suddenly at her breasts. She tried to grab the fingers groping her, working the neck of her gown lower. She should have been measuring each word, watching his expression, listening for the quickening of his breath.
Speaking with his lips still against hers, he said, “Yer breasts are as sweet as overripe peaches. They beg for me to pluck them.”
One strong arm snaked around her when she tried to pull away, yanking her up against his body, his tarse most prominent.
He groaned low in his throat. “Let me feast on ye.”
When he finally released her lips, she gasped as his mouth latched onto her suddenly exposed breast. His other hand grabbed lower, where no one had ever touched her.
“Stop, Pádraig!”
Her voice was loud and shrill. He rubbed between her legs, ignoring her. When he put his teeth to her breast, she cuffed him.
“Ow!” Pádraig pulled back, his mouth gaping open and a hand to his ear. “What did ye do that for?”
Astrid was beside herself, shifting her clothes back into place, including the neckline of her gown, which refused to be returned to its higher position.
“Ye are nothing but a tease, ye little bitch!” Both his tone and his words were insulting.
She gasped, her eyes widening with her hurt and fear. He was breathing heavy, and the bulging of his knee-lengthléineleft little doubt of his intent.
“Marcán protected ye once, but ye have no protection now.” Pádraig crushed her flush against him, his mouth chasing hers when she twisted to avoid his kisses.
“Stop!” Her voice echoed back from the trees around them.
He shoved her away. She fell into a heap on the cold, hard ground, her face covered with tears and her stomach ready to be violently sick.
“Enough!” Pádraig stood over her, his hand rubbing his rod, his chest heaving. “I know ye want it.”
She shook her head, scooting away from him. He kept on her, closing the distance between them. When he yanked up hisléineto grab his hardened length, she couldn’t look away. It was like a snake ready to strike at her.
“D’ye fear so for the loss of yer maidenhead, Astrid?” With a firm grip, he fisted himself. “Ye can still pleasure me.”
She shook her head.
“Open yer mouth.”
He moved in closer and she covered her mouth, her throat tight.
“Then let me help ye,” Pádraig said.
“H-hello?” a voice called out from the distance.
Pádraig turned away, a look of exasperation on his face, and covered himself.
“Is au-aught amiss?”
Astrid recognized the voice—Faolán, a warrior from her own clan. He had to be securing their boundaries. She’d believed they were close to home, and this confirmed it. When he broke through the trees on his mount, she was just standing. Unassisted. Pádraig stood a few feet from her—a hand on his jutting hip, annoyance radiating off him.
“A-Astrid?” Faolán jumped off his horse, his concern apparent. He hurried toward her, but Pádraig interceded.
Faolán shoved the man away, paying him no heed in his hurry to get to Astrid. “Wha-what has ha-happened here?” His gentle hand wiped at her tears.
Pádraig jerked him about. “Naught ye need to concern yerself with.”
Faolán’s punch landed squarely in Pádraig’s face and the man dropped to the ground.
Astrid gasped. “Oh, no, Faolán. Do not—”
