“My husband!” she screamed and went over.
He resisted, wanting it to last.
Meghan sobbed his name.
They moved frantically together.
He wrung every last bit of pleasure from her hungry body until she collapsed, panting into the folds of the mattress.
Only then did he join her.
Throwing back his head, he roared to the rafters.
All his muscles drew taut.
“Mine!” he thundered, wanting those reverberations to reach her heart and soul. “Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine!”
He roared and groaned, pouring himself inside her hot, tight sheath.
Over and over, he staked his claim.
A final ripple pulled the last of the seed from him. “Mine,” he groaned.
His vision dimmed.
With a dying gasp, he collapsed over her, just barely catching himself on his elbow.
Their bodies trembled. Coated in sweat, he and Meghan clung tight to each other. His pulse thundered so loud in his ears with the power of his release and the beat of their hearts that Culross heard nothing.
Until it was too late.
Rolling away from Meghan, he tossed a blanket over her and stormed to his feet.
He dove for his trousers.
Something hit the door with such force it splintered on a single strike.
Meghan screamed.
Culross had only just dragged his trousers on and had a gun in hand and was between her and harm when the door gave.
The figure responsible for that kick stumbled into the room…
Followed by four additional very angry McQuoids.
Fuck.
Chapter 17
As a lass of thirteen, Meghan had been something of a tagalong.
A lot of a tagalong.
Being born stuck somewhere in a very long line of McQuoid lads and lasses, with some over her and some under her, she hadn’t really belonged to either.
The wee ones were too young, doing wee babe stuff.
The older McQuoids insisted Meghan should be off with the bairns.
