He needed to touch her. Needed to show her how much he cared about her. And needed to let her know it would be all right.
So for the second time in as many days, he didn’t do the smart thing. He didn’t think. He let himself feel... and it was incredible.
The passion that had exploded between them in the library had not dulled; if anything it had only grown hotter. Their tongues knew exactly how to find each other, their bodies how to fit, and their hands how to touch.
Well, maybe not exactly how to touch, because if he had his way, she wouldn’t be gripping the hard muscles of his arms right now, she’d be gripping another hard part of him.
Just thinking about her hand wrapped around him made him throb, made him deepen the kiss, and bend her back into the curve of his body.
He loved the taste of her, the soft feel of her lips, and the passionate thrusts of her tongue circling against his.
She was a good kisser. He pushed that thought away before it could take hold, not wanting to think about what she’d said about Brigid’s brother.
Still, a swell of possessiveness surged inside him, and his kiss grew a little fiercer. A little rougher. And a lot more carnal.
Was he trying to shock her? He didn’t know, but with every suck, every nibble, every rhythmic thrust of his tongue—meant to mimic another rhythmic thrusting—he savored the soft gasps of surprise that told him this was new.
He ravished, he plundered, he claimed her mouth, and then he claimed a whole hell of a lot more. His mouth slid over her jaw, down her throat, and once he’d tossed the plaid off her shoulders, down the curved bodice of her gown.
She’d gone lax in his arms, her head falling back, her breath heaving, as if to offer the bounty of her breasts to gorge upon. And what a feast they were. Full and generous, yet firm and perfectly rounded, they were everything he’d dreamed about at night when he was an untried lad.
The pressure in his groin was growing unbearable. He groaned as he slid his hand up to cup her breasts, as his mouth slid over the creamy soft skin above her bodice. Just the weight of all that soft flesh in his hands sent a swell of heat deep in his groin that was nearly enough to drive him over the edge. When she arched her back and started pressing into the palm of his hand, he slid right over.
Margaret didn’t know what was happening, but she knew she didn’t want it to stop. Eoin had taken control of her body, and she didn’t want it back. Not when he could make her feel this good.
The feel of his hands on her breasts was unlike anything she’d ever imagined. Tristan had tried to touch her there once, but she’d kneed him in the bollocks so hard he hadn’t been able to walk straight for a week—or so he claimed. But with Eoin... she wanted his hand there. And the lower his lips descended on her chest, the lower his tongue danced beneath the edge of her gown, the more she wanted his mouth there as well.
A fever had taken hold of her body. Her skin was hot, her breath uneven, her heartbeat erratic. Her limbs were so weak she could barely stand.
But he had her. The strength of his body was like a lifeline, an anchor to hold on to as the maelstrom lashed around them.
Still it wasn’t enough. The maelstrom wasn’t around them, it was inside her, and she needed to find a way to release it.
Instinctively she knew what she wanted, and the pressure of her body moving against his grew more insistent. More demanding.
And he responded. The heat of his mouth through the fabric of her gown as he covered her breast made her weak; the feel of his manhood wedged between her legs made her wet. She cried out in pleasure as his hands cupped the sensitive flesh of her breasts, as his mouth sucked, and as his hips thrust. She was falling apart. Melting. Surrendering to the pleasure racing through her veins.
But she wanted more.
Had she said it aloud?
She heard him swear, the sharp curse a guttural answer to her plea. The next moment she felt the rocky wall of the cottage against her back. He lifted her skirt, wrapped one of her legs around his hips and started fumbling with the ties at his waist.
She could have stopped him, but she didn’t want to. She wanted this as badly as he did.
Yet as much as she wanted him inside her, it was still a shock to feel the tip of his manhood nestled at the cleft between her legs, and she gasped.
For one moment the haze cleared, and their eyes met in silent lucidity. From the firm grip she had on his shoulders, she could feel the tension reverberating through his body. He was shaking with it, every muscle in his body flexed with restraint.
“Tell me you want this,” he said roughly, his blue eyes so dark they almost looked black.
He would pull away if she wanted him to. He was giving her a chance to change her mind. But she wasn’t going to. “I want this,” she said softly.
“Thank God,” he groaned, “I’m sorry...”
She didn’t understand the apology until she felt the jar of the wall as he thrust up inside her.
She cried out as a sharp pain sliced through her.
