Page 92 of Beds and Blades

He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering against my jaw.

“You saw the whole of it,” he said. “The villages, the hunger, the pattern. It was extraordinary.”

I could feel his respect and desire braided together so tightly there was no separating them.

He gripped the back of my neck. The other hand found the small of my back and drew me against him. Then his mouth came down on mine. I caught my breath against him.

I could feel that this was not what he had brought me here intending to do.

There had been some plan in him when we entered the room—praise me, touch me, perhaps take his time with me in the privacy of his bed. Something deliberate. Something measured.

But then I had looked at him. Then he had felt me want him back. And all that careful command began to unravel.

I felt the hard length of him through his leather trousers, already heavy against me, and my body answered.

He knew. He could feel how wet I was before his hand ever reached me. He could feel the heat of it, the ache of it, the way my body had been waiting since the moment his wanting touched mine across the war room table.

His breath changed against my mouth.

“Meghan,” he said, low and rough.

I knew what he was asking. I knew he could feel the answer before I gave it.

“Yes.”

That was all it took.

He bent me over the heavy oak table.

He did it with a decisiveness that made my breath catch.

His hand pressed between my shoulder blades, guiding me forward until my palms met the heavy oak.

I was still in my shirt, still half dressed, my breath coming too fast as his body covered mine from behind.

My fingers spread against the wood.

His hands went to the fastening of my pants. He pulled them down my legs with none of his typical patience, as if the rest of me could wait but this could not.

His own trousers followed only as far as necessary, shoved down over his hips while the rest of him remained dressed, all dark fabric, hard muscle, and restraint coming undone by the second.

Then he was behind me. Close. Hard.

I felt the thick length of him press against me from behind. His hand slid between my thighs, and the sound he made when he found me wet was not controlled.

Neither was mine.

He could feel all of it—the heat, the ache, the slick readiness of my body for him. His other hand gripped my waist, holding me exactly where he wanted me, and for one suspended moment the room narrowed to his breath at my ear and the head of his cock pressing against my pussy.

He pushed into me slowly at first, because he was large enough that slowly mattered. My body stretched around him from behind, taking him inch by inch, and the fullness built until my arms nearly buckled against the table.

The sound left me before I could stop it.

His pleasure struck me at the same time mine struck him. He groaned and pushed deeper.

“Fuck me,” I said.

He drove the rest of the way in, burying himself fully inside me, and I gasped as the table took my weight and his hand tightened at my waist.