with a kiss.”
He curled a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Will you tell me when it doesna’ feel right, good?”
“Just kiss me, you daft fool.”
CHAPTER 8 ~ A SHIP
They stood upon a rise, the great expanse of Loch Eriboll glistening in the distance below them.
“We’ve come a long way.” Seonaid acknowledged.
“Aye,” Padraig said.
One hand raised to shadow her eyes, Seonaid pointed to the tiny dot of a village sprawled on a jut of land further up the coast. “Is that the town of Eriboll?”
“Aye.” Angry, he’d been miserly with his words of late, but she’d best know the lay of the land. “The ocean is beyond that again. About as far from Eriboll as it is from Glen Toric.”
“If we stop now, we could still be there by midday tomorrow?”
Padraig answered with a sharp nod. The terrain would be difficult, but no more than it had been. Less so, as the rises were not so challenging. Although the low ground would be boggy in places.
“It’s a larger town than I expected,” she offered.
Again, a sharp nod.
Two days ago, they’d come together. She saw it as a good-bye. A memory to hold. Oh, Lord, it was sweet, to be sure. Sweet enough to wipe out any chance of good-bye.
He’d never forget the way she pulled his mouth to hers, wrapped her arms around him. Seonaid surrendering was a glorious thing, to be sure. Slick and naked under the water, her body slid against his, like a water nymph, until her legs bracketed his hips, her arms clung to his neck and her lips, those sweet succulent lips, tasted him, her tongue teasing his.
He’d refused to rush the moments. Stayed her with the strength of his hands, as they traced the length of her body. He worshiped her, in the only way he knew to worship, with his hands, his lips, all the while his legs straining with tension, his manhood wanting to plunge, hips to buck. Torturous heaven as her fingers tickled, ran through the hairs of his chest, brushed his nipples. Before he could catch his breath, she dipped her head, nipped where her fingers had just been. He barely felt it for the anticipation as her hand glided down, down.
“Sweet Jesus,” he howled, as she wrapped those fingers firmly around him. Bit back on the sound he made, as he didn’t want to wake the boy. Panting, eager, his lips found her breast, suckled like a starving child, for he was starving, starving for the taste of her, for knowing her. He’d wanted her since he was old enough to want. He’d dreamt of her, worried about breaking through that wall she built, and here he was, shattering her defenses to find the true lady warrior, all hot and eager and wild as any Celtic Queen set on battle.
And she was winning, thank all that was good. She was winning and the winning was better than any loss he’d ever had and the reality more than a dream could conjure.
He’d intended to tickle and tease her for a night of seduction, but he couldn’t do it. He lifted her up, stunned, when she guided him to her tight depths. He thought he’d died, reached sweet heaven. She rose and fell on him, he bucked and played with her, his hand teasing her little button of pleasure, his mouth tasting the salt of her breast, her shoulder, finally her mouth. A ravaging kiss swallowed his bellow as he filled her with his seed.
Oh dear God, if you really are there, let this seed take. Make her mine.
A night more powerful than the hardest won battle. Full of giving and taking and feeling.
He woke, the next dawn, to find her, once again, at her prayers—only this time, tears streamed down her cheeks, as she made her supplications.
Tears? Had she felt shame for what they did? He’d asked her, bluntly, not even waiting for her to close with her God.
“Are you weepin’ for shame?” He hadn’t meant to shout, but he was that stunned. “For there’s no shame in our comin’ together.”
She’d been as stunned as he, turning to him, her eyes wide, still wet and brimming and then she
He curled a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Will you tell me when it doesna’ feel right, good?”
“Just kiss me, you daft fool.”
CHAPTER 8 ~ A SHIP
They stood upon a rise, the great expanse of Loch Eriboll glistening in the distance below them.
“We’ve come a long way.” Seonaid acknowledged.
“Aye,” Padraig said.
One hand raised to shadow her eyes, Seonaid pointed to the tiny dot of a village sprawled on a jut of land further up the coast. “Is that the town of Eriboll?”
“Aye.” Angry, he’d been miserly with his words of late, but she’d best know the lay of the land. “The ocean is beyond that again. About as far from Eriboll as it is from Glen Toric.”
“If we stop now, we could still be there by midday tomorrow?”
Padraig answered with a sharp nod. The terrain would be difficult, but no more than it had been. Less so, as the rises were not so challenging. Although the low ground would be boggy in places.
“It’s a larger town than I expected,” she offered.
Again, a sharp nod.
Two days ago, they’d come together. She saw it as a good-bye. A memory to hold. Oh, Lord, it was sweet, to be sure. Sweet enough to wipe out any chance of good-bye.
He’d never forget the way she pulled his mouth to hers, wrapped her arms around him. Seonaid surrendering was a glorious thing, to be sure. Slick and naked under the water, her body slid against his, like a water nymph, until her legs bracketed his hips, her arms clung to his neck and her lips, those sweet succulent lips, tasted him, her tongue teasing his.
He’d refused to rush the moments. Stayed her with the strength of his hands, as they traced the length of her body. He worshiped her, in the only way he knew to worship, with his hands, his lips, all the while his legs straining with tension, his manhood wanting to plunge, hips to buck. Torturous heaven as her fingers tickled, ran through the hairs of his chest, brushed his nipples. Before he could catch his breath, she dipped her head, nipped where her fingers had just been. He barely felt it for the anticipation as her hand glided down, down.
“Sweet Jesus,” he howled, as she wrapped those fingers firmly around him. Bit back on the sound he made, as he didn’t want to wake the boy. Panting, eager, his lips found her breast, suckled like a starving child, for he was starving, starving for the taste of her, for knowing her. He’d wanted her since he was old enough to want. He’d dreamt of her, worried about breaking through that wall she built, and here he was, shattering her defenses to find the true lady warrior, all hot and eager and wild as any Celtic Queen set on battle.
And she was winning, thank all that was good. She was winning and the winning was better than any loss he’d ever had and the reality more than a dream could conjure.
He’d intended to tickle and tease her for a night of seduction, but he couldn’t do it. He lifted her up, stunned, when she guided him to her tight depths. He thought he’d died, reached sweet heaven. She rose and fell on him, he bucked and played with her, his hand teasing her little button of pleasure, his mouth tasting the salt of her breast, her shoulder, finally her mouth. A ravaging kiss swallowed his bellow as he filled her with his seed.
Oh dear God, if you really are there, let this seed take. Make her mine.
A night more powerful than the hardest won battle. Full of giving and taking and feeling.
He woke, the next dawn, to find her, once again, at her prayers—only this time, tears streamed down her cheeks, as she made her supplications.
Tears? Had she felt shame for what they did? He’d asked her, bluntly, not even waiting for her to close with her God.
“Are you weepin’ for shame?” He hadn’t meant to shout, but he was that stunned. “For there’s no shame in our comin’ together.”
She’d been as stunned as he, turning to him, her eyes wide, still wet and brimming and then she
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