The McKettrick Legend by Linda Lael Miller

waist. He groaned, buried his face in it, burrowed through to take her earlobe between his lips and nibble on it.
    Hannah gasped with guilty pleasure. Her knees went weak, and Doss held her upright with the lower part of his body.
    She moaned softly.
    â€œWe can’t,” she whispered.
    â€œWe’d damn well better,” Doss answered, “before we both go crazy.”
    â€œWhat if Tobias…?”
    Doss leaned back, opened the buttons on her bodice, put his hands inside, under her camisole, to take the weight of her breasts. Chafed the nipples lightly with the sides of his thumbs.
    â€œHe won’t hear,” he said.
    He bent to find a nipple, take it into his mouth. Suckled in the same nibbling, teasing way he’d tasted her earlobe.
    Hannah plunged her fingers into his hair, groaned and tilted her head back, already surrendering. Already lost.
    She tried to bring Gabe’s face to her mind, hoping the image would give her the strength to stop— stop —before it was too late, but it wouldn’t come.
    Doss made free with her breasts, tonguing them until she was in a frenzy.
    She sank against the door, barely able to breathe.
    And then he knelt.
    Hannah trembled. Even though the room was cold, perspiration broke out all over her body. She made a slight whimpering sound when Doss lifted her skirts, went under them and pulled down her drawers.
    She felt him part her private place with his fingers, felt his tongue touch her, like fire. Sobbed his name, under her breath.
    He took her full in his mouth, hungrily.
    Her hips moved frantically, seeking him, and her knees buckled.
    He braced her securely against the door, put her legs over his shoulders, first one, and then the other, and through all that, he drew on her.
    She writhed against him, one hand pressed to her mouth so that the guttural cries pounding at the back of her throat wouldn’t get out.
    He suckled.
    She felt a surge of heat, radiating from her center into every part of her, then stiffened in a spasm of release so violent that she was afraid she would splinter into pieces.
    â€œDoss,” she pleaded, because she knew it was going to happen again, and again.
    And it did.
    When it was over, he ducked out from under the hem of her skirt and held her as she sagged, spent, to her knees. They were facing each other, her breasts bared to him, her body still quivering with an ebbing tide of passion.
    â€œWe can stop here,” he said quietly.
    She shook her head. They’d gone past the place of turning back.
    Doss opened his trousers, reached under her skirt and petticoat to take hold of her hips. Lifted her onto him.
    She slid along his length, letting him fill her, exalting in the size and heat and slick hardness of him. She gave a loud moan, and he covered her mouth with his, kissed her senseless, even as he raised and lowered her, raised and lowered her. The friction was slow and exquisite. Hannah dug her fingers into his shoulders and rode him shamelessly until satisfaction overtook her again, convulsed her, like some giant fist, and didn’t let go until she was limp with exhaustion.
    Only when she wept with relief did Doss finish. She felt him erupt inside her, swallowed his groans as he gave himself up to her.
    He brushed away her tears with his thumbs, still inside her, and looked deep into her eyes. “It’s all right, Hannah,” he said gruffly. “Please, don’t cry.”
    He didn’t understand.
    She wasn’t weeping for shame, though that would surely come, but for the most poignant of joys.
    â€œNo,” she said softly. She plunged her fingers into his hair, kissed him boldly, fervently. “It’s not that. I feel…”
    He was growing hard within her again.
    â€œOh,” she groaned.
    He played with her nipples. And got harder still.
    â€œDoss,” she gasped. “Doss—”
    Present Day
    Sierra awakened with a start, sounding from the depths of