Unwilling by Kerrigan Byrne Page A

her lips
he would have thrust into her and blindly driven himself into oblivion.  Not
yet.  He had to taste her first.  To drink from the well that sprang for him. 
He couldn’t deny himself that right.  He couldn’t deny her that pleasure.
    Though he bent over her, his left
hand came up to splay across her chest and hold her down.  “Lie still,” he
commanded, then sank to his knees on the rough stone.
    “What are you—?”   Her small,
breathy voice cut off when he wrenched both of her legs wide with his hands,
pinning her to the table. 
    He growled at the sight of her. 
Slick, glistening, and pink nestled in a bed of glossy ebony curls.  He’d never
seen anything so beautiful. 
    “Connor I—I… Oh God!”
    The first taste of her was ambrosia;
the second catapulted him to heaven.  Nothing could have prepared him for the
softness he found, the pliant flesh that yielded to his lips and pulsed against
his tongue.  He explored her mercilessly, enjoying the quivers and jerks of her
strong, lean thighs beneath his palms.  Her legs were fighting his effortless
imprisonment, struggling to close around his head and retreat from his
relentless mouth.  Or to hold him prisoner there.
    Her moans and pants and cries were
the sweetest music he’d ever heard, deep and throaty with enough entreaty to
stoke his manly pride.  Tracing her inner petals with his tongue, he avoided
the tight bud that was the center of her sensations.  He sucked those folds of
flesh into his mouth, flicking at them playfully and following the rolls and
jerks of her hips.  Denying them both, he dipped lower, probing at her core
with his tongue.  He was rewarded with a rush of her desire that he lapped up
with an appreciative groan.
    His body was wound tight as a
fucking bow string.  He needed inside of her.  And fast.  He started to wonder
if he was going to survive this.  Fire thrummed through his veins and his berserker
simmered too close to the surface.  What if he hurt her?  
    “Connor… please.”  Her desperate
plea pulled him out of his head.  “I need—”
    She needed a climax, and he needed
to give it to her. 
    Her moan was raw when he latched
onto her; it grew to a cry when his tongue went to work.  He settled his
shoulders into his occupation and allowed her to rest her feet upon them.  He
drove her to edge again and again until her skin shimmered with sweat and her
legs trembled with effort.  When her voice became hoarse and her pleas weakened
to painful groans, he released her and reached beneath her thighs to span her
waist with his hands. 
    Here, mo chroi , he
thought, I give you this, along with my heart.
    Her shoulders arched off the table
and she screamed.  Connor followed her bucking hips with his mouth, determined
not to yield her flesh until he’d wrung every last quiver of pleasure from
her.  Her hands gripped his forearms, fingernails biting into his skin.  God he
loved this.  He could spend the rest of his life here, if she’d only let him. 
He wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t, the beauty of her coming for him
awed and stimulated him.  He was so fucking hard his cock wept beneath his
tartan. 
    But he didn’t want this moment to
end.  Didn’t want the rapture on her face to die.  He had put it there. 
    And he already wanted to do it
again. 
    When she collapsed back to the
table, little quakes of aftermath quivered across her belly, she released her
death-grip on his arms and let out a long and shaky breath. 
    Connor didn’t move though, after he
pulled his neck away from her.  He couldn’t.  He’d been locked into place by
the sight of the one thing that could threaten this perfect moment. 
    Her nails had made him bleed. 
    ***
    Lindsay lay in a boneless puddle on
the hard table, as little tremors and pulses of pleasure still snaked through
her at various intervals.  Glancing down, she could only see the top of
Connor’s head between her shamelessly spread legs.