than a few mistakes, he’d tried to follow the rules, but he’d never felt anything like this burning, beautiful ache. Rolling over, he settled his thigh between hers and slipped his hands under her shirt, touching the warm skin of her stomach before moving higher. He pulled at her. “What is this thing?” It was much smaller than the undergarments lasses wore in his day.
“A bra.” With a flip of her fingers, she opened the front, spilling her breasts out for him. If he wasn’t awake before, he was now. He filled both hands with warm flesh, sure he’d die if she stopped him now, but the soft sounds she made told him she was enjoying it too. He was glad. He wanted her to feel good, but partly he was relieved he wouldn’t have to stop. He tried to be gentle, but all he could think about was getting inside her. He removed her shirt and started to push her skirt up, but he wanted to see all of her. He moved over, far enough to pull off her skirt and the thing she called panties. He threw them on the floor and feasted on the sight of her bare body as his hands stroked the inside of her thighs, caressing the rough scrapes—already healing—moving closer and closer to his prize. He wanted to taste her, to drown in her scent, but he couldn’t wait that long.
He shrugged out of his jeans and underwear, wishing he’d worn his kilt. Easier access. With one quick look at her, to be sure she was sure, he lowered his body to hers and entered, working in deeper and deeper until her breath caught as he slid home.
He withdrew, thrust in again and held, burying his face in her hair. He felt her tongue on his neck, against his throbbing pulse. She wrapped her legs around his hips, clinging to his shoulders as he drove into her.
“Stop,” she said, her voice muffled.
Damnation. He didn’t know if he could. “Am I hurting you?” he asked, forcing himself to hold still.
“No,” she gasped. “The bed. It’s shaking.” In spite of her words, she tilted her hips and gave a little moan.
To hell with the bed. He thrust in again, and from the sounds she made, she must have stopped worrying about the noise too. He wanted to make it last, but any chance of that was lost when her hands dropped to his arse, fingers digging into his flesh. Her body tightened around him, telling him she was already there. Her mouth, still open in a moan, reminded him he’d neglected to kiss her. Too late now. One more thrust, and he erupted, the pleasure so intense it hurt. He collapsed on top of her, shivering, and he knew for certain why warriors weren’t supposed to take a mate. She wasn’t even his, but she held the power to destroy him. If a demon came now, he’d be done.
He feared he was crushing her, but he didn’t want to leave. He wanted to lie here forever, locked in her arms. He eased a bit of his weight, but stayed inside her. Realization slowly seeped in. He’d done it again, a fast, hard tumble, without even a kiss. He hadn’t cleaned his teeth yet, so she was likely glad he hadn’t kissed her. But what kind of love was that for a woman? Even if she enjoyed it, that was no way to treat her, rough, without tenderness.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, but he didn’t sound sorry, even to his own ears. He lifted himself on shaky elbows, wanting, yet dreading, to look at her. “Are you okay?”
She blinked twice and focused on him. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”
And he’d barely tried. He smiled and wished to God she could be his. He pulled out and rolled next to her, his body sated with pleasure, but questions were starting to fill his head. How did a man thank a woman for such a gift? Yet again. He should offer to help her clean up.
He reached for her, but she scooted away, moved off the bed, and stood, holding the pillow over her body like a shield.
He leaned on one elbow and watched the bathroom door shut. Once again he’d taken advantage of the only human being who knew he existed. He slammed his head against the pillow. He was an arse. Not to mention, he could’ve made a bairn with a woman he couldn’t marry.
***
Cleaned and dressed, Bree sat on the side of the claw-foot tub still holding the pillow. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t bad enough that she’d almost entered into holy matrimony with a demon, that she could’ve been the mother of a halfling. No, she had to go and make love, unprotected, yet again, to a man who at best should be dead, who believed women were helpless creatures to be coddled and protected, and at worst, could be another demon pretending to be a warrior who was more than a century and a half old.
Then there was the sheer embarrassment of it. Had everyone heard the bed shaking?
There was a soft rap at the door. “Bree?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
Bree opened the door a few inches and peeked out.
“I’m sorry,” Faelan muttered, looking not sorry at all. His eyes were already darkening, roving over what parts of her he could see.
She lowered her gaze to his bare feet. He had nice feet. Strong, solid, sexy—
“Bree.” He slid his arm through the crack in the door, fingers tipping her chin. “Look at me. We need to talk. I was out of control. I shouldn’t have taken you like that. Again. A woman deserves more than what I gave you.”
“More?” She’d not have lived to dream about it.
“Gentleness and caresses.” He wedged the door open and pushed his head inside. His fingertips moved lightly up her arm. “Sweet words and kisses,” he said, eyeing her mouth. “Lots of kisses.” His head lowered, and Bree stepped back. “Damnation. I can’t even get close enough for an apology, and I want to make love to you again—” A knock sounded outside. Faelan glanced at Bree, and she watched through the crack as he went to answer it. He checked once more to be sure she was out of sight, then turned the knob. Bree couldn’t see who stood there, but she could see the red fingernail marks she’d left on his back. Cripes.
“Good morning—oh, my. What interesting tattoos. My goodness me.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Edwards.” Faelan put his hand on the door, preventing it from opening too wide.
