Page 7 of Highland Warlord
With a moan, equal parts pleasure and torture, Bael ran his hands down the dramatic slope of her back as it dipped into a narrow waist and flared into an ass that overflowed his kneading palms. Gods, she couldn’tbeany more perfect than this. He cared little to feel bones beneath a woman’s flesh. He wanted substance and softness. To fill his big hands and feast his eyes on every inch. He much preferred the luscious shape of her body to the hard, muscled shield maidens of the north, or the skin-and-bone whores his men paid for.
The way her flesh slid along his as she drew her hands up his arms and across the span of his shoulders to twine about his neck, unstitched the last fibers of his self-control. Digging his fingers into her ass, he hefted her against him and split her legs to wrap around his trunk.
Bael even liked the way she gasped in shock and clung to him with her arms and knees as though his actions surprised her.
Yes. Her long legs would be wrapped around parts of him until morning dawned in Valhalla. His waist. His head. Bael planned to feast on her flesh and her sex. To feed her his own. Totake pleasure in the sweetness of her voice as she came for him and spill his release inside her again and again.
Gods, it had beensolong. A lifetime.
Carrying her to the soft mossy bank without separating their fused mouths, he lowered them both to the ground and covered her body with his.
Tonight was his gift from the Gods, and after a century of sacrifice and denial, he was going to take full advantage of his reward.
Morgana had feltthe Berserker awaken, could sense him even in darkness. But she’d been unaware that he’d moved until he’d snatched her from her bath and lay claim to her mouth.
Now she lay beneath this fiercely masculine creature, his pulsating erection hot and hard against her belly, her knees clutching at his flanks as though inviting him inside her.
She was aware of the danger of their precarious position, but couldn’t seem to tear her mouth away from those magical lips of his. It wasn’t their contrast to the unmitigated hardness of the rest of him, nor was it the arousal that flooded her the moment their flesh had connected.
Not entirely, anyway.
What kept her latched to him was the pure and raw emotion emitting from his every pore. She’d fallaciously assumed he was a beast of rage, need, and impulse. But the signature his aura blanketed about them proved her wrong. He bled a lonely sort of anger that hid within it a longing born of deprivation.
Morgana had never before touched someone so—alone. She could read his almost reverent awe as he explored her. Was charmed by his elated joy when she’d wrapped her legs aroundhim. And was seduced by the dominant strength of his arousal mixed with the careful way in which he avoided using that strength to harm or subdue her.
Not that she’dneededto be restrained.
For some alarming reason, her body responded to him with the same kind of violent intensity. In his arms, she became a creature of primeval desires and pure instinct. Thoughts of consequence and reason flowed away from her like driftwood in a strong current.
He was nothing but a large mass of shadows and angles backlit by a blue moon. Some silvery light shredded against the sharp slash of his cheekbone, or caught the sheen of his dark hair, but his eyes remained a mystery to her. His expressions hidden. She didn’t need to see them to understand what she needed to know.
The Berserker meant to make her his mate, in the most fundamental sense of the word.
Unless she stopped him. And she should—stop him—any moment now. There was too much she didn’t know. The man drawing his lips down to worship the sensitive hollow of her neck had only just yesterday slaughtered a hundred men. He was dangerous, nay, lethal. And she couldn’t afford another enemy right now. Not one as powerful as this.
But, oh, those lips. Those wicked, mesmerizing lips. How could she stop them when they left a trail of devastating desire in their wake? Every inch of skin he explored came alive as if for the first time.
His hands didn’t remain passive, either. They spanned her naked flesh with the exuberance of a novice and the skill of an incubus, summoning storms that drenched her with desire and drowned her in sensation.
Feminine muscles clenched as long, venturing fingers reached between their bodies and stroked along the sensitiveflesh of her inner thigh. Thrills danced along her nerves and jolted up her legs to settle into moist folds of her sex.
Morgana had been aroused before. Had explored her passions with bold lads in her highland clan, but never had the threat of a touch affected her so intensely. Her blood sang for it. Her body vibrated with need. Her skin flushed with anticipation.
A sound of pure masculine delight rumbled from his throat as his probing fingers slid through the slick cleft of her sex to brush along the quivering place that shot pure bliss to the most miniscule fibers that comprised her very being.
Her arousal was such that he didn’t even need to manipulate the soft aperture of flesh to elicit pleasure. But he did. With a possessive nibble at her shoulder, he worked his strong fingers in a circular motion, his lips branding their way down her chest to nuzzle at her trembling breasts.
Morgana’s breath ebbed and flowed with the sure movements of his hand. Her beast touched her as though he found as much pleasure in the act as she. His cock became hotter and fuller against her thigh, but he didn’t move to claim her, seeming content in the slick unhurried movements of his strong fingers against her.
Pressure built quickly, and her hips jerked and bucked beneath him. That pressure dissolving into a pleasure so intense, she couldn’t hold in her panting cries of release as it crested and crashed like the tidal waves of a gale storm. When Morgana wound so tight she thought she might break, the Berserker slid a finger inside her, his thumb remaining to thrum at the nub of pliant flesh.
Stars exploded behind her closed eyes. The intrusion was just a finger, but his hand was big, his fingers long. She climaxed on a pulsating quiver that caused her legs to clench around his hips as though to imprison her to him. Her cries must have rungthrough the night and scared any lurking creatures away, so transcendent was the sensation.
“Yes,” she gasped in a strained whisper, feeling the sensations begin to ebb, not ready to be through with it yet. “Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop,” she begged.
He stopped. Rearing back as though she attacked him, his shadow loomed over her like the devil’s own angel of wrath.
“Hvorfor snakker du i den engelske tungen?” he demanded in a voice as sharp as the blades of his axe.
