Irish Moon by Amber Scott Page A

grew
bold. All thought beyond the feel of it, of him, escaped her. She
matched his sweep with her own, suckling his lower lip, letting her
teeth drag against it, savoring the plump feel.
    The tingle warmed, changed, into an ache
unlike any she'd ever known. It made her heart beat harder, her
breathing feel desperate. She needed something more, craved a
satisfaction she could not name but sensed it there in his lips
pressing hers, his tongue twining and tormenting her mouth.
    His hand stroked her jaw and explored lower,
brushing her throat, tickling her collarbone and all the while
taking Breanne's hand with it. She couldn't let go and as it drew
farther and farther down, a strange, wonderful beating of
anticipation built in her.
     
    Ashlon groaned from deep in his belly as an
all-consuming want drowned what little rationale the concoction
left him with. Somewhere he knew no good could come of it but he
couldn’t seem to stop. His body awoke, his attraction hardening
with powerful swiftness. He fought the urge to allow his hands
exploration of her breasts, close as they may be, sensing she might
not be aware of how well her kisses and soft panting undid him. Yet
he did not stop either. She felt so good, so lush and vibrant
until, like a slap to the face with icy water, she broke away.
    He opened his eyes and saw shock and fear and
confusion take turns expressing in her eyes. Her parted lips
glistened, were red, from their kiss. Damn his body but it wanted
more. He wanted to return his mouth to her, to taste her more
deeply, to touch the flesh.... He felt a catch in his chest as she
withdrew another inch.
    He reached for her, an entreaty. But she
jerked back. Ashlon dropped his head back and rolled his eyes
heavenward. What had he done? He was no scoundrel, but the kiss
proved such a vigorous endeavor it left him no strength to move
after her. She retreated and stood.
    “Apologies,” he mumbled again and bore his
eyes into hers. “Won’t happen ‘gain.” Ashlon closed his eyes and
his last remarkable thought was that he’d just offended an angel.
Then he succumbed to sleep.
    Breanne exhaled loudly. He slept. She
couldn’t keep drugging him so, or he’d never be awake long enough
to give her answers let alone be on his way from here.
    She ran a hand over her brow and sat in the
nearest rickety chair. He’d kissed her. Or had she kissed him?
Both, she decided. And what a kiss it was. Sweet St. Bridget that
experience placed her only other kiss in stark relief. The
difference amazed her. This man’s lips were like a charm, spinning
into her body, caressing depths she didn’t know existed.
    Compared to it, Quinlan’s kiss became sloppy,
rigid, and forced. How could a stranger’s mouth, one he was barely
aware of due to the herbs’ effects, feel so natural and yet surreal
all at once? So startling and magickal?
    She didn’t have an answer and didn’t soon
want one. Any man having such an effect over her was dangerous.
With a touch he’d make her witless and vulnerable to his very whim.
She didn’t trust it, or him.
    The remainder of the week was all she’d give
him. If he wasn’t well and off within this very week, she’d be
forced to give him over to Niall. She’d have protected him well
enough, as Heremon’s sight had seen her to, and she refused to feel
guilty. He was not her responsibility after all. Heremon was. Once
he gave clarification, assuming he saw nothing and caused nothing,
regained good health, what was left to protect?
    Breanne opened the closet door, apparently
unfound by Niall’s men, and dragged the man into it. She couldn’t
manage getting him onto the table, so moved the long narrow piece
to the far wall. His belongings sat in a pile, undisturbed since
the last she spied them.
    Jutting rectangular emeralds on his sword’s
hilt glowed in the candlelight. Breanne touched her fingertip to
one. It was a finely wrought weapon. It’s seams were flawless, the
design equally strong and