The Irish Warrior by Kris Kennedy Page A

pass.”
    All I have to do is taste you.
    Senna jerked at the thought. No, not a thought, an urge, rising out of something so deep inside her it pulsed with each heartbeat.
    He put his mouth by her ear. “Easy, now, Senna.” His thumb stroked her jaw as if he were gentling a wild thing. His sculpted body was hot behind hers. “Be easy.”
    â€œStop touching me,” she pleaded in a whisper.
    His thumb stopped moving. “What?”
    â€œKiss me.”
    The rest of him went completely still.
    Oh, please, Lord, deliver me from this. But it was too late. His body was too hot. She was too far beyond the Pale.
    â€œWhat did ye say?” he asked in a low, masculine rumble.
    Her heart started a strange thudding. Their voices were so quiet that the breeze blowing over them nearly drowned them out. Both were held paralyzed by the riders on the highway below. No one was going anywhere. In fact, it might all be over in a matter of minutes. And all she wanted was his touch.
    If I am going to die, she suddenly decided, it will not be absent the touch of this Irishman.
    She touched his hand and slid it across the mere inch back to her lips. Shutting her eyes, she trailed the tip of her tongue over his warm flesh.
    His body rippled slightly, like wind over waves. She felt every muscle in his body shift, very minutely, very definitely. He brushed his thumb once over her parted lips. Her breath shuddered out.
    â€œDid ye tell me to kiss ye, Senna?”
    â€œI did.” Her whisper trembled.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause,” she whispered, “if I’m going to die, it will not be lacking all the things I am lacking at present.”
    A pause. “Ye’re lacking a kiss, then?”
    She nodded.
    For a moment, everything held suspended. Then he cupped the back of her head and turned her to him. His eyes were unreadable, with no hint of a smile, but something else was there. Something dark and masculine.
    Each inhalation she attempted was short, chopped. Each exhalation came out long and slow and hot. It made her head spin. He bent to her.
    She felt warm breath on her cheek. Soft, teasing kisses danced across her cheeks, her eyelids. She sighed and he tightened his hold ever so slightly on the back of her head, as if holding her still. He cupped her cheek with his other hand and his lips finally settled over her own, whisper light, coaxing her: Remember you are a woman.
    He bent lower and nibbled her lower lip until, as if he’d uttered a password, she parted for him. He slid his tongue between her lips, a single hot swipe. Ribbons of desire uncorded between her thighs.
    He pulled back and whispered through her hair, “Is that what ye were thinking of?”
    In the distance, the riders passed down the highway. Finian said nothing. She heard nothing. Leaning forward the barest inch, she grazed his full, warm lips with hers. He exhaled lightly. She liked that.
    Her tongue slipped out and glided across his lips and another deep, masculine groan rumbled out. Her body quivered. Repositioning herself on her feet, she tasted him until she felt the tip of his questing tongue. Pushing boldly, she slipped her tongue inside his hot mouth.
    A flash of touching, a swipe of tongues, then she withdrew, barely capable of drawing breath. Panting and enflamed, she whispered in his ear, “Oh.”
    Her word came on a hush. Indeed, a squirrel in the tree above would not have heard it. But Finian did. Finian felt her warm, sweet breath against his cheek, drifting into his ear. He shifted, as the hardness between his legs stiffened further.
    He was not on a mission of seduction, but there was nothing to be done about this moment. It was happening. And he was suddenly powerless to be the one to end it.
    They stood together without touch; there was only the exchange of heat and breath between their bodies. Such closeness was highly erotic.
    â€œThe riders have gone,” he said reluctantly, waiting