The Irish Warrior by Kris Kennedy Page B

for her to step away.
    But she didn’t. She stayed, her breasts barely skimming his chest. One heartbeat, then another. “Have they?” she whispered.
    With deliberate slowness, he splayed his fingers around her ribs, then slid them down, to the curve of her waist.
    â€œHave ye had yer kiss, Senna?”
    â€œHave you?” she murmured against his ear.
    The breath shot out of Finian’s lungs as if chased by a demon. No, he had not had his kiss.
    Gently, he ran his fingers up her back, breathing steadily in her ear, the tip of his tongue teasing the skin just below. She shivered and clasped her hands hesitantly behind his head. Heaven, these sweet womanly curves, this arching spine, this feminine breath grown ragged.
    He entangled his fingers in the braided knot at the base of her skull and with a few swift tugs, pulled it loose. Her hair tumbled over his hands and wrists. He groaned at the softness sliding between his fingertips and buried his face in it, murmuring sweet, approving words. He slid his other hand ever downward, to the dip in her spine, pulling her closer, until her breasts pressed against him, and he bent to her mouth.
    When her lips parted, her tongue met his, and the sigh she surrendered shot another bolt of desire through his groin.
    His kiss intensified, his tongue no longer slow and dancing, merely coaxing her to flirt with danger. Now he demanded, laid claim. He pushed her for more, hotter, deeper kisses, using his carnal knowledge against her innocence, until she gave him his response; she whimpered and pressed up to him, offering her curving body, her mouth open wide, her tongue wet and hot in his mouth. And he took. His hands roamed her back, her ribs, coming close but never touching the soft rounded breasts so close to his thumbs. She shifted and shimmied, wanting the touch.
    Lust churned through him, dark and purposeful. He slid his hands down in a bold move and cupped her bottom, his hands spread wide, almost lifting her.
    â€œ Oh, ” she whispered into his mouth, moving with reckless, wanton little pushes. He molded a hand down the back of one thigh and exerted a small pressure, urging her to lift her leg for him. She did, bending her knee into his hand, shifting so his erection pushed against her, long and thick.
    She threw her head back and bit off a cry.
    Finian knew the feel of surrender, felt the bending of her spine and, battling the roar of lust surging through his blood, he pulled away. She was completely untutored in her body, that was obvious. The only thing more obvious in all the world was that if the sun rose, it also set, and until tonight, Senna de Valery had known nothing of the shuddering glories her body was created for.
    She’d just been awakened.
    With no choice in the matter. No real choice. She hadn’t known what was coming. And he couldn’t imagine anything more despicable than doing, with the best of intentions, what he suspected so many others had done with the worst: use her as a means to his own ends.
    He let her go.
    She stumbled backward, her cheeks flushed, her hair in wild, glinting disarray, her fingers reaching up, touching her face, as if amazed to find herself still there.
    He bent over, hands on his thighs, and stared at the ground. “We’ll not have any more of that,” he said to the dirt.
    â€œNo,” she gasped. “Certainly not.”
    He looked up, palms still pressed on his thighs. Even through the darkness he could see her lips were slightly swollen from his kisses. Her hair was mussed and looked like a dim halo, loose sprays of red star-tails around her nose and cheeks. Her chest was fluttering up and down, her breath unsteady, rapid. Aroused.
    He straightened. “Let’s be off.”
    â€œBut, what of Dubli—Bathy Clee,” she whispered, trying to pronounce the Irish word.
    â€œWhether we’re going to Dublin or hell, Senna, we first have to go up that hill.” He jerked his