The Striker Read online

  Everything was so new and incredible. The way his mouth ravished her neck, his fingers plied her nipples, and even the feeling of his big, hard body stretched out against her. All the little details fascinated her. The warmth of his skin, how tanned it still was from the summer sun, the small V of golden hairs on his chest and the even more enticing trail that led from his stomach to his manhood.

  She’d wanted to touch him. Especially after seeing the way he’d held himself in his hand, when he’d been watching her. It had made her curious. And aroused. Just looking at him made her aroused. He was wrong earlier: he was beautiful. Tall and broad-shouldered, his body was tightly packed with slab after slab of lean muscle so sharply delineated it could have been carved from stone. There was not a spare ounce of flesh on him. Good lord, his stomach was lined with so many bands the washwoman could have beat clothes against it!

  When he leaned over to kiss her, she couldn’t resist sliding her palm over some of those ropey bands before coming to rest on the big rock of muscle at the top of his arm.

  She loved the feeling of him leaning over her. The solidness. The weight. The connection.

  His kissed her mouth, her throat, and—finally!—her breasts. The warm, wet heat of his mouth closing over her and sucking made her cry out. She arched against him shamelessly, begging for more as he sucked harder, as his tongue circled her nipple and tugged it gently between his teeth.

  A strange feeling was coming over her. Building. Intensifying. Her skin felt hot, her limbs weak, the place between her legs soft and achy.

  She didn’t know what she wanted until he touched her. Until his fingers found that warm place and started to caress it. Softly at first, with gentle little circles that made her body weep with pleasure.

  But soon it wasn’t enough. She started to shake. Her hips started to lift against his hand, pressing . . . begging for more.

  He growled—maybe muttered some kind of curse—against her breast and sucked harder. Sucked until a needle of pleasure connected his mouth at her breast and his hand between her legs. Then finally, his finger slipped inside her and gave her what she hadn’t known she wanted. Stroking. Plunging. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. The heel of his palm pressed against her, giving her the pressure she’d unconsciously craved. It felt so good . . .

  She was writhing, moaning, lost in sensations she didn’t understand. Her body seemed to be struggling, fighting against something.

  Vaguely she was aware of the coolness of the air against her damp breast as he lifted his head to look her in the eyes. She would never forget the way he looked, his face a tight mask of restraint, his gaze as fierce and intense as she’d ever seen it.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart. Just let it go. I’ll catch you.”

  Whether it was simply the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes, or that her body simply couldn’t fight it anymore, his words snapped the last threads of resistance. She gave herself over to the sensations and felt her body lift and soar.

  The flight of angels. For how else could she describe the catapulting into heaven, the shattering of stars, and then the gentle floating in the clouds as the wracked spasms of pleasure slowly ebbed.

  And when she finally fell back to earth, he was there to catch her just as he’d promised.

  Watching the pleasure of her release play over her features was the most beautiful thing Eoin had ever seen—and also the most erotic. He had to be inside her.

  Dropping a tender kiss on her mouth, he moved over her. Hands planted on either side of her shoulders, he looked into her eyes until the haze faded. “I need your vow, Margaret.”

  Her mouth curved into a slow smile that wrapped around his chest and squeezed. “I, Margaret, take thee, Eoin, to be my wedded husband, to death do us depart, and thereto I plight my troth to thee.”

  He repeated the vow, and with one purposeful thrust, consummated the vows they’d just spoken.

  And then he stilled. Savoring the sensations. Savoring the moment of overwhelming completeness and of rightness.

  It was done. They were married. Bonded by God as man and wife.

  The poignancy of the moment was not lost on either of them. It seemed to be thick in the air—and in his chest.

  She looked into his eyes, searching his face for a long time. He could see the emotion in her eyes and wondered if they reflected some of his own.

  “No going back,” she said.

  “No going back,” he agreed.

  She smiled. “You were right.”

  “I was?”

  She nodded. “It doesn’t hurt as much the second time.” She bit her lip. “You feel good.”

  “So do you, sweetheart,” he groaned, “God, so do you.”

  He began to show her just how good with long, slow strokes that gave voice to the emotions inside him. He loved her, and he told her that with every kiss, every touch, every thrust. And when he’d brought her to the peak and followed her over, he told her with words as well.

  “Tha gaol agam ort.”

  It was a long time before either of them spoke. Eoin lay there with his new wife curled up against him—her soft cheek pressed against his chest, her hair spilled over his skin like a silken veil, his arm holding her close—feeling more content than he’d ever felt in his life, watching the room grow dark, and wishing they never had to leave.

  But they had to go. The sun filtering through the hole in the roof was almost gone. As much as he wanted to stay here and delay what was bound to be an unpleasant return to the castle, they’d been gone for a couple hours and someone would have noticed their disappearance by now. People would be commenting on it, which was the last thing she needed. And soon someone—her family most likely—would come looking for them.

  For her family to find them here like this would make an already precarious situation much worse. Eoin did not delude himself. Despite their marriage, he’d be lucky to come out of this without a dirk in his back. If not from Dugald MacDowell, then from one of her eight brothers. Though the youngest among them was probably still only a lad, they were a bloodthirsty bunch.

  He didn’t want to think about his own family’s reaction.

  Margaret propped her chin on his chest to look at him. “Did you mean it?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He swept a few red strands of hair that had tangled in her thick lashes to the side, but it was only an excuse to run his fingers over the curve of her cheek. He wondered if he’d ever get used to the baby softness of her skin. “Aye,” he said. “I meant it.”

  The happiness shimmering in her eyes and the smile that lit her face warmed the chill that had crept into the darkening room with his thoughts of what was to come.

  “I love you, too.”

  Though he’d guessed as much, hearing the words filled him with pleasure—and not a small amount of satisfaction.

  “I’m glad of it, a leanbh.” And he was. Their feelings would help to make the shite storm they’d just unleashed worth it.

  He hoped.

  But seeing her naked limbs entwined with his, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in wild disarray, and the boldly beautiful features turned to his, he couldn’t help feel a twinge of doubt.

  Fin’s words came back to him. Attention . . . Demanding . . . Wild.

  Nay. His friend was wrong. Margaret might speak and act a little outrageously at times, but that was simply because she didn’t know any better. Despite the unusual freedom in how she’d been raised, there was something oddly sheltered about her—almost innocent.

  She was ignorant of social mores, that’s all, not wicked. Well, maybe a little wicked, but as he suspected that would keep him well satisfied in the bedchamber, he didn’t mind.

  With everything else, his mother would help. Once Margaret spent some time at his home with his mother and sisters, she would learn what was appropriate and expected of her as his wife.

  If something about that didn’t sit quite right, he pushed it aside. It would all work