Claiming Her (Renegades & Outlaws) (22 page)

The fierce male approval lit a fire inside her. The Irish endearment rasped and guttural, meant lover, perfection in the heart.
 

He planted a palm on the table and bent to her body, ran his tongue up the swell of her breast, then slid away again, a hot stroke, a cruel tease. She gave a frustrated pant. Teasing soft, he licked around the outer edge of her breast, over skin so sensitive, even his breath was like touch. She arched for him, waiting to receive the touch she so wanted, the brush of his hot tongue over nipples almost painfully hard, peaked by desire.
 

But his mouth skimmed away again in a taunting dance, swirling around the dark nub, but never touching.

She made a sound of impatience.

He gave a low laugh, sending his breath across everything he’d just licked wet. Then, suddenly, giving her no time to adjust, he closed his mouth over her breast and sucked.

Her head whipped back and banged the table.

He did it again, only slower this time, sucked her into his mouth, and flicked his tongue across her nipple, a hard, swift swipe.
 

It tore the breath from her lungs. Still holding her in his mouth, he shook his head gently back and forth. The tugging pressure rolled excitement through her body. Then he scraped her nipple with his teeth, dark, dangerous pleasure, and more dangerous yet, his hand slid down her legs, and began tugging up her skirts.
 

Her entire body trembled as his fingers skimmed between her thighs. When they slicked through wetness, evidence of her desire, his head lifted, and his gaze swept to hers.

 
“Och, lass, that feels good.”
 

It was a dark, carnal compliment that should have shamed her, but it quite lit her up. She felt as if sparks covered her body, glittering bright. He turned his hand and, without pause, slid a finger up inside her.
 

Her head jerked back as if yanked on a string.

“Aye, like that,” he said with dark approval.
 

 
He laid claim with another slippery push, nudging in deeper, forcing her flesh to part for him. The blunt tip of his thumb skimmed through her folds, then stroked across the nub at the apex of her.
 

Her body bucked in helpless pleasure.
 

“Again,” he commanded, and did it to her again, and again, stroking her harder, for more.
 

“
Aodh.
”

The broken gasp of his name coming from her lips, ignited Aodh’s blood. No more waiting. He straightened slightly and kicked the chair away from the table so he could drop down into it.
 

“Lie back,” he ordered in a low voice.

Her heavy-lidded eyes parted slightly, and she made a little sound of frustration, confusion. She tried to reach for him as he dropped down into the chair and dragged her hips forward.

“Let me show you mad pleasure, Katy,” he said, a horse rasp, as he put a hand on her knee.

If she said no now…

Her eyes, passion-dark, stared at him. Then she let her knee fall to the side, letting him in.

Everything became a roar in his head, surging heat in his body, as he ran his open palm along the length of her trembling legs.
His.
 

He skimmed his knuckles up the satin-smooth skin of her inner thigh until his fingers were inches from her womanhood. He could feel the dizzying wetness and heat.
 

He bent his head and touched the tip of his tongue to her.

Sweet, hot woman.

Her body jerked. “Aodh,” she sobbed.
 

He flicked into the dark heat, then moved in deeper, tasting her with long, sweeping strokes, circling through her slick folds as she cried out, then he flattened his tongue and brushed over the nub again.
 

Her head rolled on the table. He tasted her again, a long, deep sweep, from the bottom to the top of her and when she froze, her spine held, half arched, her body taut and waiting, he nudged his tongue hard into her.
 

A sob broke from her body and her knees fell apart. He half rose out of the chair, his head bent low to her, and took her relentlessly, with tongue and teeth, quickening the pace. Her body jerked and, dizzy with lust, his body taut with restraint, he pushed two fingers up inside her, deep into the swelling tightness.
 

“Aodh, oh,
please
.”

He curled his fingers slightly and did it again. And again, attending which strokes made her leap and shudder, then doing them slow and deep, then faster, and harder. When her head began to toss on the table, when her cries became helpless moans, he straightened and stretched his body over hers.
 

Keeping his fingers deep inside her, he leaned to her mouth and rasped, “This is you, Katarina. This, now, is you. Your fire.” And he pumped again.

Katarina exploded. Jolting, wicked pleasure, the climax came so hard and fast, her body bucked up and she flung her head, crying out as the spasms rocked through her like a storm.
 

He was there, bent over her, hot and approving, kissing her, whispering half in Irish, half in English, “Och
,
mo ghrá thú,
you please me.” His arms went around her, picked her up.
 

She was heedless, senseless, knew only that his arms were enfolding, his body hard and strong, his kisses hard, over her neck, her cheeks, her lips. She turned her head, trying to meet them. She had no desire to ever move again.

He laid her down on the bed, and knelt above her, and sense came rushing back. It sliced like a knife through her consciousness, cutting through the stupor of passion, the drugged pleasure of being at the center of Aodh’s attention.
 

He was pulling at the laces of his breeches. The long hard curve of his erection bulged at the front of his hose.
 

“Oh no!” she cried, dazed and dragged out of the sea of pleasure. “No. No, Aodh, no.”
 

He went still.

Passion mingled with dark fear as she stared up at him. His gaze burned into hers, fierce and furious, then raked like a brand down the length of her still-shuddering, half naked body.

He was utterly silent, completely motionless, except that his arms were shaking. Rampant desire, thwarted and bent.

“Marry me,” he commanded, his voice a low stroke of desire.

 
“I cannot,” she whispered, a caution more to herself than a rejection of him, for Aodh could not be rejected. She saw that now. The most she could hope for was to hold on.

But what he wanted from her—treason—she could not do that.

Everything on him was taut with restraint: the muscled arms propped on either side of her, the painted chest and stomach, only inches away, radiating heat.
 

She reached up and ran her shaky fingertips down his face. A shudder moved through him. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Such a strange, tortured place.

“Just let me take you,” he said, his voice rough with desire.

Her body shook, she wanted him so badly. “No.”

His head dropped and for a moment, the hard power of him was motionless. His head hung an inch above her body, in the valley between her breasts, his breathing ragged.

Then without a word, he pushed up off her and left the room, locking her back inside.
 

She shook all night. With fear. And desire. Desire of the heart as much as the body. She was steeped in want, distilled in Aodh.
 

*

DOWNSTAIRS, he sprawled in front of the raging fire in the lord’s chambers. His hose were loosened, his hand around his cock. He stroked himself, long and hard, picturing Katarina with her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her knees spread for him, hot pink flesh glistening with her own desire, her little moans as she let him trail his fingers through the wetness, then his tongue, her voice whispering his name…

That was Katarina, barely unleashed, laid out on a table for him, her fingers in his hair. She had more to give. She was barely tapped.

Abruptly, furious that he was using his hand and not inside Katarina, he flung himself up and out of the chair. His cock stood at attention, aching with want.

He’d
known
it. She was fire. He had teased it out, set it aflame, then she’d snuffed it out again.
 

Women were from Lucifer.
 

Relacing his breeches, he swung open the door and hollered for Ré and Cormac. They appeared, bleary-eyed, lacing up their hose. They stopped short when they saw his dark, furious face.
 

Ré closed his eyes and blew out a breath as he took a seat.
 

“How goes the wooing?” Cormac asked more bluntly as he dropped into a chair. “Can we rely upon her?”
 

Aodh strode to the fire and began throwing in wood.
 
“We’re going to need more allies.”

They met until late in the night.

In the morning, another round of emissaries rode out bearing the news: the Hound of Rardove had returned and was seeking allies.
 

Chapter Twenty

SPRING RECALLED ITSELF with a vengeance, and as the sun rose the following morning, winter was forced to relinquish its hold. The air was almost balmy, although spring breezes intermittently frisked up skirt hems and blew through the high tower window.

Katarina stood at the window, inhaling the scent of heather. In the distance, at the edge of her vision, she could see the sea, churning and unstoppable.
 

Closer to hand but sharing the same characteristics, Aodh stood on the battlement walls, amid a group of men engaged in animated conversation. Their armor glinted in the sun, swords hung from their hips, and pistols were strapped across their bodies. They looked like land-borne pirates.

The spritely spring breezes tugged at their hair and brightly colored capes, snatching the occasional deep-throated voice and winging it through the air, high up to her tower window, where Katarina tried, unsuccessfully, to decipher the words.
 

But eavesdropping on rebels was not the only reason to lean one’s elbows on the window ledge and poke one’s face out into the sun. The stones were already warm and sea salt was in the air. She knew why the horses being put through their paces were kicking up their heels, tossing their heads with such spirited abandon: spring had sprung, with all its riotous, intoxicating fuel. The day seemed made for rebels.

Katarina leaned out as far as she could and squinted at the small group on the walls. Several of them were unfamiliar Irishmen…not Aodh’s…not….
 

Her eyes narrowed. Why, was that…MacDaniels?

For a decade now, the clan leader had shunned all of Rardove’s overtures of peace and treaty. With a castle of stone and hundreds of far-flung warriors he could bring to hand at a moment’s notice, he’d barely responded to some of Katarina’s missives over the years, and not at all to the others. He was not actively hostile, but neither was he docile; he boldly trespassed just inside the borders of Rardove land with his hostings on occasion, when easier routes lay south and east, as if he’d decided the English barony was in need of silent reminders of his might.
 

He did not balk at more overt reminders either. He was responsible for half the raids on the Rardove cattle herd.

Yet here he was, being entertained by Aodh. Laughing with Aodh. Joining with Aodh.

 
Just as Aodh had said they would.

Clad in leather and steel and his loosely swinging sword, Aodh was carved from essential things, impenetrable, unbendable, wrought-by-fire things. Iron and steel and stone. It was very disconcerting, for her to be standing in old silk and have Aodh be so much a castle in his clothes.
 

To be so much more of what the Irish marches truly needed.
 

Bred here, Aodh Mac Con clearly belonged here. Far more than she and her worn velvet and lying title. But then, who cared for titles and names when the winds bore down and the nights grew cold? One wanted heat and might and certainty, and Katarina did not have those things.