The Warlord Claims His Bride (11 page)

“Aye, Bronson,” she gasped out. “I am yers.” She was facing forward again, her head downcast, and sweat starting to coat her body. He wanted to lick those beads of perspiration off.

He groaned at those words. He started to pull out of her, and then pushed back inside. Over and over he pumped in and out of her, starting slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed with each passing second.

“Oh, gods, Bronson. Aye, that is exactly how I like it.”

“Ye like my big cock inside of yer arse, don’t ye, lass?”

She nodded, and he grinned, even though she couldn’t see him. He tightened his hold on her hips and really started fucking her. When he knew he would come, far sooner than he wanted to, he reached with a hand around her belly and found her clit to tease the bundle of nerves. He loved that when she was good and juicy for him, aroused so far she couldn’t even speak, her clit swelled. That once little nub became big and puffy, and he could pinch it with his fingers and get her off by stroking it alone. He rubbed her back and forth until her whole body tensed and she threw her head back and groaned out her orgasm. She may have been on her hands and knees, but he could see her face now as she turned it to the side. Bronson watched the flush spread up her neck and cover her cheeks, and wanted to kiss her right now. He bent forward, wrapped his hand loosely around her throat, and placed his mouth right on hers. She panted against his mouth with every thrust he made, but Bronson didn’t stop. He went harder, faster, until their skin slapped together. Their tongues moved against each other, mimicking what he was doing to her body with his cock, and reminding him of all the filthy fucking things he still wanted to do to her before the night was over with.

Wave after wave of pleasure shot straight up his spine. His balls drew up impossibly further, and he had to pull away from her and suck in a lungful of air. He held onto her hips so hard he knew there would be marks on her flesh, but he got a possessive thrill from that knowledge. He liked knowing she would wear his mark of ownership, because she was
his
, irrevocably. He slowly pulled out, the head of his cock almost popping free, before he plunged back inside. She looked over her shoulder at him, her mouth parted, her eyes drowsy looking, and her face flushed. She was covered in sweat now, just as he was. He swallowed roughly and closed his eyes, knowing he was about to fill her with his seed.

He pumped in and out. In and out. And finally the pleasure stole his sanity. For several long, intoxicating seconds, he filled her ass with his seed, and when he couldn’t come any longer, he gently pulled out of her. He watched with ownership running through him as his cum slid out of her ass. He would have collapsed beside Genevieve, but instead he moved over to the basin, and grabbed a wet rag to clean her with. She was on her belly, her ass red from his spankings, and her eyes closed. He quietly moved toward her, cleaned her the best he could, and then slipped in bed beside her. She was warm and full, and he loved that she had gained more weight after giving birth to his two sons. He had never liked a thin woman, never wanted to see bones protruding as if she were starved. Bronson wanted his wife’s belly full with food, and wanted her curves to be the proof that he cared for her.

“I love ye, lass,” he said against her temple.

She murmured something soft and sweet, and he smiled and pulled her closer. She was his, and nothing would take that away. It had been three years, and he had much to show for it now. A son a little over two years of age, and another babe, that still suckled on Genevieve, who slept in the small room he had built onto theirs. His land was secure, his family healthy, and he looked forward to many more years, and children, with Genevieve. He closed his eyes, but just as he was about to fall asleep, the sound of their babe crying in the next room had him opening his eyes. Before he could move Genevieve was pushing up on the bed and looking over at him.

“Lass, I can get Deacon,” he said and leaned in to kiss her.

“No, he is hungry, and besides, I’d better feed him before he wakes Tristan.”

He watched her rise from the bed and pad over, naked, to her dressing gown. She slipped the cotton around her body and smiled over at him. He had a beautiful family, two sons that were strong and would watch over the manor and this land when they were older, and defend it as fiercely and passionately as he had. And he would spend the rest of his days with his wife by his side. He stared at the canopy above him, and then heard her come back into the room. Her gown hung off of one shoulder, and Deacon was latched onto her breast as he nursed. He loved watching her feed his sons, loved the way she hummed to them until they fell asleep, and especially loved that she would caress their tiny heads that were both covered in thick black hair.

“Come here, lass.” He moved over on the bed and curled his arm around her waist and pulled her closer when she sat on the edge. He stared at his son as he nursed, and he ran his finger over Deacon’s wee brow. There was a knock on the door several moments later, and then a servant was bringing Tristan in the room. His young son rubbed his eyes, and fat tears ran down his cheeks. As soon as he saw his mother he ran up to her.

“I’m verra sorry, milord and milady, but young Lord Tristan had a bad dream, and insisted on coming tae ye, even after I tried to ease him.”

Bronson shook his head. “‘Tis okay, Laura.”

The servant nodded and left them alone. Bronson cradled his son on his lap, had his wife and infant beside him, and sighed. He might be a hardened warrior and have killed countless people, but these three were his world. Over the last three years he had not led the life of a warrior, but that was mainly because he had not wanted to leave his family alone if he were to die like his father had. There also had not been any threats ones his land or people, and because of that he had led a pretty quiet existence. After Mattina had been taken away for treason and being an accomplice to kill Genevieve and his unborn child, Bronson had no choice but to make an example of her. He had never harmed women or children, didn’t want to either, but after he had gone to Mattina with plans to banish her, she made it clear she would not give up. She had deceived them, acting as though they could trust her. She told Bronson it was because of him her love was lost, and because of that she would try with her last breath to ruin his life, and his family’s life. That he could not have. But still he hadn’t been able to harm her, and so he sent her away on a ship, far across the sea so that she could forever live her life alone, and thinking about the harm she had caused. She would not be harmed where he had sent her, but she would never be able to harm him or his loved ones again. 

He smoothed his hands over Tristan’s head, and then leaned down to kiss Genevieve and Deacon on the head. He would never let anyone hurt them, would kill for them and die for them. They were his life now. He had never known that there was something he could love more than his land or his clan, but seeing his children, and the woman that had given him those children, Bronson knew that he would fight another thousand battles just to have this moment once more.

****

Twenty-five years later

The Scottish sun shone brightly, and Bronson sat next to Genevieve. They were old now, had a house full of children, and now even a handful of grandbabes. He reached for his wife’s hand. She was older now, but looked gorgeous just the same, and to him had hardly aged in these last twenty-five years. Bronson still trained at the manor, still expected the worst and waited for someone to try to claim what was not theirs. But he was prepared, and with five grown sons to take over his legacy, and three daughters to keep his life holding meaning, Bronson knew that when his time did come where he was to leave this world, his name would not die with him.

“Seanair. Seanair. Look!” Adaira, his youngest granddaughter, called for him in Gaelic. She lifted her hand and showed him the flowers she had picked.

“They grow verra fast, Bronson,” Genevieve said, and when he looked over at her he saw her smiling.

“Aye, lass.” He squeezed her hand and looked around at his family. His two oldest sons, Tristan and Deacon were playing with their children. Tristan had two sons of his own, Bhreac and Nicol. Deacon was with his two wee lasses, Adaira and Dolina, and his son, Paden. Then there were the rest of Bronson’s children and grandbabes, and he smiled at the sight. They had the Lyon signature dark hair and blue eyes, but then there was little Adaira who had taken after Genevieve with her wild red curls and bright green eyes. He turned and faced his wife, and smiled. “Life canna get any better than this, lass.” And then he leaned forward and kissed her.  

The End

www.jenikasnow.com

Other Books by Jenika Snow:

www.evernightpublishing.com/pages/Jenika-Snow.html

If you enjoyed this book, you may also like:

Under the Alpha’s Protection by Doris O’Connor

Magical Curves by Virginia Nelson

Damaged by Erin M. Leaf

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com