Mist's Edge (The Broken Lands #2) - T.A. White Page 0,156
sidled closer, his larger form dwarfing hers. He laid his lips against her neck, then smiled against her skin at the breathless sound that escaped her. He feathered his lips along her jaw, breathing in that indelible scent that signified Shea. A scent that reminded him of the combination of wildflowers and the chill bite of mountain air.
“We can’t. There are too many people around.” Shea’s voice was filled with regret even as she tilted her head to give him better access.
Her modesty always surprised him, given how little privacy a nomadic life of expeditions offered. The knowledge that she’d preserved this part of herself was another piece of the puzzle that he never got tired of assembling.
“My men can keep the others away from us.”
“And what about them?”
He pulled back, cupping her face in his large palms. “I’m the Warlord. If I tell them not to listen, they won’t.”
Her snort of disbelief might have offended a more sensitive man. He found himself delighted, playful in a way that he had never had the chance to be.
“Fallon.”
Her resolve was weakening; he could sense it. He held himself still, a predator knowing when to wait out his prey. Pressure would make her choose the opposite—just because she could.
“We can be quiet.” His hand found its way under her shirt to rest against her waist, one thumb moving in a gentle caress against her skin. He’d missed the feel of her during this journey and he consoled himself with that single caress.
She sighed. That was all the permission he needed. He swept her into his arms finding a spot on the ground as his lips found hers. Together, they consumed each other—their passion burning through them with a fury fed by their abstinence over the last week. The knowledge they were surrounded by his men and could be interrupted at any moment lent urgency to their movements.
This time he didn’t have the patience for gentle, his hands rough, as they pulled her shirt over her head and bared her to the dim light. It was a shame he couldn’t see her better, only able to see the slight glow of her flesh. Her hands yanked and pulled, urging his tunic over his head.
He ripped her pants off, dropping his lower body between her legs and pressing hard against her, glorying in the pressure, the warmth between her thighs. He hissed as she sank her nails into his back, trying to bring him closer.
Her movements became frantic as he moved one hand between them, his fingers gliding through her folds to dip into her center for one pump, two, before withdrawing to circle that delicate bundle of nerves at the top of her sex.
Her hips tried to follow him as he withdrew, and he chuckled even as he pressed one palm on her belly to keep her still. She made a sound of protest, even as her legs rose and clutched at him, trying to force him back. Her slight frame belied her strength, one that was built over numerous mountains climbed and miles traveled.
Her movements were sinuous and full of power as she tried to take control and flip him onto his back in a move he knew one of his men must have taught her. It was only because of endless hours of practice countering that same move that he managed to quell her attempt at domination.
His chuckle was warm in her ear as he pinched her nipple between his fingers and gently pulled. It was her turn to hiss at the pleasure pain.
He kissed and nipped his way down her body, soothing the sting of his bites with gentle kisses. Reaching the spot at the apex of her thighs, he ran his nose down the side where the thigh joined with her torso and inhaled, glorying in the scent of her arousal. It was a sensitive spot. One he’d found quite by accident and had taken advantage of ever since.
Her gasp drove him on as he tempted and teased, her almost silent cries urging him as he licked and sucked. He thrust one finger into her channel then joined it with another, the strangled gasp she gave letting him know she liked it. Her thighs clenched around his ears even as he gave her no quarter, the muscles tensing and flexing as she tried to resist, to fight her climax as she always did. It was always a battle, one he took pleasure in winning.