sleep, but he’d known that being with her would make every sleepless minute worthwhile. “I’m at least halfway to being in love with you,” he said.
“Good. Because I’m not going there alone,” she said, her words ringing with conviction despite how breathless they were.
“Then we’re agreed.” He rode her hard, reaching out to hold her hair. By the time he was done with her, Jennifer would know she was his.
She didn’t have to tell him she was ready to come. He felt her go rigid, heard her desperate gasps.
His balls drew up, and he thrust deep inside her, burying himself to the hilt.
Her internal muscles clenched, milking an ejaculation from him.
With a guttural, primal grunt, he came, deep, hot, claiming.
“Fuck. Master Logan!”
For a moment or two, long enough to be freaky, he had an absence of thought, of contentment. He wondered how long it had been since he’d felt this relaxed.
Eventually he became aware of his cock softening and her shifting to get more comfortable. “You’re a magnificent sub,” he said.
He took his time removing the alligators, gently squeezing her nipples until she stopped groaning and they returned to their normal size.
“I don’t know whether I love or hate those evil little clamps.” She frowned.
“You had them on when I arrived.”
Her next comment was spoken into the bedspread.
“Repeat that.”
“I wasn’t able to climax without them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Along with every other detail about her.
He unfastened her wrists then helped her stand before turning her to face him.
She threaded her arms around his neck and buried herself against his chest. There was nothing that could have been more perfect or a bigger symbol of her trust. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he warned like he had last week.
Jennifer looked up and gave him a bratty smile. “Bring it. Sir.”
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing and
in paperback at WHSmith:
Bound and Determined
Sierra Cartwright
Excerpt
Chapter One
Bollocks.
Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo.
He’d seen pictures of her—his sworn enemy—online. His luggage contained a folder full of information about her.
He’d chased her across two continents and through half a dozen cities in the United States. He thought he knew everything about her yet nothing had prepared him for the first in-person sight of her.
He’d known she was an Irish step dancer, but the dossier provided by his grandmother’s people hadn’t mentioned that the talented Ms O’Malley also played three different types of drums as well as the bagpipes.
Seeing a good-looking woman, enemy or not, in snapshots was one thing, but he’d had no idea he’d have such an immediate, raw, unwanted masculine reaction to seeing her athletic body.
Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. He imagined he could see her nipples all the way from here.
Her kilt was way too fecking short. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a pair of sexy black knickers. At least she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt.
Her muscular legs were bare, and her socks had pooled around her ankles.
Even though he watched her squeeze the pipes from halfway across the pub, his cock hardened.
Noise in the room diminished as gazes turned towards the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public and he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.
He took another long drink from the glass. He’d be needing another pint in only minutes. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of Sinead O’Malley and manage her he would.
He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. Claim her as his.
The eight-hundred-year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.
Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her knickers, make her call him Sir as he fucked her ragged on top of a table, he bided his time.
She’d started dancing with the group a few years ago as a way to pick up