Page 14 of Marin’s Promise

“It isna only women who pleasure men with their mouths.” He stroked his thumb against her mouth, the blunt edge of the digit against the seam of her lips. “Men can also pleasure women in such a fashion.”

His thumb probed between her lips and, heaven help her, she could not help but let it pass into her mouth. He groaned, a low, desperate sound that elicited a wild, thrilling power within her. Emboldened, she sucked at the digit. His brows flinched.

“Aye,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Like that.” He eased more of his thumb into her mouth. “And I would part yer legs and lap at ye with my tongue.”

Such a wicked thing should have shocked her, and yet it did not. Nay, it made her hot with curiosity. She ran her tongue over the length of his thumb, the sensitivity of her mouth letting her discern every whorl of his fingerprint and the roughness of a callus.

His eyes were half-lidded and dark as he watched his finger in her mouth. “I want to lick ye, Marin. I want to taste ye until ye cry out.”

A greater part of her wanted that too, a wanton, hungry side. But the stronger part of her knew what she needed to do. It stuck in her mind like a thorn, through each tempting kiss and all the wonderful, lurid descriptions.

He drew his thumb from her mouth and kissed her again, his mouth hot and tasting of the spiced wine he'd drunk earlier. It would be too easy to give in to the seductive words.

Rather than allow herself lustful thoughts, Marin pushed to the forefront the things she ought to recall.

Eversham's sacrifice in his attempt to save Cat. The way her sister had so valiantly hit Bran, a man twice her size, and how the younger girl had pleaded with Marin to let her die to save the castle. Her soldiers locked in the dungeon below the castle. The anticipation of Father's reaction when he discovered Marin had lost Werrick Castle.

She touched Bran's naked chest. His skin was warm and soft, the soap clean scent heady. The coarseness of his hair was masculine and appealing. He pushed closer to her, so her hands pressed to him more firmly. She let her fingers work down the bands of his flat stomach to where their hips touched. To where she hid her dagger.

The metal had heated from where it sat between the heat of their bodies. Marin had to skim its surface several times before finding the hilt. In her efforts, her fingers brushed the hard column of manhood beneath Bran's leather trews. He groaned and ground his hips harder against her.

Pleasure tingled through Marin and made her want to elicit more of his groans, more of his enjoyment. She steeled herself, closed her hand around the hilt and drew out the blade. It slid from its sheath with a telltale metallic hiss. Before surprise could reflect in Bran's eyes, Marin pushed it to his throat.

She meant to keep shoving it until her hands were wet with the life gushing from his body. She meant to kill him and remove his head from his body to show to his men and strike fear into their hearts.

Except he stared at her with as much hurt as he did surprise. It should not have stayed her hand, but it did. And that was her greatest mistake.

It took only that one fractured moment of doubt, of care, for him to grip her hand and twist it so all the strength drained from her fingers and the dagger clattered to the floor. Marin was familiar with the move; she'd used it many times herself. She knew better.

The dagger glinted from the floor.

“Marin,” Bran said, his voice light with chastisement.

That was when she slammed her forehead into his, for no daughter of Werrick went down without a fight.