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Her breath was comprised of stuttered gasps. He gave a little pump and she looked down to watch the thick, engorged head of him emerge from between her thighs in front. She loosed another ragged sob, helpless, holding onto the powerful forearm wrapped around her belly for support, and squeezed her thighs around him, rocking back and forth.
He made some low male sound, like a curse, like approval. He began pumping, harder, and reached down to cup his shaft as it came out in front, guiding it and holding it tight up against her, so every stroke ran the length of her, parting the hot, slippery folds, forcing himself into the private space.
“Move on me,” he ordered, but she already was.
Her body was in constant motion, pushing for more. Her hips rocked, one hand still curled around his forearm, the other reaching behind her to cup his head, her body arched, her spine curved, her throat exposed, her bottom bumping his groin every time she rocked back to meet his thrust, her breasts thrust up, her nipples so hard they hurt. She felt strung up like a sacrifice. She could hardly breathe through the pleasure of it.
His accelerated breath, male and heavy, came beside her ear. “Now, spread your legs,” he ordered.
Broken by desire, she did.
“Bend over.”
The breath shot out of her as she did his bidding again, desperate for him to release her from this perfect torment. He laid a hand between her shoulder blades and bent her more, pushing her bottom up to him.
Her hair was a tangle, falling unbound down the curve of her back. He brushed it to the side and was still for a second, then, low and rough, he said, “Jésu, Maggie.”
That was all he said, but it made her tremble from the force of the rough, barely-restrained want.
His hands closed around her hips. She was breathing so fast her head spun. Positioning himself, he nudged the thick head of his shaft to her entry and without pause, thrust it up inside her.
Her head jerked back as if tugged on a string.
“Och.” It was a low, harsh male exhale. “Good.”
He rocked again, encroaching deeper, slowly more, filling her. Thick pleasure filled her from the inside out. Golden pleasure, hard pleasure, an undulation of pleasure.
He didn’t stop. His fingers pressed into her hips, trapping her and holding her up, and he did it again. Hard, silken and hot, it was a masterful thrust, spreading her wide. She sobbed as her body bucked and her inner muscles spasmed around him. His breath was harsh now, full male, mingling with her whispered gasps.
“Lass, you feel good,” he rasped in a dark whisper, right by her ear.
“Tadhg,” it was a broken gasp, nothing more.
“I’m not going to be kind.”
“Please.”
He put a hand on her hip and lowered her to their bed of hay.
Dizzy, she could do nothing but his bidding as he made her rise up on her hands and knees. Then, from behind, he entered her again, sank in with hard intent, a deep, penetration that yanked her head back with a sobbed, incoherent scream of pleasure.
Just as he’d said.
He took her mercilessly, with hard, punishing thrusts, all semblance of restraint gone. It was unkind, vicious, perfect. She rocked back to take every one, pushing her bottom up to him, her knees sliding out, her breasts bouncing. The front of his thighs banged against the back of hers with every plunge, a reminder of his strength, that even now, he was likely restraining himself for her. His palm skidded up her sweaty back and rested between her shoulder blades and pushed down slightly, changing their angle. Rippling cords of pleasure coursed through her, rhythmic and deep.
“Is this good, Maggie?” he murmured, wicked and dark.
She made some inarticulate sound.
“Do you still want more?”
“Oh, aye.” She had no notion what she was saying; words were poring from her, sounds and gasps and helpless cries.
“Touch yourself.”
“Oh Tadhg,” she whispered helplessly, but dragged her heavy, waxen arm beneath her body and, pressing her cheek to the blanket, slid her fingertip into her own wetness.
Her entire body bucked, jerking against him.
