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“Oh,” she whispered into his mouth, moving with reckless, wanton little pushes. He molded a hand down the back of one thigh and exerted a small pressure, urging her to lift her leg for him. She did, bending her knee into his hand, shifting so his erection pushed against her, long and thick.
She threw her head back and bit off a cry.
Finian knew the feel of surrender, felt the bending of her spine and, battling the roar of lust surging through his blood, he pulled away. She was completely untutored in her body, that was obvious. The only thing more obvious in all the world was that if the sun rose, it also set, and until tonight, Senna de Valery had known nothing of the shuddering glories her body was created for.
She’d just been awakened.
With no choice in the matter. No real choice. She hadn’t known what was coming. And he couldn’t imagine anything more despicable than doing, with the best of intentions, what he suspected so many others had done with the worst: use her as a means to his own ends.
He let her go.
She stumbled backward, her cheeks flushed, her hair in wild, glinting disarray, her fingers reaching up, touching her face, as if amazed to find herself still there.
He bent over, hands on his thighs, and stared at the ground. “We’ll not have any more of that,” he said to the dirt.
“No,” she gasped. “Certainly not.”
He looked up, palms still pressed on his thighs. Even through the darkness he could see her lips were slightly swollen from his kisses. Her hair was mussed and looked like a dim halo, loose sprays of red star-tails around her nose and cheeks. Her chest was fluttering up and down, her breath unsteady, rapid. Aroused.
He straightened. “Let’s be off.”
“But, what of Dubli—Bathy Clee,” she whispered, trying to pronounce the Irish word.
“Whether we’re going to Dublin or hell, Senna, we first have to go up that hill.” He jerked his head in its direction. “Travel near the highway is unsafe. So,” he added when she opened her mouth, “is talk.”
“Oh?” she retorted, unconsciously gathering a collar she didn’t possess closer to her neck, in a protective feminine gesture. “But kissing is allowed?”
“I don’t know, Senna. That’ll be up to yerself. Is kissing allowed?”
Without waiting to see if she replied, followed, or began ripping her clothes off, a fairly slim likelihood, Finian admitted, he started off, deep into the Irish woods.
Chapter 15
They walked throughout the night, weaving their way deeper into the countryside. Finian kept watch, gently correcting her when she was about to tread into a tree or a hole, but otherwise said little, unless she asked a question, usually shrilly, usually about a sound.
“What was that?” she whispered once, huddling close to his back as they trekked swiftly up an exposed hill.
“A nightjar.” He looked down. “A bird, Senna.”
A few moments later she threw her hand over her heart when they entered a clearing and an owl hooted loudly, swishing overhead. She ducked.
“Ye’ve owls in England, haven’t ye, Senna?” He knew he sounded irritable, which he wasn’t. Not with her. But he was highly irritated with the way his body behaved every time she pressed near.
“I wouldn’t know,” she retorted, sounding just as irritated. “I’m hardly out walking at night a great deal, now, am I?”
He just lifted an eyebrow and kept going. They reached the edge of the clearing and ducked beneath the trees. A flutter of wings and brush exploded beneath their noses. A covey of birds shot into the air. Senna tripped backward and landed on her buttocks.
“And that?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Birds, Senna. Some are ground-dwelling, build their nests in leaves and rocks and such. We disturbed them.”
She scrambled back to her feet and brushed her bottom off with her uninjured hand, grimacing. “I suppose we did.”
Grayness was slowly overtaking the black of night. Even beneath the forest canopy the darkness was lightening. He pointed to a wall of long-clawed brambles just ahead. Some of the thorns were as long as a toe. Senna studied them.
“You jest.”
He started forward. “I never jest about things that bite.”
