Page 72 of Bound By Deception

Heat pulsed traitorously low in her stomach at these words. Aye, this arrogant bastard sparked something wild inside her. She became keenly aware then of the hardness and warmth of the body pressed full length against hers.

“Let me go,” she wheezed.

“Tell me who taught you to fight, and I might.”

“My father.”

That wasn’t a lie. Her father, one of Mor’s best warriors, had taught her and Gil a few moves before they both had formal instructors. He’d been hard on them both too—his criticism harsh.

“And why would he do that?”

“It’s how things are done in my family.”

Mac Brochan leaned harder against her, his hold on her wrists tightening. “Try another, less flippant, answer.”

Bree gasped, even as his heat, his scent made her senses reel. “I come from a line of warrior women,” she eventually conceded. Again, it was the truth. “He wanted to continue the tradition.”

“Is that another lie?” His hot breath caressed her neck.

“No.” To Bree’s horror, her answer had come out as a sigh. The Great Raven forgive her, this man’s presence was overwhelming. Her eyes fluttered shut, and, unable to stop herself, she found herself softening her body and sinking back against him.

Moments passed, something shifting between them—a mutual awareness that couldn’t be denied.

When the chief-enforcer spoke, his voice was strained. “Why do you get under my skin?”

“Because I challenge you,” she whispered back. “And you like it.”

Mac Brochan made a rough sound in the back of his throat, tension rippling through his big body.

An instant later, he spun her around to face him once more.

And then, his mouth crashed down upon hers.

The suddenness of it made her gasp, her body stiffening against his, before hunger snapped through her like a bullwhip, and her lips parted to receive him.

They kissed hungrily, violently, tongues tanging and teeth clashing.

Bree bit down on his lower lip and tasted blood.

Mac Brochan grunted a curse against her mouth, hauling her hard against him. Bree answered by wrapping her arms around his neck, her body melting into his as she soothed his lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

And in response, her husband tangled his hands through her hair and deepened the kiss. Bree couldn’t help it—she moaned. His embrace was dominant; it utterly undid her.

She felt it then, the thick column of his arousal, straining against his breeches, and pressing into her belly—and the lust that had caught fire in her veins roared into an inferno.

Iron consume her, she needed this, neededhim. It was wrong. It was dangerous. And yet at that moment, she didn’t care.

Her hands slid down to the broad expanse of his chest, her fingers fumbling as she clawed at his vest. She had to get this off, had to touch his hot skin.

Breathing hard, he broke off the kiss and helped her, tearing off the leather vest and tossing it aside.

Bree lowered her gaze then, her mouth going dry at the sight of the magnificent bulge in his breeches. Suddenly, she ached to free his rod from its leather prison. The wild urge to sink to her knees before him, to take him deep into her mouth and listen to his groans fill the alcove, swept over her.

Sighing, she reached for the laces of his breeches, yet to her surprise, he brushed her hands aside. Before she could protest, he bent down, caught the skirt of her tunic, and lifted it, drawingthe garment up and working it over the swell of her hips and bust, before pulling it over her head.

And when she stood before him, naked save her bronze arm ring, mac Brochan’s gaze devoured her. His lips parted, and his blue eyes darkened to black.

A faint flush had risen to his cheekbones, and his gaze glittered with such hunger that dizziness swept over Bree. No one hadeverlooked at her like that. He gazed upon her as if she were The Maiden herself.

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