Page 69 of Prize of the Warlord
“Two,” he replies.
My thighs tense. “Olsa?”
“No. Both times were quick trysts with women from other clans I was visiting. They wanted me, but not this much. You are a river of lust, treasure. I will slide into you easily.” He kisses one of my ass cheeks, and the tingling press of his mouth there makes me whimper with craving.
He grips my hips and tugs me closer. Then he moves one hand to the small of my back. “Breathe with me,” he says. “Let your body relax. You’re ready.”
Closing my eyes, I inhale, slow and steady. The broad, hot tip of him nestles against my folds, pressing deeper each time we breathe together. Deeper, and deeper still, sinking into me, while every sensitized bit of my skin thrills with the invasion. All of a sudden he pushes firmly, seating himself to the hilt, and I squeal because it burns—he’s so thick, and I’m stretched around him tight, too tight. At the same time I’m thrilling inside, pulsing through the burn of it.
“The worst is done,” he says in a strangled voice.
“You fit,” I murmur, smiling, with a little wriggle of my rear.
He gasps broken words in his language and groans, “Hold still, mouse, or I’ll come before I want to.”
But I need him to move. This tight, slow stretch is too much—I need motion.
“Play the game,” I say. “You are the Warlord, and I am your prize. I know you’ve wanted to claim me. Do it.” And I shift my hips backward, pushing him even deeper into me.
The Warlord responds with a guttural snarl. He tangles one hand in my hair and pushes my head down to the mattress. His hips begin to rock, tugging his length halfway out before slamming in again. The sheer brute force of him overwhelms me, enraptures me. It burns, it burns—but it’s feeling better already as my body liquefies even more for him. The rush of him thrusting, thrusting—the heavy press of his palm holding me down—the harsh low grunts bursting from his throat—it’s primal, forceful, savage. It’s everything I need.
My fingers scrunch the sheets of the bed, and I breathe in tandem with its rhythmic creak as Cronan thrusts. I’m being taken by the Warlord. His entire length is ramming into me, over and over. This is what my primitive self has wanted from the moment he called me back from the edge of death.
Tension coils low in my belly, tightening and thrilling, tighter, tighter—
“Oh gods, Cronan.” His name is a hoarse cry from my lips, and he pushes deeper, so deep that my body arches involuntarily, and I lift my head from the mattress.
His hand leaves my skull and wraps around my throat, urging my spine to curve even further, but he doesn’t squeeze my neck. He knows that playing with my breath could be perilous.
“Touch me,” I plead. “I’m close, so close—touch me—”
His hand leaves my throat. “This damn dress,” he huffs, shoving the skirts aside again as he struggles for access to my intimate parts.
“You should have taken it off me.”
He reaches beneath my belly, and his rough fingers tuck themselves right against the spot between my legs, right where I need friction. As his fingertips press and play, he thrusts slow and heavy, while the most tantalizing raw moans issue from his mouth.
The pad of his forefinger is the sun of my world, and his shaft is the thick, molten core. I am coalescing, clenching—he speeds up, abandoning himself, roaring his lust, and I let myself cry out too, as everything in my body tightens and bursts, a shining geyser of ecstasy so strong I can’t stand it, I can’t—I can’t breathe—the Warlord’s length flexes inside me, heat jetting from him.
“Breathe with me,” he commands, and I do, while he slides gently back and forth just a little, soothing both of us through the glimmering pleasure as it fades.
Then he slips out, and crashes beside me on the bed.
“Are you well?” he asks.
“Mmm,” I respond dizzily, smiling.
He chuckles. “I’ll be ready again soon. I can go six times in a night.”
I gape at him. “How do you know?”
“I have tested myself. What else is a man to do, faced with hours of watch duty in the wilderness, while everyone else sleeps?”
“You disgusting barbarian.”
He laughs and sits up, grasping my shoulder and rolling me over onto my back. With both hands on my thighs, he spreads my legs wide and surveys his work. I can only imagine what he’s seeing—how flushed and swollen that part of me is, how wet with my own arousal and dripping with his essence.
The Warlord lifts his eyes to mine. “I love you in many ways,” he says softly. “Riding away on my horse and leaving me to die. Running back to save me from the Bloodsalt. Looking at me so earnestly while you tell me what I need to hear. And like this…” He trails a finger along my slit, and I sigh and squirm, craving him again. “I love you like this.”
