Free The Striker by Monica Mccarty Page A

her reputation. He didn’t realize how close they were standing until she straightened her spine and the dart of her nipples grazed his chest.
    His knees almost buckled. He clenched his teeth against the guttural groan of pleasure that sent a flood of heat to his groin.
    She lifted her chin, tilting her head back to meet his angry glare. “A man like you, you mean?”
    Whether it was sarcasm or a challenge, he didn’t know, but Eoin’s control snapped. He wanted to punish her. He wanted to teach her a lesson. He wanted to prove to her that she played a dangerous game.
    But most of all he wanted to kiss her so badly he couldn’t see straight.
    â€œAye, that’s exactly what I mean.” He slid his arm around her waist and hauled her up against him. It was so bloody perfect he couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to. All of those lush, feminine curves molded against him felt incredible. He was hard against her. Pounding. Throbbing. Even when he was a lad he’d never felt desire like this so intensely. Need had reached up and grabbed him by the cock, stroking, licking, with more potency than a wanton’s tongue.
    He took advantage of her gasp and lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch, the first taste of her was like wildfire. Heat engulfed him. Pleasure tore through him in a scorching frenzy. Whatever rationality he might have still possessed went up in flames when she opened her mouth and kissed him back.

    Margaret had laughed when her brother Duncan caught her kissing Tristan in one of the caves below Dunskey Castle last year and warned her to be careful. She was playing with fire, he’d said. A kiss was one thing, but it could very easily end with something else. Beyond the fact that he referred to fornicating, she hadn’t understood and thought he was exaggerating.
    Out of control? Dangerous? What was he talking about? There was nothing that felt dangerous about kissing Tristan. It was pleasant and nice, but she was fully aware of what was happening. She wasn’t going to end up with her feet by her ears, grunting enthusiastically, as she’d had the misfortune of witnessing more than once when visitors bedded down for the night in the very un-private Hall of Garthland.
    But Margaret wasn’t laughing now. If anything her brother had understated the danger. Curiosity and experimentation might not be dangerous, but passion certainly was. And the moment Eoin MacLean had pulled her into his arms she’d felt the difference to the bottom of her soul.
    Desire practically exploded between them. All those sensations awakened and primed by their dance returned even more powerfully. A blast of heat poured over her in a molten wave. The strength of his arms and powerfully muscled body against her made her weak. She felt stunned—dazed—as if she’d fallen into a bog of sensation and couldn’t pull herself out. Or rather didn’t want to pull herself out because it felt too good. He felt too good.
    She didn’t want him to stop. Ever.
    His mouth was hot and possessive. He kissed her as if he belonged there. And truth be told, it felt as if she did.
    He tasted of an intoxicating mix of cloves and whisky, and she drank him in, opening her lips to taste him deeper. The deft strokes of his tongue weren’t tentative and probing like she expected but fierce and demanding. The first powerful stroke licked all the way down between her legs and nearly made them collapse.
    She felt a strange fluttering low in her belly that made her moan with pleasure. He answered with a harsh groan that sounded almost like a curse. Whatever restraint had existed between them in those first few moments was gone.
    His hand plunged through her hair to cup the back of her head and his kiss turned punishing, ravishing, desperate. She understood because she felt it, too. She was kissing him back with passion that seemed to spring from nowhere, borne more from instinct than