Free The Striker by Monica Mccarty Page B

from experience. In the five or six times that she’d allowed Tristan to kiss her, she’d never felt a fraction of this kind of fervor. She’d never felt anything like this at all.
    All that she knew was that she wanted him—more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Her fingers gripped the hard ridges of muscle on his shoulders as if she would never let go. He was even taller and bigger than she realized up close like this, making her feel oddly vulnerable.
    She wanted to kiss him, to feel his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her body, and his big, battle-hard body wrapped around her. She wanted to inhale the delicious masculine scent of pine and soap. She wanted to feel her breasts crushed against his chest and her hips pressed against his. She didn’t know how much she wanted that until she felt the thick club of him against her stomach. Good lord! And then she couldn’t seem to think of much else.
    Desire crashed over her in a drenching wave, dragging her under. She felt so heavy. Especially her breasts and the intimate place between her legs. She moaned at each new sensation as he kissed her deeper and harder, silently urging him to give her more.
    He answered with a groan and more pressure. Their bodies seemed to be melded together. She could feel the hard flex of his arm muscles as he drew her in tighter and tighter. Their tongues circled and sparred, waging a desperate battle of desire and urgency. Yet she never felt threatened. Even in the midst of this fierce onslaught of passion, there was an underlying emotion she didn’t recognize but trusted. It felt almost like tenderness, which seemed silly given the frenzy of the kiss. But it was there, squeezing her chest and hovering over her like a warm sentinel, silent and protecting.
    His jaw scratched the tender skin of her chin, but she didn’t care. Closer . . . Harder . . . She wanted to be consumed. She wanted to melt into him. To become one.
    His hand was no longer in her hair. It was on her bottom, lifting her . . .
    The floor dropped out of her stomach. A rush of liquid warmth flooded between her legs. She could feel him, the hard column of his manhood fitted intimately against her. It felt . . . big . Powerful. And really, really good.
    Especially when he started to move his hips in insistent little circles. Her stomach dropped again, and the place between her legs grew even warmer and more needy. Her body trembled. She ached to press back. And she would have, had the sound of the door opening not torn them apart.
    He released her so suddenly she stumbled and might have fallen had she not hit the stone support of the wall behind her.
    â€œMacLean, are you—” The man stopped, and seeing them, he swore. Still in a lust-induced daze, it took Margaret a moment to recognize Eoin’s foster brother standing in the doorway. “Oh hell, I didn’t meant to . . . interrupt.”
    Though there was nothing overtly lascivious or suggestive in his tone, the way his eyes slid over her bruised mouth and still-heaving chest when he said the last made her stiffen.
    Eoin recovered faster than she did. He stepped in front of her. The instinctively protective gesture—as if he could shield her from the embarrassment of being discovered in such an intimate embrace—was surprisingly sweet. She felt a strange swell of warmth fill her chest.
    â€œI will join you in a moment, Fin,” he said sharply.
    Fin gave him a slow smile. This time there was no mistaking the suggestiveness. “Take as long as you need.”
    Margaret couldn’t see Eoin’s expression, but from how fast his friend left the room, she suspected it had been threatening.
    By time he turned back to her, however, the look was gone, replaced by the inscrutable mask. “I owe you an apology. That never should have happened.”
    Looking at his hard, implacable features, it was hard to