Free Pamela Morsi by Sweetwood Bride

urge her tightly to the ache in the front of his trousers.
    He moaned at the contact. It was everything. It was not nearly enough.
    He squeezed and handled her backside pleasurably for several moments before recalling with enthusiasm what little impediment her thin josey was to him. He jerked the hem of the singular undergarment out of his way, and immediately his hands encountered her bare flesh. The smooth, delicate skin covering a firm, rounded derriere was far too great a temptation to resist. He didn’t even try. Exploring with urgency, he clasped and caressed and cosseted. His huge hands could cover her completely. It made him feel powerful, masculine, conquering.
    He needed more. His only thought, if thought it was and not instinct, was to be inside her.
    Ending the kiss with a hasty reluctance, he circled her waist sat her once more on the edge of the kitchen table. He grasped her knees and parted them, stepping in close between her thighs. The scent of her arousal spurred him forward. He wanted her. He wanted all of her. And he wanted it all now.
    He lowered his head to her bosom. The nipples were hardened and thrust out before him as if pleading for his attention. His tongue snaked out and swiped at the right one.
    “Oh! Oh! That’s … oh, that’s …”
    She was talking again. Somehow it no longer bothered him.
    He nuzzled against her and sucked at her breasts, voracious in appetite. He soothed and massaged the smooth straightness of her back, following the trail of her spine from between her shoulder blades to the narrowness of her waist and beyond.
    She buried her hands in his hair, stroking him and holding him against her. There was no need. He wasn’t moving away. And the touch of her fingers only excited him further.
    Her heels dug into the back of his thighs urging him forward. And he was ready. The furies of nature set course for his destination. He wanted to be inside her.
    “Um yes … oh yes, that … oh …”
    Her words no longer had sense or pattern. They spoke to him with amazing clarity.
    Moss released his hold upon her just long enough to jerk the galluses from his shoulders and allowed them to dangle near his knees. He clasped her waist again, not able to bear the loss of contact for more than an instant.
    He stood at full height once more, reluctant to leave the warmth of her bosom but eager to taste her lips again. She met his mouth, her own open, willing. She wrapped her arms around his neck, giving as he got.
    The hot, sweet flavor of her fired him beyond caution.
    Moss reached for the buttons of his trousers. Beneath them, his erection strained and ached and pulsed with need.
    “Eulie, you in there?”
    The words crashed in upon the tiny, fog-lit world of two people with the effect of dousing cold water on a pair of hounds.
    “Rans!” Her voice was almost a squeak.
    Moss glanced toward the door. The boy stood there, slack-jawed and staring.
    Contrary reactions swept through Moss. He wanted to chase the boy away. He wanted to protect the modesty of the woman in his arms.
    Instinctively, he chose the latter, moving closer to shield her body from the sight of the intruder.
    “Get out of here!” he yelled furiously.
    “I was just …” her brother began, flustered. “I come back and saw the light and—”
    “Get out of here!”
    The boy fled. And with him went every drop of mutual passion.
    Moss looked at the woman in his arms. Embarrassed, she had covered her bosom with an arm and was trying to pull down the hem of her josey to cover her nakedness.
    He released her immediately and turned his back to her.
    “Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said.

5
    T HE sounds of a raucous fiddle filled the mountain clearing lit by the glow of a dozen torches. He stood in the middle of the shouting cheering circle.
    Shuffle, slap, heel, stomp. Shuffle, slap, heel, stomp. Stomp, kick. Stomp, kick.
    He glanced over at his rival. Pomper Dickson was a sleek-limbed and graceful dancer, but now he was