Swiftcurrent Creek seguir [m]

She sensed something in him—reading his mood without a word to be spoken, and then she was in his arms, melding them together as she swiftly knocked all thought from his mind that did not involve the lissome woman in his embrace.

He could not dwell on just how right she felt there, against him—how she smelled… Her heart was unavailable, that much had been made clear.

She had laid their terms out quite plainly in their first interlude—it would do him no good to linger on possibilities of anything further. But that did not mean he would not enjoy these stolen moments, and as she seared him with kisses, eager for him, he found the rumble of his chest a more feral sound, his own kisses returned with a need for release of it all.


He shifted. His teeth trailing heated kisses to her collarbone--murmuring to her words of endearment in whatever language came to mind at the time--gaelic, french, english... No word in any dialect could truly describe how he felt in that moment.