Kerrigan Byrne

The ghost of a boy long dead, and yet who lived on. Perhaps not in name, or perhaps in name only.

It had been almost twenty years since anyone had touched him in a way not meant to cause pain.

“I find that jealousy becomes you, wife.”

The lass had been the first person to ever touch him in a way that wasn’t meant to hurt. He didn’t know why he’d been so nasty to her.

“How am I supposed to doctor your wounds if you insist on hiding them from me?”

Dougan leaned forward and extended his palm toward her.

She winced at the broken flesh, but cradled his wounded hand in both of hers like one would a baby bird, before reaching for the bowl of water to trickle it over the cut.

And what will ye call me?” he asked.

“Friend,” she said instantly,

His dark eye flashed the moment before his hard mouth bore down on hers. His kiss felt like a punishment, but for what she couldn’t be sure. Because he wanted her? Because she wanted him?

When the pressure became too much, Farah made a sound of distress, and he broke the kiss.

Their next kiss they shared with the tilt of a smile, their teeth softly rasping against one another’s as he spread the corset beneath her and pinched the hem of her chemise.

She could feel how drenched they’d become, absorbing the moisture of her desire, the friction creating a stronger, slicker surge followed by a shocking burst of pleasure as he ground them harder against her.