He was a beast, a monster – and she loved it. He could make her feel so thoroughly debauched so very easily although some would chalk that up to having never been with another lover. If only they knew. If only.
And she loved that he was absolutely no nonsense, especially at times like this. The press of his fingers on her hips was rough and she squeaked at an impossibly high pitch when he pressed into her. Mae wrapped her arms around his neck, thrusting her hips up into his as rough and hard and fast. The movement ripped a series of sharp gasps from her, steadily growing in volume.
She never held back – never learned how, never had a reason to except in those formative years when all her thoughts were of Cathair anyhow. Thoughts and fingers and suffered whimpers in the privacy of her bedroom.