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All she knew was that Ethan’s mouth was on hers. Finally.

His fingers tightened at the nape of her neck, holding her steady. Holding her still for him. The kiss started slow and deep, making her knees weak. His tongue stroked against hers, and when he pulled back to let her catch her breath, he nipped at her bottom lip, dragged his teeth along her jaw, across her throat. She had never been kissed like this before. There was nothing delicate or polite about it. He was ravenous, not just for her touch, but for her pleasure. She felt it in the way he groaned when she pressed closer to him, when she gasped.

Was it wise?

Probably not.

Was it necessary?

Most definitely.

Taking risks with her own safety, her own heart and body, was far easier than risking her sister. This was something she could do for herself. Just for herself.

His knee slid between her legs, and she gasped at the pressure against her sensitive, heated flesh. It wasn’t enough, but even then it was perfect. A tease, a taunt. She moaned again, frustrated.

“What’s the matter, little thorn?” he asked, darkly amused, breath ragged in her ear. “Is there something you want? Something you need?”

She squirmed against him, pulsing with need for his touch.

“Say it,” he ordered her quietly. “Say it and you get what you want. We both get what we want.”

She tried to wriggle closer, to find a rhythm. Friction.

He pinned her in place. “I asked you a question, Briar.”

She narrowed her eyes, feeling far more frantic than she could have predicted.

“What do you want?” he asked again.

She huffed out a desperate breath. “You, you monster.”

He closed his hands over her bottom with a low laugh and lifted her up against his body. Her legs locked around him instinctively and he rocked into her softness, sending bolts of sensations up her thighs and into her core. Her nipples tightened, pressed against his chest. He kissed her throat, just this side of rough. “The things I’m going to do to you,” he said. “But this doesn’t lead to handfastings and sonnets, little thorn.”

She knew what he was saying, knew that he meant it with his own gentlemanly sort of honor. Nights like these often led to compromised reputations, to handfastings and wedding breakfasts. Marriage was supposed to be a prize, a goal. But Midsummer nights, much like Beltane Eve, was a thing on all its own. The rules bent, broke.

And even if they did not, Briar was not a fool. One did not shackle a Black Shuck, or a ship’s captain. Some creatures were meant to stay wild.

Still, she rolled her eyes at him, because, wild or not, Ethan Swansea did not require additional fuel for his ego. “Obviously,” she said. She had her pride, after all. “Or babies,” she added. “I take a moon tea.” Most witches on the island did the same. It was a simple tincture of herbs, with a dash of magic. No one talked about it, but every witch Briar had ever met knew how to ask for it or make it for themselves.

He tilted his head, searching, suddenly ravenous. “If you were wise, you’d tell me to go.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then God help us both.” He walked her out of the sea, his mouth on hers, grinding her against his hardness, fingers splayed, dimpling her flesh. “Not here,” he muttered.

“I’m not delicate,” she argued.

“I’d rather not be murdered by a kelpie.” He released her, letting her drag along the length of him until her bare toes touched the sand. He grabbed her chin. “I have plans for you, little thorn.”

She fumbled with her dress ties, feeling clumsy, on fire. Everything. When he dropped her blanket over her shoulders, she abandoned her dress entirely. He helped her up the cliff steps, toward the cottage. The villagers danced below, bonfires burning. A phoenix streaked past, tail leaving sparks that formed sunwheels and roses and spirals.

They crossed the gardens, the peonies blooming so fast it rained petals as they passed. They kissed against the oak tree, her back pressed to the bark. Lichens bloomed. They kissed against the door, rattling the windows. They kissed and kissed and kissed.

And then Briar found herself sitting on the steps that led to her room, Ethan caging her in with his hard, scarred body. “I’m not waiting a moment longer,” he vowed. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart.”

The filthy cadence of his voice, the flare of his eyes, had her core clenching, her legs parting. He stepped between them, nudging them wider, staring down hard at her until she had to lean back to keep his gaze, her breath catching. He pulled his lawn shirt over his head, revealing the hair-dusted chest tattooed with swallows, the faded scars, the glint of silver and thick, padded muscles. She reached out to touch him as he bent over her, dragging her nails over the planes and ridges. He folded his shirt and placed it under her head to cushion it, smiling wickedly. “Get comfortable, sweetheart. I need my mouth on you.”

She exhaled shakily, her skirts pushed up to her thighs, her cheeks flushed. Wanton. She felt wanton.