Maythorn's Wish (The Fey Quartet Book 1) by Emily Larkin

Ren’s arms. She’d initiated this kiss, but Ren was definitely the master of it. One large, strong hand burned at her waist, the other cradled the back of her head, fingers clenched in her hair, and his mouth . . . Merciful gods, his mouth .
    Whoever would have thought that Ren Blacksmith could kiss like this?
    It was no seduction, but something much more urgent. Ren’s mouth demanded participation. Kiss me, his lips commanded. Kiss me, his tongue cried silently. Kiss me.
    Maythorn needed no urging. She kissed Ren back quite as fiercely as he was kissing her, driven by a desperate, overwhelming desire to possess as much of him as she could. Lips, tongue, teeth. Mine. All mine . She lost track of time. Seconds melted into minutes.
    Ren’s mouth gentled. His hands eased their strong grip. He broke their kiss. His breath fluttered against her cheek, warm and ragged. “Maythorn, will you please marry me?”
    The words flew past Maythorn’s ears like moths in the darkness. It was several seconds before she heard them for what they were.
    Marry Ren?
    For a long moment she couldn’t breathe. Shock held her utterly still. Marry Ren? Had he said that? Had he truly said it?
    Ren drew back slightly. “Please marry me,” he said again, and she heard the uncertainty in his voice. He thinks I hesitate. He thinks I will refuse him.
    “Tomorrow,” Maythorn promised vehemently. “I shall marry you as soon as the sun rises in the sky.”
    Ren released his breath in a quiet sound like a sigh. He gathered her close. He kissed her brow, her eyelids, her jaw. Feather-light kisses, tender and reverent. Each one was a benediction, a wordless declaration of love. He found her mouth again and delved into it.
    Maythorn leaned into the solid warmth of his body. Years, she’d loved Ren. So many years. Year upon year upon year of hopeless, aching, silent love—and now he was holding her, kissing her, wanting to marry her.
    She wanted to laugh with joy, cry with joy. Ren Blacksmith wants to marry me? With the laughter, with the tears, came a jolt of arousal, intense and unexpected, something she’d not felt for more than twenty years. She suddenly wanted—suddenly craved —to have Ren inside her. Her hips rocked against him of their own accord.
    Ren’s hips flexed instinctively back, and he tore his mouth from hers and said breathlessly, “Maythorn?”
    The craving was deep and powerful, clenching in her belly, in her womb. Maythorn gave in to it, rocking against Ren again, this time deliberately.
    Ren uttered a ragged groan. His body was trembling.
    “Please . . .” she whispered.
    Ren stood motionless and unyielding for a long, agonizing second—and then he groaned again, deep in his throat, and gathered her in a crushing embrace and kissed her, his mouth hot and urgent. “I am your most obedient servant.” He released her abruptly, took her hand in a strong grip, and strode from the bridge.
    Maythorn half-ran to keep up. Eagerness mounted in her blood with each step. She imagined peeling off Ren’s clothing, imagined exploring his body, imagined touching him, tasting him, making him cry out with pleasure. They passed the dark shapes of thatched cottages, henhouses, stables. The glow of the bonfire drew nearer.
    He was heading for his cottage, on the other side of the village.
    Maythorn’s eagerness shrank in on itself. No one would censure them, not tonight of all nights—the night when spring became summer, a burgeoning night, a night for procreation—but she could imagine the villagers shouting ribald comments as they passed, imagine Hazel grinning and Ivy watching gravely.
    Maythorn halted.
    Ren’s forward momentum almost jerked her off her feet. He swung round. “What?”
    I can’t pass the bonfire . Maythorn swallowed, and looked around. “Here. The hayloft.”
    Ren stood for a moment, panting. “Hayloft?” And then her words must have penetrated his brain, for he turned and tugged her down the pathway to the