Storm Maiden (23 page)

He let her gently down and went to his
knees, steadying her with his hands on her hips. Then he reached up
and tore her gown down to her waist, burying his face in the
softness of her breasts. Her scent tantalized him. The luxuriant
warmth of her skin made him ache. He nuzzled both her breasts, then
found one taut point and suckled. She cried out and her hips
jerked. He deepened the pressure on her sensitive flesh until he
had to strain to hold her writhing body. Then his mouth explored
her other breast, tasting her fully.

Slowly, he released her. Pulling off her
garment, he lifted her onto the bed. He arranged her bare limbs so
her breasts were exposed, her legs splayed to reveal the glistening
pink folds of her womanhood. Then he leaned over her, scrutinizing
every inch of her beauty. He moved his hand between her thighs and
fondled her, watching her face. It gratified him to see her eyes
darken with passion, her lips part with ecstasy, her cheeks flush
with rosy heat. Her body went suddenly rigid, her engorged nipples
jutting upwards, her slender rib cage arching, her hips straining
against his hand.

She sat up and grabbed his wrist, whispering
imploring, desperate words. He kissed her then stood to remove his
clothes. He had barely removed his trews when she again reached for
him, her hand closing around his shaft. He moaned and moved to
settle himself beside her on the bed.

Her hand shook as she touched him, clumsy
and tentative at first. The awkwardness of her maiden’s touch
aroused him even more. He tensed his muscles, struggling for
control. He would not waste his seed this first time with her. He
would plant it deep within her virgin thighs.

Mercifully, her hand left his groin and she
leaned over him to caress the rest of his body. She twined her
fingers in his hair, stroked his face and jaw then swept her
fingers lovingly over his chest and shoulders. He endured her
caresses by taking slow, even breaths and remembering that he had
suffered it once before. Then he hadn’t known any hope of finishing
their loveplay; this time he did.

She kissed him, her mouth sampling his as
his had hers. He shuddered as her warm lips moved over his neck and
shoulders. She paused to draw one of his nipples into her mouth,
and he felt a vague pleasure that startled him. In her innocence,
she had discovered something no other woman had.

Her hot breath seared down his belly,
tracing his body hair to his groin. She moved her face against his
shaft, then kissed him. He thought she might take him into her
mouth, but she did not. He breathed a sigh of relief; at this
intensity of excitement, some pleasures were unendurable.

When she returned her lips to his throat and
pressed herself against him, he decided it was time. He eased her
on her back and kneeled above her. He spread her thighs again then
fondled her silken folds to gauge her readiness. She was very wet,
and the way she moaned attested to her eagerness. But he worried he
would hurt her. He eased a finger inside her, then a second. She
cried out softly, as if in pain. He withdrew his hand, thinking
they should engage in more loveplay.

But Fiona had other ideas. she reached for
him and spoke in a breathless, urgent voice he could not deny.

Positioning himself against her slippery
opening, he pressed into her a bare inch. She moaned, but didn’t
cry out. He eased in deeper until he felt the barrier of her
maidenhead. He gasped as the pressure of her tight passageway
nearly undid him, then thrust in fully, driven half-mad by the urge
to penetrate her warm, mysterious femaleness.

He heard her cry out and forced himself to
remain still. The primitive desire to yield to his body’s rhythm,
to possess her with hard, swift strokes, pounded at his brain. But
the feel of her beneath him—her slim body impaled by his strength
and power—reminded him that he wanted their lovemaking to last, to
satisfy her as it did him.

To distract himself, he began to whisper to
her, knowing that she understood not a word. He told her how
wonderful it felt to be inside her, how warm and welcoming her body
felt. He told her how soft her skin was, how perfect her breasts,
how beautiful her hair. How her lips made him want to kiss her
endlessly. He told her how perfectly her buttocks fit into his
hands and how lovely she looked between her thighs, the way the
dark, silky hair over her mound curled like dark moss and her
nether lips were like the petals of a rosy, dew-kissed flower.

He told her all the things he wanted to do
to her, using crude and masculine words to describe her body and
the pleasure he wanted her to experience in his bed.

She listened, and he felt her relax. He took
a deep breath, sensing her trust, and began to move. His rhythm was
slow and deep, not so savage as to hurt her, not so gentle as to
deny his satisfaction completely.

He felt her stretch around him and quickened
the tempo of his strokes. His control shattered. Fire erupted in
his brain and shot down his body. He made one last lunge inside her
and felt his seed explode against her womb.

When he became aware again, he quickly
rolled off of her, fearful he had hurt her. Immediately, she
cuddled against his chest, sighing softly. With his free hand, he
pulled the bedfurs over them and settled her in the hollow his body
formed when he curled on his side. It felt good to have her
buttocks pressed against his thighs, her breasts soft and warm in
his embrace.

He sighed. She was content, and so was
he.

The gods help her—how did this man fall
asleep so quickly, as if he simply willed it? She wouldn’t sleep
for hours, if at all.

Fiona wriggled away from Dag’s embrace and
moved her hand down to touch herself, exploring the strange,
still-moist flesh between her thighs. She had barely been aware of
this part of herself before, although she knew it for the place
where a man planted his seed to make babies grow. Now it seemed the
very center of her.

Cautiously, she found the slippery opening
and pushed a finger inside as Dag had done. Her woman’s place felt
like a sheath, narrow and slick. It also felt sore. No wonder,
after his big shaft had filled her. But she had wanted him to do
it. There was something about the way he touched her, the feelings
he aroused, which made her ache for their joining.

Fiona shivered. She didn’t like to think of
the power this man had over her, the knowledge he seemed to have of
her body that even she herself didn’t possess. For a time, she had
lacked any control over her actions, responding blindly to some
primitive force that drove her to mate like an animal.

At least Dag had been as helpless as she to
control the whirlwind that overtook them. She recalled his
extravagant release, the way his neck arched and his body jerked as
he cried out. The memory evoked an intense response that frightened
her. She couldn’t allow herself to feel tenderness toward this man.
He was still her master, and she a slave.
She dare not forget
that.

She turned over, adjusting Dag’s heavy arm
so she was more comfortable, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Dag stirred, suddenly aware of Fiona’s soft
body pressed against his. Arousal, comfort, and doubt all warred
for his attention. How long had it been since he had known the
luxury of a woman’s supple curves welcoming him in the morning?
Kira, his mind reminded him. She was the last woman he had lain
with all night.

His apprehension deepened at the thought.
Would this woman disappoint him as Kira had?

She shifted slightly, and one of her breasts
rubbed against his arm, distracting him from his worries. He
reached to smooth her silky hair away from her face. She was so
lovely. He wanted her again and again. She turned to face him. As
her eyes met his, he saw her surprise and confusion at finding him
so close. He smiled at her.

He wanted to begin lovemaking again but felt
uncertain how to proceed. The crude way he had seduced her the
night before didn’t seem appropriate now. He could scarcely believe
he had handled her so intimately in a roomful of men. At the time
he’d felt she owed him her compliance, but he no longer knew the
urge to act like a demanding brute. This time, he would not be so
selfish, so unsubtle.

She sat up with a kind of moan, and his eyes
went immediately to her groin. Realizing she was sore, he climbed
out of the bed and went to his storage chest. On top, along with
the lamp. He kept a beaker of water for drinking if he became
thirsty during the night. Grabbing one of his old tunics hanging
along the wall, he tore off a piece then dipped the cloth in the
water.

Returning to the bed, he motioned Fiona over
to the edge. She slid toward him and sat there, looking hesitant.
With swift efficiency, he knelt in front of her and pushed her
thighs apart. She gasped as he brought the wet cloth against her
body. He ignored her reaction and began to wash the dried blood and
semen from her upper thighs and between her legs.

Although he tried to be gentle, she tensed
as he rubbed her. He glanced at her face and decided it was
embarrassment that made her resist. He continued cleaning until,
satisfied, he threw the cloth aside. She waited, motionless.
Between her thighs, she looked rosy and swollen, and absolutely
enticing. Following an impulse he had never felt before, Dag leaned
down and kissed her, pressing his mouth against her silken folds.
She jerked and tried to pull away. He held her tightly, his hands
firmly grasping her hips.

She moaned frantically and grew moist and
slippery as he tasted her. Salty and earthy—exactly as a woman
should taste. He sensed the tension building in her body, felt her
shudder. Her hips arched. The wetness seeped from her body.
Exploring, he put his tongue inside her. Her hips thrashed and she
cried out. He repeated the motion, probing her with light,
fluttering strokes. She screamed, an uninhibited shriek of
fulfillment.

He kissed her tenderly, waiting for the
waves of her pleasure to subside. When he finally released her, her
eyes appeared unfocused, her face flushed. She met his gaze, and he
tried to smile reassuringly at her. She looked more uneasy than
ever.

He ran his fingers down her long slim back,
feeling his own desire. He must have her again before the day was
over. If he brought her to climax again, mayhap she would let him
satisfy his need to mate with her.

But that was for later. He could hear the
men stirring in the longhouse, and he had promised the shipwright,
Ranveig, that he would go out and look at timber for new strakes
for the
Storm Maiden.

He broke off the embrace, retrieved his
clothes, and began to dress. Fiona pulled up the blanket to cover
herself and watched him with a dazed expression. He wanted to tell
her his plans, to reassure her that he did not really want to leave
her. Of course, he hadn’t the words.

He gestured as he went to the door, trying
to indicate that he was wanted in the hall. She watched him,
seemingly bewildered. Crossing to the bed, he kissed her quickly
before he left.

Fiona stared at the door through which Dag
had left. She couldn’t decide if she felt mortified or rapturous.
Sweet Saint Agnes, she’d never heard of a man kissing a woman
there!
Faint waves of completion still washed through
her.

She stood up abruptly, seeking to banish the
haze of satisfaction that clung to her. Turmoil immediately
replaced contentment. How could she have let herself lose control
so completely? She must not forget how she had come to be here,
that the Vikings had taken her prisoner and killed her kin.

But Dag is not like that,
a part of
her mind told her.
He cares for you.
Fiona began to pace,
torn by her conflicting thoughts. When the door opened, she whirled
to face it, unsure whether she dreaded or longed for Dag’s
return.

Breaca’s eyes met hers, and a slight smile
turned up the corners of the slave girl’s full lips. “So, Dag has
at last mastered his thrall.”

Fiona defensively wrapped her arms around
herself.

“Where are your clothes? ‘ Breaca asked.

“I’m afraid my kirtle is beyond repair.”
Fiona nodded toward the tattered garment lying on the floor.

Breaca picked it up. “ ‘Tis hardly worth
mending. Mina will have to find something else for you to
wear.”

She left the room, promising to return with
clothes in a moment. Fiona resumed her pacing. If Dag or Mina
declined to provide her with garments, she would have none. She was
utterly at the mercy of her captors. The thought unnerved her.

Breaca came back and handed Fiona another
coarse brown kirtle. Fiona washed her face and put on the
garment.”Come,” Breaca said impatiently. “There’s much to do. That
you sleep in Dag’s bed doesn’t mean you don’t have to work.

Fiona reluctantly followed the other woman
through the longhouse and out into the steading yard. She didn’t
want to meet anyone, to face any of the Norse, man or woman. They
would see her submission to Dag as a sign of her acceptance of her
status as thrall. It wasn’t, she told herself. She’d wanted Dag.
She’d allowed him to bed her because she desired him,
not
because she’d submitted.

A dark-haired woman thrall passed by them,
carrying pails of milk on a crossbar over her shoulders. She gave
Fiona a curious look, and Fiona immediately flushed. Did the
thralls at Engvakkirsted know Dag had taken her to bed? Would they
despise her for giving in to one of their oppressors?

“Come,” Breaca called sharply when Fiona
dawdled.”Even with Dag’s favor, you won’t be allowed laziness.”

Fiona quickened her pace to walk beside
Breaca.”I didn’t let Dag bed me in order to win his favor,” she
said.

Breaca laughed. “Don’t be witless, of course
you did.”