Rough and Ready (14 page)

"I have decided, Torolf, that tonight shall be the night I fulfill my end of our bargain. Swiving. Best you practice up on your cunning-tingles."

Torolf was stunned speechless.

It's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the almost-truth…

Torolf's buddies surrounded him at the high table a short time later. You could say it was a sort of intervention.

"This Viking reenactment crap has gone far enough," JAM started them out. "I mean, I was willing to help you wipe out some terrorists. I still am. But all these victims arriving here today? That's not reenactment. That's reality."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you guys."

"I jogged about twenty-five miles downstream this morning, and there's nothing there. Nada. None of the small towns or farms we saw on our way here." JAM's brow furrowed. "I mean, how could all signs of civilization just disappear?"

"I can explain. Well, you might not consider it an explanation, but it's the truth."

"What the hell is going on here, Max? These women have never even heard of Victoria's Secret… or panties, for that matter," Cage pointed out.

"I know you don't want to hear this, but you guys have time-traveled. I swear this on my Budweiser. Thirteen members of my family have time-traveled to the future. My uncles Rolf and Jorund, my father, myself, and ten of my brothers and sisters. Call it magic, call it scientific wrinkles in time, call it a freakin'

miracle, but it damn well happened."

They all looked at each other, still unconvinced, except for Geek who said, "I

believe you."

"Ask anyone here what year it is. Do you think each of them will have been prompted to lie? Do you think I'm lying?"

The four guys stared at him, then at each other. JAM summed it up for all of them. "Welcome to the twilight zone."

"Think about the possibilities here, y'all," Cage told them. "We could write a book, get on Oprah, have chicks by the zillions wanting to get boinked by us.

I

mean, really, being a SEAL is chick magnet enough, but add time-traveling SEAL, and we've got a real hook here. Talk about!"

"I've always wanted to meet Oprah," Pretty Boy said.

"Forget Oprah, betcha I could get a date with Katie Couric." Geek sighed loudly at the prospect.

"Katie Couric!" they all exclaimed.

"She's old enough to be your mother. Haven't I taught you to home in on the young, hot ones, son?" Pretty Boy patted Geek on the shoulder in a fatherly fashion, which was ridiculous, Pretty Boy being thirty-one and Geek twenty-six!

"No, no, no! You can't go blabbing about this when… if… we go back. You'd find yourself living in a bubble in some scientist's lab for the rest of your life, being poked and prodded, sliced and diced, examined inside and out." Torolf and his family had discussed this numerous times in the past. It was a secret best kept to themselves.

They all looked suitably horrified.

"Okay, let's say we wipe out Steinolf and the other tangos. Then what?" JAM

asked.

"I find someone to take over at Norstead and Amberstead… maybe Hilda… maybe those cousins. Then we try to go back."

"Whoaaaaa! What do you mean, try to go back?" JAM's mouth tightened with anger.

"You better not have gotten us lost in some time warp or something. I have tickets for an Aerosmith concert next month."

"I told you guys not to come. I warned you."

"And I have a date with Cindy on the nineteenth… that's Cindy the gymnast,"

Pretty Boy said, waggling his eyebrows.

"I thought you were all hot for Britta," Torolf said.

"I am, but that doesn't mean I'm singing any wedding marches. Besides, Britta hasn't given in yet."

"What? A woman who resists The Man?" Cage teased.

"Shove it, birdbrain. She will… eventually." Pretty Boy's face turned all pink with embarrassment. Torolf couldn't recall Pretty Boy ever having trouble getting a woman he'd targeted, except maybe for his sister Madrene, who'd had eyes only for Master Chief Ian MacLean.

"Back to my question," JAM said. "How do we go back?"

"I'm not sure."

Four sets of teeth gnashed at that news.

"I promise, I'll do my best to get us back."

They all nodded, though not too happy with the vagueness of that promise.

"Y'all wanna go put some giddyap in this party?" Cage asked then, taking a long draw on his mug of mead.

"I'm thinking a knee-walking bender might be just the thing," JAM replied.

They all agreed.

Pretty Boy put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, causing everyone in the place to jerk with surprise. "Yo, Britta, where you hidin', babe?" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Here I come, ready or not."

A shocked Britta at the end of the great hall raised her head, saw him moving purposefully toward her, then turned to scoot out the door.

Britta was one dead duck.

Speaking of dead ducks, where's Hilda? No way could she offer herself on the half shell, then walk away. No way could she bring up oral sex and expect him to forget about it. No way could he have seen her nude body and then wipe it from his horny mind. Yep, he was about to teach Brunhilda Berdottir a thing or two about teasing a man, especially a Viking man.

Whoo-boy! I can't wait.

Of course, I'm just going to tease her a little.

Ha, ha, ha!

Really. No going all the way. Just partway. Maybe, halfway. Okay, three-quarters of the way, tops.

I am waist deep and sinking fast.

Where's the mead? No, where's Hilda?

Come out, come out, wherever you are, honey. Here comes the big bad wolf… and he's huuuuungry.

Never tease a teaser…

It was hours later that Torolf found Hilda and gave himself a mental Gotcha!

There was Hilda in the bathhouse, reclining on one of the wide, high platform benches in the steam room, eyes closed, wearing nothing but a thin chemise and a layer of perspiration.

The bathhouse was just a small building with a stone-flagged floor. Red-hot stones nestled in the open hearth's peat fire. Water was poured over the stones to create steam.

Usually, people sat nude in here, but she probably exercised caution because of all the strangers about.

Softly, he closed the door to the outer chamber and propped a bar against it, locking them in. After that, with a mischievous grin, he removed all his clothing, except for his low-riding braies.

Softly, he crept barefooted to the bottom of the bench and whispered, "Hildy."

She tried to jackknife to a sitting position, but he was on her like a bear on honey. He settled himself over her body, pressing her down.

Flailing against his bare shoulders, she shrieked, "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me… for a night of swiving."

"I was teasing."

"It worked."

She stopped slapping and lay perfectly still. "Go ahead then. Do it and be done.

I have chores yet to do tonight."

He laughed against her ear and noticed how she shivered. She was obviously one of those women whose ears were highly erotic zones of sensitivity. He blew softly, and her hips jerked up against his. A mistake, that. A part of his body he had difficulty controlling liked that jerking of hers very much. So, masochist that he was, he pressed the tip of his wet tongue into her ear, in and out a few times, and she began to whimper.

Whimpering is good, baby.

He braced himself on his elbows and looked down. Her eyes were wide, aquamarine colored. Her mouth was big and full, with the lower lip slightly more puffy.

A

very kissable mouth. The kind of mouth men fantasized about.

"Let's just kiss and pet a little."

"I am not an animal to be petted."

"We'll see," he said against her mouth. And then he kissed her. And kissed her.

And kissed her. Her mouth opened under his persuasion as he slanted and shaped her. And then he tongue-kissed her. Moist. Slippery. Hot. In and out. He couldn't tell who kissed who, he couldn't tell where his body ended and hers began. And he didn't care.

As his tongue thrust and parried with hers, his lower body did the same, and Hilda, bless her soul, met him thrust for thrust. And, holy shit, how did I manage to get between her legs, and when did her knees bend and bracket my hips?

Slow down, cowboy. This is just a little fooling around. Not the whole nine yards. But first… but hot-damn first… "Let me look at you, Hildy," he said, his voice raw with arousal. He rolled to his side on the wide bench and began to inch her chemise off her shoulders.

She put up her hands. Her eyes were luminous with arousal and her lips heart-stoppingly wet and bruised from his kisses, but he knew she was self-conscious about her small breasts.

"Please, honey, I need to… oh, man, oh, man…" Her breasts were small, with nipples like small marbles. He rolled her to her back again, her chemise nestled on her hips. Kneeling between her legs, he put his hands to both breasts, kneading them. The nipples felt like bullets pressing in his palms. Still kneading, he used his thumbs to strum the nipples into even harder peaks.

At first, her eyes went wide, then she closed them with a shudder, but she didn't fight him anymore. Instead, her fists clenched the sides of the bench, and her chest arched up for more.

And then, and then—Yeeeees!—then he did what he'd wanted to do since he'd first seen her again this week. He lay over her and put his mouth to her breast, sucking her, hard. Then he did the same to the other breast. He couldn't get enough. Over and over he alternated. Sucking. Flicking her with his tongue.

Rasping her with his teeth. Then sucking again.

He looked down at her wet breasts. "You are so fucking beautiful," he murmured.

She either didn't hear or ignored him. Instead, she was keening now and bucking against him, and he realized that he could make her come just by playing with her magnificent, small breasts. Note to Torolf: ears and breasts, highly erogenous zones on Hilda. "Don't fight it. Let it go, that's the way."

"Oh, oh, oh, oh… shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhhh… oh, my gods… oh, sweet mother of Thor!"

she wailed, her hips raised so strongly she lifted him up. And then she crumpled flat with a long sigh.

And he was so hard he could have probably drilled concrete with his dick.

Note

to Torolf: take care of your own business while you're doing Hilda.

Now would be a good time for Hilda to zap him with one of her witchy, cock-shriveling curses. Instead of shriveling, he felt himself grow even harder.

I sense a world-class blue steeler coming on.

Okay, there was an exercise called hooking, which military men were taught when flying jets or race car drivers were going faster than fast. It involved tensing and untensing the abdominal muscles to brace against fierce gravitational pulls, called g-forces, that occurred at high rates of speed. Well, man, he was hooking like crazy now, for fear he was going to embarrass himself. He inhaled sharply, bracing himself, trying to focus, focus, focus. Shit! I might as well give it up. They can put on my grave marker, Died of Hilda's Gravitational Pull.

He levered himself off Hilda and sat on the bench, his elbows on his knees, face in hands, taking long breaths in and out.

"Well, that was interesting," Hilda said. He heard her behind him, adjusting herself.

"Interesting?" he choked out.

"Yea. Interesting. So that is what cunning-tingles are all about?

Interesting."

He started to laugh then, and laugh, and laugh. At least he was no longer horn-dog hard.

Hilda sat beside him on the bench, staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

Maybe he had… and frankly he didn't give a rat's ass… because he was about to do something… well, crazy.

"No, Hildy, there may have been tingling involved, but that was not cunnilingus.

But I'd be glad to demonstrate."

Before she could say, "Demonstrate what?" he lifted her up and over him, straddling his lap. Then, while she looked at him with surprise, he spread his legs wide, taking hers with him. She didn't have to be a modern woman to understand she was totally exposed to him now. She inhaled sharply.

Lifting the hem of her chemise, he raised it over her head and tossed it to the side. She moved to put her hands over herself, and he brushed them away.

"Uh-uh-uh! Modesty is not welcome at this party, sweetheart."

Trailing his fingers along the insides of her thighs, he whispered, "Welcome to my world, baby."

There are tingles, and then there are TINGLES…

Hilda was sitting on the lout's lap, naked as the day she was born, with her legs spread like the worst wanton.

"I must be losing my mind," she muttered. Touch me.

"Me, too."

"I should smack you." Touch me.

"Or jump off my lap and run for your life."

"For a certainty. But I can't move." Touch me.

"Why?"

"I am still recovering from that amazing thing you just did to me." Touch me.

He smiled a slow, lazy smile that caused her nipples to tighten even more than they already were. She glanced downward. From this angle her breasts did not look quite so pathetically small. Touch me.

"You shouldn't say things like that to me, Hildy."

"Why?" Touch me.

"It encourages me."

"To do what?" Touch me.

He smiled some more. "Everything in my repertoire."

"Ah, a bedsport repertoire. And is it vast, this repertoire of yours?" Touch me.

"Very vast."

"Show me," she said, then slapped a hand over her mouth, shocked that she would say such a thing. "Never mind. Forget I said that."

"No, no, no! That is not the kind of thing that can be taken back."

For way too long, even before Steinolf's invasion, Hilda had been living her life for others. To please her mother, she had been a good girl growing up, never running wild as her brothers had. To please her father, she'd married three men who were far from favorable to her. To please her people, she had learned everything there was to know about running an estate. To please all the victims of Steinolf's abuse, she had established The Sanctuary. None of these things did she regret, but she could not recall the last time she'd done something strictly for herself. Perchance now, just one time, she would allow herself to think only of her own pleasure.