Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (28 page)

She scowled at him and drew her knees up to her chest.

He laughed and leaned down to throw more wood on the fire. Why, she had no idea. It was roasting in here now. Or was it just her skin that was overheated?

“I think I’ll go back to my bedchamber now,” she decided.

His only response was a short laugh. “Good try.” Then he began to peel off his braies, slowly. He wore no undergarments.

She tried to look away but couldn’t.
Oh…my…God!

She already knew he had a magnificent body. What she hadn’t expected was the large erect staff standing out rampantly from a nest of dark golden curls at the joining of his thighs. She’d seen dangly manparts before, but…but…There were no words for her amazement. Apparently, there were manparts, and then there were
manparts.
This was one of the latter variety.

Amusement curved his lips upward as she continued to stare at him there. And, to her astonishment,
it
grew even larger under her scrutiny.

“Have you no shame?” she inquired, once she was able to speak. “Dost think I want to look at your dangly part?”

“Dangly? I am definitely not dangling, if you will notice. And, frankly, many women are impressed with my manpart, whether it be in its dangly state or otherwise.”

“Hah! ’Tis just like a man to think big is better.”

He laughed heartily. “Oh, Alinor, you really are a gem. Do you not know that betimes big
is
actually better.”

“Hmpfh! Well, you are not putting
that
inside me,” she asserted.

“Move over, wench,” he ordered, ignoring her declaration. “’Tis time to begin your ‘punishment.’”

“Begin? Begin?” she sputtered. “What was all that other…peaking business?”

“Peaking business?” He frowned with bafflement. Then grinned. She hated it when he grinned like that. It made her feel warm and melting inside.

She shimmied her body to the other side of the bed, but still the massive bed felt too small. His virile body crowded her, made her feel unsettled…afraid.

Nay, nay, nay! I will not cower in the face of a brute.

“That little peaking business, as you call it, just took the edge off my appetite. ’Tis time to begin the main course.”

“I’m not a meal to satisfy some base appetite,” she argued.

“A mutual meal and a mutual satisfaction, then.” He nudged her playfully in the leg with a toe.

She almost jumped off the bed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Then quickly added, “Nor do I want to find out.”

“Come here, Alinor, and let me kiss you.” He reached out a hand and took a strand of her hair between his fingers, rubbing sensuously, then bringing it to his nose to sniff. He did have a fondness for her hair…well, not really her hair…the rose-scented hair cream.

But what had he said about kissing? “You want to kiss me? That’s all?” Hmmm. That wouldn’t be so bad. In truth, she liked his kisses. As long as they didn’t lead to that peaking nonsense. “Let me put a nightrail on first.”

“Yea, I want to kiss you, Alinor. And, nay, that is not
all. And, for a certainty, you are not donning any item of clothing for the next two days.”

“Wh-what?” she choked out.

He took advantage of her momentary shock and dragged her across the mattress and into his arms. Lying on her back, she watched as his head descended ever so slowly. She could not believe she was succumbing so readily to his forceful domination. The only thing freezing her in place was the light touch of his fingertips on the pulse place at the side of her throat.

I am lost,
she thought.
And I don’t care.

He settled his lips over hers, gently at first, and caught her cry in his mouth. Next, he shifted the kiss from side to side till she fit him perfectly. He encountered no problem at all working his magic on her, entreating her lips to open for his tongue, gripping her head with fingers tunneled in her hair. It was one unending kiss of many nuances…a tender pleading soon shifting into rapacious hunger. In the end, it was not a neat kiss, by any means. It was open-mouthed, wet and devouring in its fervor. In short, ecstasy. A kind of ecstasy Alinor had never imagined and did not welcome.

If it was only the kiss, she might be able to resist, but there was also the sensation of his crisp hairs abrading her breasts and the ever-present reminder of his raging desire pressing into her hip. And worst of all, he was moving lower, to new, unexplored territory.

“Nooooooo!” she keened as he took practically half a breast into his mouth and pulled upward with a suctioning force till he held only the distended nipple between his lips. Then he began to suckle her, alternately licking the tip with his tongue and drawing on the nipple with a fast rhythm.

It was the most horriblehorriblehorrible pleasure she had
ever encountered. It was torture. And it was bliss.

“Stop!” she screamed and pushed at his shoulders.

He didn’t budge. Instead, he looked up at her through passion-glazed eyes, which aroused her even more, and moved his onslaught to the other breast. The whole time he used a palm to massage the other already sensitized breast with wide circles. “I knew you would be like this. Oh, God, I just knew it.”

She shouted. She flailed. She bucked her hips and kicked at him. She lashed him with every filthy name she could call to her fuzzy mind. “Loathsome lout! Bloody boar! Vicious Viking! Foul fornicator! Perverted pig! Son of a sinful barbarian! Hellish heathen!”

He would not stop.

The hot pool in her woman place turned scalding with heat, and that secret spot she’d newly discovered under the feather’s duress seemed to swell and throb.

He nudged her legs apart with one knee and lay on one side, holding her in place. Regarding her hotly, he panted heavily. Why he should be exhibiting overexertion she could not say. She was the one who was being physically tormented.

“I don’t want this, Tykir. Will you really take a woman against her will?”

His face turned stormy with anger at her insult. “You say me nay, Alinor, but I will prove you a sweet liar.”

She raised her chin haughtily—a ridiculous gesture considering her position. And, damn the devil, she was panting, too.

Before she could guess his intent, Tykir took her hand and placed it on her own woman’s place. “Feel the wetness, Alinor. That is your body saying its welcome to my body. Feel how hot and slick you are in your need for
what only I can give you. So, do not say me nay when you really mean yea.”

“Someday I will show you your own body with a hand mirror,” he promised huskily.

She gasped in horror.

“But for now, touch this bud here.” He held her own finger to herself.

Her hips jerked involuntarily at the flashfire ignited with that mere touch.

“’Tis the center of your woman-joy, the launching spot that will catapult your peaking.”

She was not listening anymore because he was caressing her there with his own fingertips, whispering wicked words of admiration and promise. She became mindless with need, begging for release.

When he finally lay himself atop her and placed his huge erection at her woman-portal, he asked in a voice savage with raw distress, “Dost consent?”

She nodded, well beyond control of her battered senses.

“Will it be rape?”

She shook her head.

“Tell me,” he insisted, looking as if he’d been pushed beyond the edge himself.

“Please,” she begged. And that was all she could say.

It was enough.

With a groan through gritted teeth and head thrown back on corded neck, he pushed himself slowly into her tight passage. “Al-i-nor!” he cried out. The Viking had buried himself inside her body, to the hilt. He stretched her and filled her.

And she shared his incredulity.

He was still braced on extended arms over her. Once his jaw was no longer clenched, he whispered, “You feel so good, Alinor. Am I hurting you?”

“Nay,” she whispered, and her inner folds shifted, apparently pleased at his compliment. To her amazement, he grew even larger inside her body, which adjusted to fit him tightly.

“So good, so good,” he breathed.

“You feel good, too,” she admitted.

He smiled at her then, a wonderfully open, dazzling display of white teeth and pure male satisfaction.

“Thank you,” he whispered against her mouth in a fleeting kiss before he began the serious business of mating.

“Is it time for me to begin the Pater Noster?” she teased, trying for a semblance of levity in an overwhelming situation.

“Don’t you dare.” He choked on his own laughter as he began his first long stroke—out, then in again with a maddening slowness.

She bent her knees, intuitively knowing that it would heighten the pleasure and give him greater access. With each of his long strokes, she keened her enjoyment, throwing her arms over her head in wantonness. He played her like the sexual creature she became, telling her what he liked, asking what she liked, taking her hips in hand to teach her the rhythm, and all the time pummeling her with prolonged slides of what felt like warm marble.

This had to be the best-kept secret amongst all woman-dom.

Did all men have this talent for bringing a woman to peak? Or just Vikings? Or just this one particular Viking? Whatever the case, Alinor was not such a fool that she did not recognize good fortune when it smacked her in the face…rather, smacked her in the…well,
there.

Tykir could not believe his good fortune.

The woman was an uninhibited wanton. Arms thrown
over her head in abandon. Legs wrapped around his hips.
When had that happened?
Hips undulating to the cadence he had taught her only moments ago.
A quick learner!
And her inner folds were clasping and unclasping his hardness.
That is something I did not teach her. Clever witch! Who’d have thought the lady would take to the bedsport with such enthusiasm?

Of course, he had a history of woman-luck, due largely to his well-honed talents in the seductive arts and some god-given natural endowments. However, he could not help but think Alinor had been smoldering with erotic embers for a long time, just waiting for the right man to come along.

His penetrations were so deep now that he could scarce contain himself, especially since she was rippling continuously around him. The short strokes were fast approaching. Too soon, but not nearly soon enough.

“Why is your jaw clenched?” she inquired in an oddly wounded voice. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“Nay, Alinor. My jaw is clenched because you are doing things too right,” he choked out on a laugh.

“Good,” she said.

“Witch,” he answered.

She put her hands on his shoulders, drawing him down to her body. Then she did the most amazing thing. She rubbed her breasts back and forth over his chest hairs, and he could have sworn she purred.

He grinned. Two could play this teasing game. Disengaging her leg locks on his hips, his hands snaked out and grabbed her ankles. He pushed them up and out so she was even more exposed to him. And his deep, deep penetration moved even farther into her body, surely all the way to her womb.

She tried to move beneath him, but he remained im
mobile till he felt her peak begin—at first the gentle clasping motions, then fiercer and fiercer spasms.

A long, long keening wail came from her parted lips. Her eyes were staring up at him, unfocused. Only when she passed her first peak did he start his short strokes. Hard, hard, hard, he pounded her, sensing she could withstand the erotic pummeling.

His groans and hers co-mingled. Desire roared like a waterfall in his ears. He had been the aggressor, but the witch who dug her nails into his shoulders was consuming him with her ecstasy. His erection became so huge—the stuff of boyhood dreams—that he feared his eyes were rolling in his head. Her soft sounds spurred him on even farther. He reared his head back and howled with the sheer elation of the feelings that inundated him. When he finally came with a roar of exultation and spurted his seed into her, he was as mindless and incoherent as she.

Tykir had started this day intending to “torture” the witch, but he wondered now if he hadn’t been hoisted on his own instrument of torture.

Minutes later, Alinor still lay stunned. The Viking, heavy as a small horse, reclined atop her, breathing heavily into her ear. In truth, she could not complain. The troll had given her more physical pleasure than she’d experienced, combined, over her entire life.

Still, she’d surrendered and revealed more of herself to this man than she ever should have. Not that she’d had a choice. Who knew what he would do with that dangerous information?

“Move, you big oaf,” she demanded, pushing at his shoulders. “And stop snoring in my ear.”

He raised his head and stared at her.
Good Lord, was that a bite mark on his shoulder?

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “Just recuperating.” He rolled over onto his side and lifted one of her legs over his, as if to maintain intimate contact.

By St. Magdalene’s sin! She needed no reminder with his male member still buried inside her, albeit quiescent now. Was he waiting to regroup, or had he forgotten to remove himself? Silly question! The self-satisfied lout was nigh gloating. He’d forgotten nothing.

This was all so new for Alinor. Her three husbands had been quick to disengage after a coupling. But then, there was no comparison between the swift three-thrust ruttings that her husbands had performed on her with their limp wicks and the spectacular event she’d just witnessed. Nay, she had to be truthful…the spectacular event she’d just participated in.

“You’re smiling, Alinor,” Tykir pointed out.

“You’re gloating,” she countered.

“I’m just happy.” He waited for her to question why. When she didn’t, he chuckled and continued anyway. “Because I’ve just been swived by the most sensuous woman in all England…hell, Norway and the remainder of the civilized world, as well.”

“I did not swive you,” she asserted indignantly. “You swived me.”