Viking's Orders (3 page)

He’d learned that truth the hard way, about an hour after Loki had completed his transformation and abandoned Vikar’s hall, leaving the inevitable chaos in his wake as Vikar’s men struggled to come to terms with what they’d become.

No amount of alcohol had erased that nightmarish night from his memory, and no matter how many heads he’d taken on countless battlefields since then, he’d always been cursed to
remember
. The hearth fires had lit up the mead hall like any other night, casting giant shadows on the walls as Vikar had sat sprawled at a table with his fellow warriors. That had been his life. Furs, drinking horns and weapons. Swapping stories before he retired to the big bed tucked away in an alcove where Astrid waited for him. She’d been the light in his darkness, someone soft and deliciously warm in a hard, viciously cold world.

As a widow, Astrid had recognized in Vikar a second chance, and he’d liked that. She, on the other hand, had been his first chance at a family. Maybe that family would have happened sooner rather than later because they’d devoted all of Vikar’s leisure hours to exploring their newfound passion together—and then Loki had arrived.  Afterwards, Vikar had stumbled back to their bed, his new claws rending the leather curtain from the wall. Astrid had scrambled backwards, and he’d seen her through a haze of red. She’d screamed and screamed, his proud, strong Astrid, while he’d stood there, helpless despite his new strength and abilities. He couldn’t be her lover anymore because when she looked at him all she saw was the beast Loki had created.

And maybe she was right. She was mortal and he wasn’t.

She was human. He wasn’t.

So he’d let go of that dream, thrown himself into fighting.

The woman riding his bike claimed not to mind, though.  The way she sat so straight was pure promise. The riders behind them had a ringside view of the beautiful line of her spine, the delicate bones marching straight up her back. Gripping the fingers of the black glove with his teeth, he tugged the soft leather off.

Would she feel as stiffly perfect as she looked, or would she be warm? Shoving the glove in his pocket, he raised his hand to find out. The bike didn’t give her the luxury of space, trapping her between the seat and his body. Her breath caught, a small, panicked gasp, as he traced the curve of her thigh with his bare finger. By the gods, she was impossibly flawless.

So why had she hired a berserker?

And why
him
?

Because, while she didn’t push away from his touch, she sure didn’t melt into it, either. He’d fucked his share of females, human and otherwise, and he knew the drill. A few touches and either nature or self-interest kicked in and his companion did the sigh-and-moan, oh-you’re-so-strong routine, and he was in. He’d never kidded himself that the sentiments were genuine, but all he’d wanted then was the pleasure. Pure was different, and not just because she was his.

Temporarily.

No, there was something about
her
, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
Hel
, he shouldn’t have been concerned about feelings at all. He was a mercenary, and the job description made his path here straightforward. He got paid to take what other people wanted. Pure was simply another job, even if the currency was more attractive than usual.

He inhaled, his bear already recognizing the scent of her clean skin. Sage and lavender. Old-fashioned. The woman sitting his bike like a damned queen smelled like an herb garden.

Did she taste as good as she smelled?

He dragged his thumb down her leg, testing the tension there. She wasn’t happy being here with him. Before tonight, he’d have bet his last blade that he wouldn’t have cared. That one more female, no matter how intriguing her scent, simply didn’t matter.

He was a berserker. He fought, he drank and he fucked.
Hel
, he’d been known to do all three in the space of the same hour. He’d enjoyed more than his fair share of lusty sex.

Pure didn’t know what she’d bargained for.

###

Pure was wrapped around Vikar’s body, pressed against his back. When that big hand moved deliberately from the handlebar to her thigh, she tensed before she could stop herself.
Willing,
she reminded herself. She’d agreed to this. The heat of that hand stroking a small circle on her thigh was unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and she relaxed. Let her head fall forward. He smelled of leather and male and beneath the coppery blood, a woodsy, outdoor scent. The sun was going down, dusk settling over the road and leaving the riders alone in a sea of shadows. Leaving her impossibly aware of that hand moving up her thigh. Her breath caught in a little whimper when his hand found and cupped her.

“Vikar.” She swallowed nervously, but there was nowhere to go.

“You promised,” he said roughly. “You agreed that you’d be willing.” He didn’t move, just touched her, waiting. “I agreed I wouldn’t hurt you. If I don’t touch you, you will be hurting, baby. I’m too big to take you if you’re not ready. So I’m going to touch you right now, just a little. Right here, on the outside of your pants.” His thumb made a slow, sensual pass down her sex.

She was wrapped around him, riding his bike. And she’d be riding him within the hour. She’d given him her word—now he was giving her his. He’d have what she’d promised, but he’d keep his part of their bargain, too. No pain. Uncertainly, she relaxed, the tension leaving her legs. Allowing him to take charge seemed wrong, but the motor’s smooth gait sent waves of delicious vibrations through her. And that damned hand of his didn’t move. She wriggled, rocking into him.

“See?” He whispered his question. “That’s not bad at all, is it? You could enjoy that much, couldn’t you?”

“Vikar…” The heavy, hot weight of his hand between her legs had her waiting for something she didn’t recognize.

“I bet,” he ground out, “you have fantasies, right? Maybe, when you’re alone at night and somewhere between the dream world and awake, maybe then you think about finding yourself a big, hard mercenary. Someone tough enough to give you exactly what you need.”

“I—” Her voice broke. Maybe indeed.

Unexpectedly, he offered her reassurance, the promise of a softer side she could reach. “I’m just going to give you pleasure now, and all you have to do is enjoy it. You can do that, can’t you?”

She could. “Yes,” she answered.

“Close your eyes,” he suggested. “While I stroke this soft pussy of yours.”

The rhythmic vibrations of the motor shuddered through her body, a reminder of where she was, but her eyelashes slipped down obediently as heat built inside her. She wasn’t sure where the arousal had come from, if it was his blunt words, the raw promise of unfamiliar pleasure, or the gentle, insistent glide of his thumb against her core.

“You know what you feel like, Pure? The heat of you burns me right through this leather, and I’m imagining you riding my fingers later tonight with nothing between us. You’ll like what I do to you.” He stroked her more firmly through the leather pants, and she shuddered, biting back the urge to move against that tormenting hand. She was an ice maiden.

She was not supposed to
feel
.

“You’re going to tell me, Pure,” he warned gruffly. “You’re going to tell me what you like and how we make you feel. That way, I keep my promise, no problem. You asked me not to hurt you, and I’m a man of my word.”

“I don’t usually feel much of anything,” she said, the admission escaping before she could take it back.

“You don't feel anything?” She’d shocked him, she could hear it in his voice.

“Not particularly.” Lying was pointless. They’d made the deal, and he wouldn’t renege.

“And you’re fine with this?” Now he sounded vaguely outraged. Like her lack of pleasure offended him somehow.

“Of course.” His asking was a surprise. “It's an advantage really.”

He grunted noncommittally and stroked his finger across her. Again. Apparently he liked touching her, and as long as she didn't
mind
...

Her eyes narrowed. “How long will you keep doing that?”

“As long as I want.” His tone warned her he was enjoying himself—and that he had no intention of stopping.

Her breasts swelled, the nipples pebbling beneath the corslet. She wanted to unzip the jacket, drag his hands to where she was swollen and sensitive and aching. For a moment, she panicked. This wasn’t like her.

And yet her hands slid away from his waist to grip his thighs, kneading his flesh. He growled with male satisfaction in her ear. “Yeah,” he said. “You like that, don’t you, baby?”

“Willing,” she gritted out, the pleasure building where he touched her. “I promised I’d be willing. This willing enough for you?”

“Not yet.” He chuckled. “I’m going to make you so wet, you holler for us,” he warned darkly, letting his fingers slide up to the top of her pussy and circle her needy, hard clit. Not enough to bring her off, but enough to make his interest clear.

“I’m going to taste you here too tonight.” He drew her closer while he guided the bike to a slow, coasting stop with his other hand. “We’re done riding,” he said, and there was no mistaking the slow, dark smile creasing his face. “Time to pay up, Pure.”

Chapter Three

Vikings were pirates and plunderers.

Vikings
took
.

And nowhere was that more obvious than in Vikar’s camp. The smell of wood smoke and food cooking over the campfire was unexpectedly familiar. The men Vikar fought with, the men he roamed with and led, were parking their newly acquired bikes and unrolling sleeping bags. That wasn’t unexpected, either. Tattoos flashed, and loudly cheerful catcalls and teasing filled up the silence as the big, hairy brutes methodically stripped down the bikes and proceeded to make this slice of desert their own for the night. They ransacked the bags buckled to their seats. They turned out the leathers they’d stolen from the Hell’s Angels, comparing prizes and bickering amicably.

Vikar swung off the bike and reached for her. His big hands wrapped around her waist, and he removed her effortlessly from the back of the bike. She wasn’t a small woman—Odin’s fighters never were—but he made her feel tiny. Delicate. No man had ever touched her, except in the heat of battle, but now he had his hands everywhere.

Yet he didn’t seem to be in any rush. When her stomach rumbled, he sat her down beside the new-made fire, and she passed the next hour learning that these big, raw fighters bickered endlessly over how much pepper to add to their Campbell’s. Then, once the night’s cook, a broad-shouldered, shaggy-haired Viking with a scar cutting across his right cheek, declared open season on the soup, the lot of them sprawled on the ground around the fire, trading stories.

Naughty stories, outrageous stories, patently untrue stories—there was nothing these Vikings didn’t meet with a roar of approval and a generous gulp of beer. Var had just finished explaining the mechanics of fucking the better half of a Vegas show line, when Vikar dropped down beside her again. He’d disappeared to check on the men standing guard—or some other, all-important warrior activity—without even a grunt of farewell.

That big hand discovered her knee and slipped upward a few heated inches. She held her breath, but he went no further, and she should have been glad. Instead, she was nervous and curious, when she was supposed to be none of those things.

He eyed her bowl. “Eat more,” he said, and she wondered what he was thinking.

He was still too big and too well-muscled. All the soup in the world couldn’t change that or what rode on tonight’s outcome. He was merely a means to an end. His thumb stroked firmly, rubbing the muscle of her inner thigh.

“Tell me more about your ship.”

“My ship?”
Hel
. She hadn’t anticipated the need to provide details.

“Yes,” he said patiently. “The one you offered up so sweetly when we were in Vegas. That ship.”

“I didn’t trade a ship.” She looked around the fire. Vikar’s men were surrounded by the things they’d taken from the Hell’s Angels. They’d collected a veritable mountain of knives and throwing stars. There were handguns and ammo, in addition to an impressive collection of switchblades, plus a substantial pile of sparkly things and enough motorcycle gear to stock a small store. If Vikar was in the market for a new longship, he could certainly afford one.

“Pirates, baby.” Var winked at her. “You tell a Viking you have something he doesn’t, and that’s an invitation, isn’t it?”

She wet her lips nervously, and Vikar just grinned before saying, “Tell me about her.”

“She’s a ship.
My
ship.” She smoothed her jacket over her knees. She didn’t need him lusting after a longship she couldn’t produce. “Sixty feet. Made out of wood. Pretty much like any other longship out there.”

“No, baby. She’ll be different. They all are. How they handle, how she steers beneath a man’s hand.” He met her glare innocently. “Does she go fast and hard when she’s riding the waves before the wind, or is she all pretend, liking to trick a man and sail down, taking her crew with her?”

“If she doesn’t take on water, why would you care?”

“She’ll be mine. I take care of what’s mine.”

She drew the line at arguing over an imaginary ship.

“My longship is big,” she improvised, feeding him the details he wanted, and the lusty groans from her audience said they appreciated the effort. Faces turned toward her.

Var snorted. “Long is only half the battle. More requires a good captain.”

“Or crew!” shouted another, prompting gales of laughter.

“Well-built,” volunteered a third.

“And well-tended.” Vikar’s hand moved higher. “A man took his time with her, got all her bits in the right place.”

Two could play this game.

“What happened to your last longship?”

His face darkened. “I sailed her down. You want me to tell you how cold the water felt washing over the bow or about the killing tear of the waves?”

He was no skald, hammering out polished verse for his liege, but Vikar’s story had a dark, harsh poetry of its own. He saw the disaster clearly, like it had happened yesterday, making it too easy to imagine the big men in little boats that lost to the ocean’s power no matter how beautiful the boats or how determined their pilots.  “Good men die all the time on the water.”