by Sandra Hill
But it was not Oslac.
It was the source of all his misery. Or latest misery. Rita.
“You!” he accused as he jumped to his feet and glared at her.
She closed the door quietly behind her, big as you please, as if she were not in so much trouble she ought to be shaking in her . . . yea, she was wearing boots with a night rail and carrying a large cloth bag. Her short hair was wet and spiky. While I sat here stewing, she took the time to bathe? Mayhap he should drop her and Oslac off the nearest parapet. “I thought you were gone.”
“I can explain.”
“I doubt that.”
“I went—”
He raised a halting hand as his heart began to race so fast he could scarce breathe. In fact, he began to pant, trying to get more air into his lungs. Was he going to choke to death now? Would it be the ignominious straw death for this warrior . . . to die in his own bed straw?
“You’re hyperventilating. Sit down on the bed and put your face between your knees,” she advised, shoving him to sit back down on the edge of the bed and pushing his neck down betwixt his thighs.
Caught off balance and surprised by her reappearance, he had allowed her to shove him, but now he was back in control, and his panting had slowed to a regular inhale and exhale. He raised his head. “I was not high-pair anything. I am just so bloody furious I fear what I might do to you.”
“I have a perfectly good explanation,” she said, backing away from him as he stood. Smart wench!
But, instead of advancing on her, as she had expected, he began to remove his clothing, one item at a time.
“Wha-what are you doing?”
“Preparing to have sex with you.” And it is the best idea I have had in months, mayhap years.
“Wh-why?”
“Why? Are you daft, woman? Because I want to.” So much you would be shocked.
“Well, sex . . . making love . . . should be a two-way affair, don’t you think?”
He waved a hand airily. “When I thought you were gone, the thing I regretted most was that I never tupped you.”
“I hate that word.”
“Tup, tup, tup.” Wouldst rather I said fuck?
“That was immature.”
“Therefore, I intend to swive you so many ways you will lose count. I am going to bring you to peak a dozen times, then start over again. When I am done with you, you will scarce be able to stand on buttery legs. So, I will lift you onto my lap and spank your arse for putting me through what you have today.” Good gods and goddesses, that sounds good even to me.
“Wow!”
He was not sure if wow was good or bad. No matter! He was nude now, and his enthusiasm stood out from his body like a brainless flagpole. He would be embarrassed at its larger-than-usual size if he were not so brain-melting excited by the woman before him . . . the woman who was studying his manpart with arched eyebrows. “A blue steeler? For me?”
He almost choked on his tongue, so surprised was he by her observation. Blue veins. Steely rod. “Take off the sleep rail.”
“Shouldn’t we talk first?”
“We most definitely should not talk first.” If I wanted talk, I would have wed Isrid long ago.
Still leaning against the door, she dropped her bag and began to raise the hem of her night rail, but he was too impatient. He grabbed the neckline of the gown and ripped downward until her entire body was exposed. Without hesitation, she arched her shoulders until the gown fell from her shoulders to puddle at her feet.
“Merciful heavens!” he murmured, one of his mother’s favorite expressions. How he could think of his mother at a time like this was indicative of his crumbling mind.
She stood staring at him, her breasts high and full and already rose-tipped with arousal. Down below she wore the infamous pant-hes . . . a scant garment of red silk trimmed in black lace.
“Merciful heavens!” he murmured again. For the first time, he smiled. “I give you permission to make as many of those silk chastity belts as you wish, but for now . . .” He reached down and untied the bows at either hip.
Forget about choking on his tongue; he almost swallowed it this time as he beheld the wench’s latest surprise. She had no nether hair on her mons, just a slight blonde fuzz, like a peach. Pointing, he asked, “What is that?”
The wench had the nerve to grin at him. “It’s a Brazilian wax. Lots of women remove body hair in my time. The last time I had it done was weeks ago, so it’s already starting to grow back.” Her rambling explanation told him loud and clear that she was as nervous as he was.
The question was, why? Nay, the better question was: What have I done lately to get me in such good odor with the gods? “Why?”
She shrugged.
And didn’t she look ridiculous and adorable at the same time, propped against the door, nude as a newborn . . . in all ways . . . except for a pair of boots? Boots, for the love of Frigg! “Cleanliness. Appearance.” She grinned some more. “And some people claim it makes sex more intense.”
That got his attention. More intense sex? He studied that part of her anatomy by tilting his head this way and that, trying to figure how it would work to their advantage. Once he understood, he grinned back at her.
“Of course, I wouldn’t know for sure about the more intense sex, since I haven’t had sex since I got my first wax two years ago.”
“Two years?” he sputtered, lifting her in his arms, one hand at her nape, the other cupping one cheek of her buttocks. Thank you, God or Odin, whoever is responsible for this gift. Immediately, she looped her arms around his neck. As she raised her legs to straddle his hips, he heard the boots drop behind him. “Oh, Ree-tah, we are going to be so good together.”
“Ya think?” She nuzzled his neck, which caused her breasts to brush across his chest, which caused his cock to stand even taller.
“I am still angry with you,” he told her.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
Before he could ask her how or tell her not to bother, she arched her hips and pushed forward, taking him inside her tight sheath. Once he managed to still the roaring in his ears, he asked, “What do you think you are doing?”
“Swiving you.”
I swear, this woman is like none other in the world. What did I do to deserve this? “You? Swiving me? It is supposed to be the other way around.” He was only halfway teasing.
“Ooops. Should I push you out?”
“Do not dare!”
He glanced downward and saw that his cock was imbedded only halfway inside her female channel. He was a big man and ofttimes needed a different angle. Bending his knees a bit, he put his hands on her buttocks and arched her outward. With shallow thrusts in her hot, moist channel, already spasming toward a first peak, he finally worked himself all the way in. Only then did he look upward and see her lips parted and her eyes, darkened like the bluest sapphires, betraying her ardor. Was there anything better to whet a man’s appetite than seeing his woman’s pleasure?
The only thing she said was, “Gaaaaaa!”
He was fairly certain that was a signal he was doing something right.
“We should slow down,” he murmured against her ear. “This first time should be a savoring. It should—”
“Shut up and move,” she grunted out.
Who knew a grunt could be so sexy? A chuckle came out of his mouth as a choking sound.
Then, to his great surprise, especially at her strength, Rita grabbed hold of his arse with the tightened fingers of both hands and locked him against her. He would no doubt have finger marks on his buttocks on the morrow.
There was only one thought in Steven’s mind then, and for the next hour or more. I will never let this woman go.
The erotic tale of Red Riding Hood and the big bad wolf . . .
“This is such a bad idea,” Rita said as she followed Steven, groaning with ecstasy . . . an ecstasy she shared . . . to the floor where his knees folded on him.
“Ouch!” he said,
but only half heartedly. He was too busy arranging their bodies to suit his purposes.
She straddled him and continued her death grip on his butt so he couldn’t pull out. His unique gray eyes were almost silver with a hazy arousal. His lips were parted and plumped with anticipation.
“This is such a bad idea,” she said when he rolled her over onto her back. She would probably have straw in some unmentionable places come morning.
“Dost think so, sweetling?” He flashed her a quick smile that would melt the hardest heart and began to torment her with long, slow strokes into her continually convulsing inner muscles.
“This is such a bad idea,” she said when the force of his thrusts moved them across the floor and knocked over a chair.
Flat on her back, she stared up at him as he braced himself on his elbows.
“Don’t call me sweetling.”
“Why?”
“It makes me tingle.”
“Where?”
“You do not want to know.”
“Yea, I do. I definitely do.” He inserted a forefinger between the place where they were joined, then fluttered it. “Could it be here?” he inquired with the innocence of a wolf in Red Riding Hood’s bedroom.
Where the hell is Grandma? Her moan was her answer. But then she persisted. “This is such a bad idea, Steven. It only complicates things.”
“This is the best idea, and I forbid any more protests to the contrary.” He rotated his hips in such a way that her eyelids fluttered, and she catapulted into what had to be her third orgasm.
“Like that, do you, m’lady?” he whispered against her mouth as he did the hip rotation thing again.
“You know I do,” she gasped, “and you are going to pay for tormenting me like this.”
“I cannot wait.”
She tried to move, but she was pinned to the floor by his erection impaling her, his hips pressed against her belly, and his hands linked with hers above her head.
“I am not going to kiss you or touch you this time because I cannot wait. My ballocks are afire. I cannot wait. But later . . .” he promised.
Little did he know that she shared his decision. She loved his kisses. That, combined with her already heightened excitement, would have been too much. She wanted to concentrate on one sensation at a time.
“One more thing,” he said as he licked, then blew on her ear.
She bucked up against him, and although he didn’t move, she felt his erection swell inside her even more. “I don’t think I can stand one more thing, and if you don’t start this party for real—”
“One more thing,” he repeated. “I must needs pull out at the end. Do not try to stop me.”
For a moment, she was confused. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m wearing a birth control implant. See, right there under my left armpit. It’s good for two more months.”
He frowned. “Are you saying that my seed cannot breed with your eggs because of that?”
She nodded.
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if saying a silent prayer of thanks. Then, in one fluid move, he withdrew from her and stood. Before she could blink, he tossed her onto the bed and crawled up over her, making growling noises.
Was that a Viking thing? Sex growling? Good Lord, maybe she’d fallen into one of those sexy werewolf romance novels, as well as time travel. If he started to sprout hair in unlikely places or do weird wolf mating things, she was out of here.
But no, she’d misunderstood his growls.
“You wanted the party to start? Welcome to my party, Red Riding Hood.”
He tortured her with pleasure . . .
Steven had no time for the niceties of bedplay, which was embarrassing, really, because Viking men were known for their sexual prowess . . . he above most others. Instead, he was on the beguiling wench like a starving dog on a juicy bone.
Before he could tell her of his need or apologize for his haste and promise better later, she spread her legs, raised her knees, and raised two hands to beckon him with wagging fingers. “Come here, Steven.” Her voice was sex-husky.
He thought about resisting, but only for a lackwit moment. Still, he recognized that she was a woman who liked to take control. That could be a blessing in some cases or a bane when it got out of hand.
For now, he mounted her, sinking into the wet depths of her sheath all the way. Having passed the point of long-and-slow foresport, he began to pummel her with thrusts that brought him flush against her bare mons, over and over. Usually, he could tell when a woman was approaching her peak, but Rita’s inner muscles were grasping and ungrasping his cock in an almost continuous friction. Rita had her eyes closed, fists clenched at her sides, her chin arched high, her breathing rapid, and still her hips kept pace with his rhythm, meeting him stroke for stroke.
Despite his far-famed stamina, he could not hold off his raging enthusiasm any longer, and with one final lunge and a roar of completion, he lodged himself to the hilt, spilling himself inside her womb, something he had not done for fifteen or more years. And what a glorious feeling it was!
“That was amazing,” she said, opening her eyes to look at him. “It appears that the Vikings earned their reputation as good lovers.”
“Was that a compliment?” He was braced above her on extended arms, not wanting to crush her with his weight.
“You’re conceited enough without my praising your talents as a lover. Let’s just say you were satisfactory.”
“Satisfactory? You will rue that word, m’lady.” He pulled himself out of her with a groan of sheer pleasure/pain. Rising from the bed, he pointed at her. “Do not move.”
Behind the screen he relieved his bladder, then used a soft, wet cloth to cleanse himself. When he went back, he was not surprised to see that Rita had moved to a sitting position with her back propped against two stacked pillows and a bed fur pulled up nigh to her neck.
“A little late for modesty,” he remarked as he went to the bottom of the bed and began to search Thorfinn’s old chest.
“I was cold.”
He gave her a look of such skepticism that she blushed. “Well, maybe a little shy. You have to know, Steven, that I don’t usually do this kind of thing.”
Dost mean blood-flaming, bone-melting, mind-exploding sex? “What kind of thing?”
“Hop into the sack with a guy I hardly know.”
You know me now, lady. “So, what do you do instead?” Not that he really wanted to know. Meanwhile, he was tossing items right and left. Who knew Thorfinn had so many braies and belts? But soon he came to the hose. At the bottom, of course.
“We go out on dates. You know, have dinner. See a movie. Walk on the beach. Go to a concert. You don’t understand those words, do you? Suffice it to say, we get to know one another before screwing each other’s brains out.”
He smiled at her choice of words. “Like putting the cart in front of the horse, as my mother ofttimes says.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, we cannot erase what has already been done. And I for one have ne’er had such amazing sex, ever, and, believe you me, I have engaged in every kind of sex imaginable.”
“Nice to know. Hey, what are those for?” She was staring at the two pairs of Thorfinn’s hose.
“I have noticed that you always try to take control of things, even in bedplay. Turnabout is fair play, is it not?”
She was edging toward the other side of the bed, but he grabbed her foot before she could bolt. “Oh, no, buddy. No bondage for me.”
He had already wrapped one of the stockings three times around her left ankle, then tied it to one of the foot-board posts. “I do not know what bondage is. All I want to do is try a little experiment.”
“Experiment be damned.” She was slapping at him as he tried to grasp her left wrist.
He had her left side restrained and moved to the other side of the bed.
Resigned, or pretending to be, she asked, “
What kind of experiment?”
“I just want to see what you are like when you do not hold the upper hand, so to speak, in bedplay. Plus, every Viking likes to explore new territory, unimpeded.”
“I could just lie here like a loaf of bread.”
“Not what I have in mind.” He was busy now, lighting another eight fat candles he had found in Thorfinn’s chest. He did not want to know why they were there.
After he had her tied loosely, spread-eagled on the bed, he lit each of the candles, arranging them as close as possible to the bed.
“What are the candles for? Some kind of ritual?”
He laughed. “Nay. The better to see you, my dearling.”
“That damn Red Riding Hood story is coming back to bite me in the butt again. You had this all planned, didn’t you?”
“I would have if I had thought of it, but nay, this is my creative impulsiveness at work.” Just then, he thought of something else he had seen in Luta’s chest the other day. With what he hoped was an evil grin, he was soon waving an exotic feather fan, which had once belonged in a sultan’s harem. Thorfinn had given Luta the fan for a betrothal gift before he realized the kind of perfidy she could commit. The fan was composed of various colorful feathers . . . peacock, goose, swan, and others he did not recognize.
“What the hell are you going to do with that?”
I have no idea. “It will be a surprise.” To us both.
“You’re punishing me for leaving the castle without telling you where I was going, aren’t you?”
He pondered a short while. “Mayhap a little.”
“I was only visiting the witches’ cottage.”
“And you think that makes it better?” He raised a hand to halt her next words. “Do not tell me now. Later, you can disturb me with tales of all your intrigues, but I will not let you ruin my good mood now.”
“I thought you were supposed to be a Viking with the blues.”
“Usually I am, but at the moment I am . . . um, yellow.”
