by Sandra Hill
"Ne'er have I enjoyed anything so much in all my life as watching your pleasure," he told her.
When her breathing slowed down a bit, she opened her eyes and glared at him.
"You'd better end this soon, Viking, or you'll be sorry."
He doubted that. Laughing softly because she was such a delight, Jorund moved to his knees at the foot of the sofa. Then, hooking her under the knees, he yanked her toward him till her buttocks rested on the edge of the sofa and her feet were planted on the floor, on either side of his legs.
He explored her abdomen then, her trim waist, her delicious navel with the warm metal ring, the crease where her buttocks met her thighs, but mostly the dark nest of curls and the parted cleft that was so very wet with her readiness for him. He spread her legs even wider, to expose her more.
Then he tasted her, just a quick swipe of tongue over swollen nether lips and a bud that was turgid and prominent.
Mag-he screamed out his name, not that modern one, but his real one; "Jorund!"
He thought he would melt at how sweet his true name on her tongue sounded to his ears. But it was too soon for melting, though the scorching heat in his vitals did not bode well. Just a few more minutes, he promised himself.
Relying on all he'd learned over the years about bedplay, and a few surprising ideas he thought up now, Jorund then used his tongue and teeth and lips on Mag-he's slickness... and never in all his life had he brought a woman to such wetness. Like a nectar of the gods was her cream. He pushed his tongue inside her as far as he could go, trying to find her most erogenous zones—that was a term he'd learned from Dock-whore Ruth on the TV box—then decided to save those delights for later. When he sucked on her rigid bud—the center of female eroticism, or so he'd been taught—Mag-he let loose a continuous wail of "Yeeeeeessss," the whole time pounding on his back with her fists.
Needless to say, she peaked again. Perhaps it was even two times. It was hard to tell with all that continuous convulsing.
It was time.
Raising his head, Jorund saw that Mag-he was lying sprawled on the sofa like a limp doll, with her eyes closed. Well, not for long, he pledged silently. Putting his hands on her waist, he lifted her bodily so that she lay farther up the sofa. Her eyes shot open.
Yes, he wanted her wide-awake for this. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he eased his erection into her hot depths. As before, she immediately started shattering around him, her inner muscles grasping and releasing him in welcome, not unlike that handshaking practice.
He tried to go slowly, with long, easy strokes, his fingers entwined with hers above her head, but he had prolonged his ecstasy too long.
"You stretch me," she commented in wonder.
"Yea, I do," he remarked pridefully. Was that not the way it was supposed to be with a man and a woman? "Should I stop?"
She laughed, a seductive, feminine trill. "Don't you dare." She drew her knees up, wrapping her legs about his hips as if to lock him in.
He needed no such encouragement. He was not able to let her go. This time he lunged so deep, he feared his penetration had reached her womb. He paused in question.
She blinked at him repeatedly. Then she said, "Goodness!"
He assumed that meant she was pleased at how well he filled her, so he continued. Caught in the throes of a hurricane, his sexplay became a raw act of possession as he drove into her, hard. He was wild.
She was wild.
The power of their joining was a palpable thing swirling between them as they gazed in wonder at each other. His burning eyes held hers, but she did not look away. Had a coupling of man and woman ever been so staggering to the senses?
"I love you," she whispered as the pinnacle of their rapture approached, and he continued to hammer himself into her. Her words surprised him and did not surprise him at the same time. He could not say that he was displeased, but he did not repeat the words back to her. He could not.
Still, he gave her the greatest pleasure he could with his shaft and his expert fingers and mouth. At the height of her fierce undulations and his deep strokes, he slid his fingers between her legs from behind. At that one touch, her molten folds exploded around his shaft, which was now so engorged it pained him. Jorund reared his head back, released a harsh, masculine roar of victory, and came to pulsating satisfaction.
Then he fell heavily on top of her, sated to the point of bonelessness. I love you, sweetling, he said inside his head. But he did not say the words aloud. In truth, he did not know where the sentiment came from. He did not really love this modern woman. Did he? He was no longer capable of love. Was he? Cloudy thoughts swam in his brain as he eased himself off the too-small sofa, onto the carpeted floor. He took Mag-he with him, nestling her face in the crook of his neck, one of her arms over his chest, and one leg draped over his.
He wanted to say something to her, to thank her for the most incredible experience of his life, but "thank you" seemed so inadequate to express all he felt. Instead he hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head.
Maggie must have swooned, or slept. All she knew was that some time must have passed since the most spectacular sexual marathon of her life—of anyone's life, she would bet—and Joe was sleeping soundly beside her.
Her face was resting against his shoulder, her palm over his chest, where his heart beat slowly in sleep, and a leg was thrown over his, with her knee pressed up against his genitals—genitals that were now semi-limp. Did the man never give totally... even in sleep? Was he always half up and ready to go?
Her body felt bruised and battered from Joe's lovemaking... and wonderfully satisfied, too. She was exhausted, no doubt due to her being out of shape. And more than anything, she was confused by the whirlwind that had overcome her in the form of a very sexy Viking. This was so much more than she'd ever expected.
He was so much more than she'd ever expected.
A warm shower, that was what she needed. Then she was going to crawl into bed and sleep till noon. Only then would she feel rejuvenated enough to contemplate with a logical mind all that had happened to her tonight.Carefully she eased herself off of Joe. He was in a deep sleep. She attempted to stand, but her legs gave way. She sank back to the floor, on her knees, and giggled. Then she clamped a hand over her mouth and glanced guiltily at Joe. He snored softy. Well, good. There was some small gratification in knowing she'd worn him out, too. It was an ignominious posture, but Maggie began to crawl from the room on her hands and knees. When she got to the hall she would stand, with the support of walls and stair rails.
"Going somewhere, wench?" a silky, male voice inquired. At the same time, an iron hand snaked out and grasped her ankle.
Maggie peeked over her shoulder and groaned. Joe was approaching her, on hands and knees, too, like a big, stalking cat. That image was only reinforced when he came up and over her from behind, covering her with his massive body, and purred into her ear. Already she could feel his erection against her leg.
"No, Joe, not again. Haven't you had enough for now?"
"Did I not say afore that my biggest talent was my stamina?" he boasted. She didn't look, but she suspected he was smiling.
"Is that like the Viking version of understatement?" she remarked dryly, and tried to crawl away.
He swatted her on the behind and yanked her back. She could feel the heat of his skin as he undulated over her, like a cat, though he barely touched her skin.
"It's too soon," she protested. "I couldn't. Really. Oh, my goodness!"
In one sleek, feline move, he lifted her hips and entered her from behind.
And Maggie soon discovered that, in fact, she could.
While his male member stroked her inside with long, leisurely plunges, his fingers and his whispered words praised her breasts... then the wet folds that she had thought were too sensitive to be touched again so soon.
But—oh... oh... oh—they were not.
Maggie realized then, if she had not already, that this was not a mode
rn man who did things according to politically correct rules. He was a Viking warrior with savage sexual appetites and barbarian ways of seduction. An uncivilized lover.
She would have him no other way.
This time a sated Maggie lay flat on her stomach on the floor, with Joe splayed top of her, laughing in her ear. "So what do you think of Viking lovemaking, m'lady?"
"I'm afraid to ask what you do for an encore," she said with a strangled laugh.
"Aaahhh, I am so glad you asked. Have I not told you about the famous Viking S-spot?"
It was midnight. They were lying nestled in each other's arms on the sofa bed in the den, watching a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show, which Joe adored, for some reason.
They were sated... for the moment, anyhow. One never knew about Joe. Just a little while ago, she had inquired of Mr. Homier-than-Thou, "Do Viking women walk around bowlegged all the time?"
He'd tilted his head at her, baffled by her question. Then he'd laughed. "Nay, just the lucky ones."
There were no lights on now, but the Christmas tree in the corner was twinkling brightly, and Joe had built a fire in the fireplace, even though there was enough heat in the room to fire a nuclear station. Sexual heat, that was.
Joe had carried her here after they had taken a shower together. Words didn't begin to describe that experience, involving hot water, liquid soap, and a loofah.
Afterward they had sat at the kitchen table in nothing but oversize bath towels, scarfing down beef Stroganoff over buttered noodles, and an entire half-gallon of orange juice. Joe had wanted a beer but she'd suggested o.j., as being more regenerative. Hah! Little did she know!
Then they had made love again, this time with her sitting on top of the vibrating dishwasher, and that was where she discovered the secret of the Viking S-spot. Holy cow! Joe could write a book about the phenomenon, if he stuck around this century long enough, and if he was unable to find a job as a warrior. It certainly put the G-spot to shame. She knew for darn sure he'd be a hot ticket on the talk-show circuit.
Then again, no. Maggie didn't want to share this man with anyone else. That was selfish of her, of course, but she regarded him as her special secret.
Joe had then carried her to the den. Now she wondered why he was so quiet.
"What are you thinking, Joe?"
He chuckled. "Already you are back to the sigh-colic-jest questions."
She slapped him playfully on the chest, and he playfully winced as if she'd hurt him. When she tried to shrug out of his arms, he tucked her more closely into the cradle formed by his arm looped over her shoulder.
"I was thinking that I must be more virile than I thought if I can make a woman peak twenty-five times in a matter of"—he glanced over to the mantel clock—"four hours."
"Oh! That is such a lie. I never climaxed twenty-five times."
He lifted an eyebrow at her.
"Were you counting?" she accused.
"Are you daft, wench? I was too busy trying to catch my breath."
She buried her hot face against his chest as all her old insecurities slam-dunked into her brain. Was she a slut at heart? Too sensuous? Too uninhibited? "Was I too... too... ?"
Her words were muffled, spoken as they were against the warm skin of his bare chest, but he heard her. Tipping her chin up with a forefinger so he could see her face, Joe finished for her, "... wanton?"
"Yes. Was I too wanton?"
"Oh, Mag-he! How can you ask such a question?" He threw his head back and laughed uproariously. When she sliced him a glare, he gave her lips a quick, smacking kiss. "Your woman-joy is my man-pleasure, silly lady. I was teasing you, but in essence I was puffing my chest out with pride at my good fortune."
"Really?"
"Really."
"So what were you thinking about so seriously then?"
"I was thinking that mayhap living in this godforsaken country and time might not be so bad. I was thinking that perchance my mother was right when she said home is where the heart is. She was answering my question at the time as to how she—a highborn Saxon lady—could adapt so easily to the harsh northern climate and a vastly different culture. And finally I was thinking—and this scared me mightily—that your home is becoming too much like home to me."
Tears welled in Maggie's eyes. "Oh, Joe, that's the nicest thing you could have said."
"So you think, but how will I ever be able to depart this land if my affections grow so strong? All this time, I have been heeding your cautions not to let your daughters get too close, for fear of the hurt they would suffer once I leave which I must do inevitably—but not once did I realize that I was being pulled into this selfsame net."
My affections... Maggie homed in on those words of Joe's. What did he mean by that? Suddenly she recalled blurting out to Joe, in the midst of their lovemaking earlier tonight, that she loved him. Had he heard her? Did her words bother him? Was he trying to tell her, indirectly, that he returned her affection? She couldn't help herself. Maggie asked, "Are you in love with me, Joe?"
"Pfff! How would I know? I have never been in love afore."
"Some men claim that if you have to ask the question, then you're not."
"Ha! Most men don't know their manroot from a beet root." He sighed deeply. "All I know is that I go breathless just looking at you. Is that love? I could swive you till my cock falls off. Is that love? When you leave a chamber, even for a few minutes, I miss you. Is that love? My heart swells almost to bursting when I watch you with your daughters. Is that love? I want to do things to you that no man has ever done or contemplated. Is that love? I want to protect you with my shield from all harm. I want to stop all men from gazing at you. I want to see... I want to see you..." He was unable to finish his litany.
Maggie was weeping openly now. "You want to see me what?"
He reached beneath the covers and placed a hand over her belly. "I want to see my babe growing in your womb."
That afternoon, they decided to go yule shopping.
Mag-he claimed she needed to buy some last minute gifts to put under the tree—Odd practice, that but he suspected she wanted to get him out of her house, lest he try to teach her more tricks in bedplay. Smart lady.
He yielded to her wishes readily because he was thinking he should buy some gifts, as well. The Norse people did not celebrate Christmas, as such, though they welcomed any opportunity for feasting and gift giving. But mostly Jorund agreed to go shopping with Mag-he because he did not want her to become bowlegged. Ha, ha, ha, he thought. A little Viking humor. Quite frankly, he did not want his manpart to fall off from overuse—Ha, ha, ha! A lot of Viking humor.
She was driving her car, and he was sitting in the passenger seat, strapped in. He was going to have to learn to drive if he stayed in this land much longer. Driving a car was a necessity here, much as riding a horse or a longship was in his time.
"Did you hear me?" she asked.
Oh, she must have been talking while he'd been humoring himself. Too much swiving must turn a man's brain to gruel. On the other hand, was there such a thing as too much swiving?
"I said, I think we'll skip the mall."
"Methinks we should skip the shopping and stop at McDonald's. My stomach is growling."
"Your stomach is always growling. We are not going to McDonald's again. If you eat many more Big Mac's and french fries, you're going to turn into a clown... a Ronald McDonald clown."
"Shopping is women's work," he grumbled.
"And a man's work would be... ?"
"War." Then he waggled his eyebrows at her. "And swiving."
"Why did I ask?" She shook her head at him, as if he were hopeless. "Anyhow, we're going to the Strand historical district. Besides, you already went shopping at the mall with Beth and Suzy the night I had a staff meeting at Rainbow."
"And ne'er did my feet hurt so much in all my life. Those girls must have stopped at every blessed trading stall in the entire mall. And I swear, if I hear 'Jingle Bells' one more time, I may j
ust throw up the contents of my stomach."
"The girls told me you had a good time," she pointed out with a smile. "They said you even had a long conversation with Santa Claus."
"Santa Claus! Oh, I am glad you brought up the subject. That fat, old, white-bearded fraud! You'd never catch me wearing a red suit, not even if I owned a set of flying reindeer. Do you really believe in the Santa Claus myth? Do you?"
"Well, I certainly believe in the spirit of Christmas."
"That is a nonanswer if I ever heard one," he scoffed.
"If time travel exists, why not Santa Claus?" He saw the grin she was trying to stifle and realized that she jested with him. He made a harrumph of disgust.
"Anyhow, you won't have to worry about Santa Claus downtown. Oh, he'll be there, by the dozen, I'm sure, but the Strand is much more Christmasy in a traditional, old-fashioned sense."
"What is the Strand?" he asked, gazing at Mag-he's lips, which were swollen from his numerous kisses. He rather liked the idea that she carried his mark in some way.
"The Strand is the district at the heart of Galveston. In its heyday, which was the late 1800s and early 1900s, Galveston was even called the New York of Texas."
Jorund thought about letting Mag-he blather on, but he had to refute that last preposterous statement of hers. "How could a city in Tax-us be the New York? Everyone knows that York—-or Jorvik, as we Norse call it—is in England. Even I know they cannot move a city across the ocean."
Mag-he turned toward him, taking her eyes off the roadway for a brief second. "Not that York. I'm referring to New York City. Oh, never mind. It's not important."
She was correct: it was not important. What was important was that his attention had snagged on her red Christmas sweat-her, which had a green tree on the front... a green tree with colored balls, two of which were stationed right about where her nipples were—nipples for which he had developed a particular fondness. He was also fond of what was beneath her black silk braies on the bottom.
