by Sandra Hill
“Oh, I do. I do.” She raised her head and looked at him, serious now. “I would miss you if you went away. Don’t go.”
“I do not know if my going or staying is within my control, but know this, heartling, I would miss you, too. And while many things seem out of my control, one thing I can promise: I can make the here and now we share memorable.”
“Got a little humility problem, do you?”
“I am a Viking. Humility is not in our makeup.”
She lowered her lips to his, kissing him softly but thoroughly. When she raised her head, he tried to pull her back down. “You taste good. What have you been eating? Grapes?”
“Not eating, drinking. I had some wine.”
“The Blue Dragon wine?”
She nodded. “Are you going to get an electrical shock just from tasting it on my tongue?” she teased.
“I do not know. We’d better try again and see.” This time it was Max who kissed her, softly but thoroughly. When the kiss ended, he said, “No electrical shock, just a sexual one.”
“Did you bring any condoms with you, cowboy?” she asked, helping him pull his T-shirt over his head without her getting off of him—a real feat!
“Only a dozen,” he answered as he toed his shoes off.
And he was serious.
By the time they got his jeans off—which was not easy, with his refusal to get off the vibrating recliner and his not wanting her off his body—they were both more than ready for sex. After he helped cover his awe-inspiring “enthusiasm” with a condom, she eased herself down onto him. She could have wept for the sheer ecstasy that slow slide provided her.
“I want to touch you,” he murmured.
But she slapped his hands away. “Not now. Too many sensations hitting me at once. I want to concentrate on one thing at a time.”
He arched his eyebrows in surprise at her orders. He complied, though, by folding his arms behind his head.
Max filled her, and her inner folds adjusted to accommodate him. When she felt in control enough that she wouldn’t go off like a rocket at the merest touch, she leaned forward, bracing her arms on his shoulders. She spread her legs wider, so that a certain spot between her legs would hit his pubic bone. Only then did she begin to move on him, slowly, rocking.
He muttered something in a foreign tongue that probably translated to “holy friggin’ hell!” which was pretty much how she felt. His eyes went wide and he blinked.
She blinked, too.
“Are you done concentrating now?” he gasped out.
“Why?”
“Because …” he said, and showed her. Putting his hands under her buttocks, he lifted her high on him so that she took him even farther inside herself.
She could swear he grew even thicker and longer in that blink of a second.
“I did not know I could do that,” he said, wonderment in his voice. “That is what you do to me … for me,” he declared joyfully.
“I didn’t know I could, either,” she said and began to undulate her body with the rhythm of some teenybopper sexy music video. Jennifer Lopez, eat your heart out!
Max made a low growling sound of masculine agony deep in his throat.
She was wet, she was throbbing, and she was about to come.
So what did her Viking do? In one fluid movement, he rolled them over so that she was on the bottom and he was on top, still embedded in her.
“Oh, boy!” she said.
“Nay. ‘Oh, man!’ is what you should say.”
But she was speechless, with the velvety chair vibrating under her tush and Max torturing her with long, way-too-slow plunges into her body … plunges that hit her right there every time he came home, and left her throbbing when he left.
She began to beg. “Please. Harder. Faster. Now!” She spread her legs wider. She wrapped them around his waist. She dug her nails into his back.
He laughed. The brute. But he did as she’d ordered. Perhaps not such a brute.
She shattered then into about a million sex-charged pieces as he pounded into her one last time. The only saving grace for her was that he was the picture of male-pushed-to-the-limit as he threw back his head and roared out his own awesome climax. She liked to think she had a little to do with that. Okay, a lot.
“You’re smiling,” he observed once they both panted themselves back to normal. He bit her chin as punishment.
“So are you.” She bit his shoulder as punishment.
“Some pick-nack you throw, m’lady,” he said.
“Oh, my goodness! I bet the candles all burned out.” She started to jump up, but Max winced and held her down till he eased himself out of her.
As they strolled back to the bedroom, Max remarked with a bit of consternation, “My candle is not at all burned out, that I assure you.”
Burning the candle at both ends, and then some …
It was not the first time Ragnor had sex and food at the same time, but it was the most fun.
Whilst naked, they ate hard and soft cheeses slathered on slices of Frankish bread, washed down with delicious cool wine. The chunks of spiced meat were palatable to him, but the bitter olives were not. They saved the fruit and the remainder of the wine for dessert, which consisted of what Alison aptly called “wild monkey sex.”
They had cleared the bed, taken a shower together, and were now lying on the bed and talking softly as lovers are wont to do. He had to return to the military base within the hour.
She told him of her work as a healer, particularly the patients she’d dealt with this past week. He laughed when she described Flash having bruised his thigh during underwater demolition practice and wanting her to sign a weekend liberty for him to go home to recuperate. “The reason I knew that Flash had an ulterior motive,” Alison explained, “is that there was to be a NASCAR race taking place this weekend, and he was one of four SEAL trainees who had the same brilliant idea.”
“You can’t blame them for trying,” Ragnor said, grinning. “But I can think of better things to do when given free time than watching cars chase each other around big circles.”
“Like?” she asked, slanting her eyes at him seductively.
“As if you don’t know, you insatiable wanton,” he answered.
Ragnor told her of the grueling week he’d had in SEALs training. “Do not take offense, milady, but your brother has a cruel streak on occasion.”
“His bark is worse than his bite.”
“Hah!” I have known black bears less vicious than he is.
“Really.”
“When I tried to voice my concerns over this jumping-out-of-the-sky nonsense, he told me, ‘It’s a case of mind over matter, boy. We don’t mind. And you don’t matter.’ ”
She laughed. “That’s an old military saying. Don’t take it personally. And you have to understand that Ian’s been through a lot lately.” She told him how Ian had been betrayed by his betrothed, how the only thing the traitorous woman had left behind was a fat old cat.
“A cat? A cat?” he hooted. “I knew it! The chieftain is destined to be with my sister Madrene. She has a cat, too.”
“I’d like to see you convince him to travel back in time, with a cat yet, to be with your sister.” She smiled impishly at him. He knew she didn’t accept that he’d time-traveled, but he blessed her for accepting that he believed it.
He loved this impish, playful side of Alison. And he realized that the one thing he had missed about sex for years and years was laughter. The best loveplay had smiles in there somewhere. “If I ever do get sent back to my own time, methinks I will become a monk,” he declared. “You have ruined me for other women.”
She laughed softly against his chest, then kissed one of his nipples, causing a jolt in his manpart, which amazed him. After all the sex they’d engaged in, his enthusiasm should be all worn down … for today, at least.
“If you’re going to be a monk, then I guess I’d better become a nun,” she said.
“You will be the first hard-bodied nun
in history, I warrant.” Hmmm. I have ne’er had sex with a nun afore. I wonder if Alison would …
“And you’ll be the sexiest priest. All the ladies will want to confess their sins to you.”
I could wear a monk’s tunic. I already have the shaved tonsure. You would wear a religious habit. And … “Dost have any sins you would like to confess to me, m’lady?” He waggled his eyebrows at her with mock lasciviousness.
“I’ve been having wanton fantasies of late.”
Uh-oh, is she reading my mind? But I like the sound of “wanton.” “Hmmm. Tell me more, my child.”
“Well, there is this certain Viking—”
“Ah, Vikings! They are a temptation.” Especially Viking monks.
“That they are,” she agreed.
“Methinks I should levy an appropriate penance.” By the gods, methinks I would make a grand priest.
“Something involving sex? Tsk-tsk-tsk! That would compound the sin.”
They smiled at each other.
He kissed her lips softly, then grew serious. Time was creeping up on him. “I do not know when I will see you again. We will be leaving for George-ha in a few days for jump school. I shudder to think of all that will entail. Bloody hell, I shudder to think of getting into an airplane to go to George-ha to begin with. But that is neither here nor there. You must take extra precautions for your safety whilst I am gone. I really wish you would move into the bachelor officers’ quarters on the base. Or go to visit your father.”
She shook her head. It was an argument they’d had before, and he hadn’t won yet.
“Then be extra careful. Try to come home afore dark. Carry that pistol with you. Take no chances.”
“Max! You’re as bad as Ian and my father. I’ll be all right. You’re the one who must take care of yourself. Stop worrying about me.” She kissed him gently to reassure him. A futile gesture.
“When I get back, we will talk,” he told her. “There are many things I have to decide, and all of them involve you.”
Like, You are the most important thing in my life.
Like, You really are my destiny.
Like, Just looking at you takes my breath away.
Like, I do love you.
Like, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.
That was what he thought, but he was unable to say the words … and mean them. Yet.
Chapter Sixteen
Flying through the air with the greatest of unease …
Ragnor sat in the window seat of the airplane as it soared through the skies. His fists clutched the armrests with a death grip, his stomach roiled with nausea, and he kept his eyes squeezed shut from the minute they went “wheels up” back in Coronado and their officer yelled out to them, “Good to go!”
Not him. He was definitely not “good to go.”
There were about seventy-five SEAL trainees on the plane, along with a few instructors. Chieftain MacLean had stayed behind at Coronado. They would join up with another two hundred or more soldiers from various military “boot camps.” He had no idea what a boot camp was and didn’t care to ask.
Once they disembarked from the metal death trap at the Fort Benning military base in George-ha, he sank to his knees on the ground and gave thanks to Odin for his safe journey. The worst part of getting off that airplane was knowing he would have to get on again in three weeks. Even worse, he would soon be jumping out of it, or something similar, whilst the plane flew in the skies.
Insanity, that’s what it was.
“I thought you were a smoke jumper at one time.” Cage frowned as he patted him on the shoulder. Ragnor stood and bent over at the waist, trying to breathe.
“What’s a smoke jumper?” Ragnor asked.
“Never mind,” Cage said, shaking his head at him.
“You gotta earn your wings, man,” F.U. told him.
He told F.U. what the Navy could do with his wings.
“You’ll love it,” Pretty Boy said. “You get such a rush the first time you fall. Just like the first time I took the checkered flag at Darlington. Wow! Better than sex.”
“Mayhap better than your sex play,” Ragnor countered, “but not better than my sex play.”
“Seriously, Max, you better get your act together or you’ll be FUBAR before you make your cherry jump,” Flash advised in a kindly fashion.
“Foe-bar? Do you refer to my sword Foe Fighter?”
All his fellow trainees said, “Huh?”
“It’s foo-bar, buddy. FUBAR means Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition,” Flash explained.
“Oh, well, I am already that,” Ragnor said. “We Vikings have a similar word we use betimes. UFWABL.”
“Oooof-wobble? You pullin’ our leg, Max?” Cage asked with a laugh.
“ ’Tis the truth. Up a Fjord Without a Bloody Longship. Same thing.”
Just then a man with a commanding presence yelled out, “At-ten-hut!”
Everyone within hearing range jerked to attention, including Ragnor.
The man, who resembled a bull, stood right in front of Ragnor’s group and seemed to be addressing him personally, though he was surely talking to them all. “I am Sergeant Major Williamson of the United States Army Airborne, and we are not about to put up with any crap from a bunch of hairy-assed leg swabbies.”
Ragnor learned later that all combat troops called sailors “swabbies,” implying that all they did was stay safely on ships and swab decks. The term “leg” was used to define anyone who hadn’t yet been jump qualified.
“Is that clear, mister?” the bull bellowed, and, yea, he was looking directly at him.
“Who? Me?” Ragnor said, which was really lackwitted, of course. When will I learn to be quiet?
“No, I’m talking to that tree over there. What’s your name, boy?”
“Ensign Magnusson, sir,” he said, staring straight ahead.
I think I am going to throw up the contents of my heaving stomach.
“I’m gonna remember your name, Magnusson.”
That is just wonderful. It appeared the sergeant major was demonstrating to them all that they were Navy men at an Army base. Unfortunately, he intended to use Ragnor as his whipping boy.
“Dost think it is fair to pick on me? In my opinion—” he started to say before the sergeant major put up a halting hand.
His comrades groaned with dismay, and some of the Army troops grinned. Mayhap I should not have spoken.
“And your crybaby, whiney-assed opinion would be what, Ensign Mag-nuss-on?”
“Nothing, Sergeant Major, sir,” he replied, suddenly gaining the wisdom to shut his teeth. “What was that word you used before?” he asked Flash in an undertone once the Army man turned away.
“FUBAR,” Flash murmured back.
“For a certainty!” Ragnor concluded.
“I have another one for you,” Cody said. “This is a classic SNAFU.” Ragnor didn’t even bother to ask. Cody explained all on his own. “Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.”
“That is us,” Ragnor agreed with a sigh.
“Not us,” JAM said. “You.”
Meanwhile, back at the … base …
All hell broke loose after Max left town.
Alison and Ian had both been ordered to move into bachelor officers’ quarters at the base, thanks to a sudden escalation of her breather/stalker situation. Armed military police followed both of them wherever they went, even to the bathroom. Lillian and Sam moved in temporarily with Dr. Feingold, to everyone’s surprise except Alison’s.
The Breather calls had started up again, despite Alison’s private number. There were messages now, in the same or a similar foreign-accented voice—definitely Middle Eastern, according to the Intel—and they were threatening.
A tracing device had been found in the wallet Alison had given Ian for his birthday. Apparently, the device had been planted there by the person who had entered her apartment weeks ago, as a way to find out where Ian was living.
As a result o
f the tracing device, Ian’s home had been entered and his phone lines wired. He was also being threatened by the foreign-accented culprit.
Someone was up to no good, and it involved both Alison and her brother. Her father, alerted to the danger, had arrived from D.C., accompanied by an armed guard worthy of a visiting king.
No one knew why they were being stalked, but some of the best military and private Intel in the country was at work on the case. Terrorism in any form was taken seriously these days.
But that wasn’t the worst of Alison’s problems. She was pregnant. Pregnant! No one knew but her, and she was less than one month along, but that didn’t change anything. Pregnant!
Who would have thunk it?
A physician. A superintelligent woman. A Navy SEAL aspiree. A woman who had her whole future mapped out. A control freak personified. Pregnant. Was that dumb, or what?
She and Max had used condoms every time they’d made love … lots of condoms. Except for that one bleepin’ nanosecond in the broom closet. God must have a sense of humor to have thrown this roadblock her way. Or maybe He had some plan for her. Was it destiny, as Max kept saying?
She had to laugh or else she would cry.
Well, Max would be coming home at the end of next week.
Would that make things better, or worse?
Are we having fun yet? …
The first two weeks weren’t too bad.
The grueling physical exercise required of SEALs was cut in half, and there was no Gig Squad, no long swims, or nighttime evolutions.
Same old constant running as in SEALs training, though. No one ever walked here, either. The men and women were ordered to run everywhere. “Move it, move it, move!” But here the running was called the Airborne Shuffle, running in step with the left foot slamming down. Some half-brain sitting in an off-his somewhere probably thought it had a musical lilt to it.
Really, the military in this time and this country was a bit barmy, placing so much emphasis on running. They ought to put more time on swordplay, catapulting, laying siege, boiling oil, forcing battering rams through heavy doors.
The Army people here appeared not to like the Navy people much, for no apparent reason, possibly because they’d given their barracks a special name, the Frog Pond, setting them apart from the others.
