by Jianne Carlo
Her breasts became the center of the world when his chest scraped her nipples. She ached all over and the need to touch him surged through her.
All restraint vanished in a flash when he sucked on her lower lip.
She set her palms to his neck, slid them down to his collarbone, trailed them down over the dip between his shoulders and ribs, and rubbed them back and forth, delving her fingers into the surprising softness of the downy hair dusting his flesh.
He shifted and his shaft abraded her tender woman parts. The secret nub she had explored during the long, lonely nights at the abbey throbbed and burned. His mouth claimed hers and she was lost.
Lost in the marvel of her first kiss. How could two sets of lips brushing back and forth blaze fire to her nipples and drench the folds of her sex? His tongue slipped into her mouth and the magik of the invasion sent her reeling senses into showers of sensation. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangled her fingers in the silkiness of his hair, kneaded the solidness of the bridge of his shoulders, and keened when he tickled the roof of her mouth.
His arm curled around her waist and dipped lower to cup her buttocks, hand splayed wide to grind his rod against her mound.
A desperate need struck, a need akin to a bolt of lightning—sizzling, sparking, and crackling. She rubbed her toes on his calf, arched her hips into him, and clutched at his arms in a silent plea for him to take away the exquisite pain-pleasure of her frantic yearning.
His hand palmed her head, forcing their mouths into a desperate fusion. He bit the tip of her tongue. Spirals of want coiled tighter and tighter, all centered on her secret woman’s flesh, nipples, and moist folds. Wild, bestial hunger gnawed at her. She drummed her fists on his back, demanding release from the excruciating tension building from deep inside. Her inner walls clenched faster and faster.
When his fingers glanced over her folds she widened her legs. The heel of his palm pressed hard against her mound. She dug her feet into the mattress lifting into the grating feel of the calluses that formed a rough ridge where his hand and wrist joined.
He changed the angle of his kiss so that his mouth encompassed hers and then balanced her bottom cheeks on his hand. The massive head of his shaft surged into her sheath, the pressure of his incursion so intense and formidable, she shoved at him.
Distracted, she tried to break away from his assault on her mouth, but he held her fast to him, and drove into her in one punishing, powerful stroke. The sharp pinch shattered her delicious trance. She scraped her nails on his shoulders and he mercifully withdrew.
“Keep your eyes closed,” he muttered, and his hot breath dried her moist lips.
Confusion ran rampant through her when he rolled them over and wrapped the bed covers around her body.
“Remember your promise to trust.” His low whisper tickled her cheek.
She bit her lip and tasted blood, but squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
The next thing she knew he lurched to standing. He cradled her head and pressed her face to his chest. “There is the evidence of the consummation. Olaf, you are satisfied?”
“Aye.”
Humiliation scalded her from head to toe.
“Take the sheets and hang them.”
An ominous silence held sway over the chamber. She tried not to listen to the low murmurs and rustling of linens, tried not to imagine all who had witnessed her wanton behavior, and failed miserably. All she had not heard before now came in thunderous waves to her ears. The whispers from the villagers and the keep’s people were all of the Viking and his friend discussing her lack of a voice and whether her new husband would set her aside.
How wrong she had been to place her trust in him.
Chapter Three
Self-disgust shriveled Dráddør ’s erection.
What a dolt! ’Twas to have been a swift swiving. Over in a brief moment.
Xára’s taste, the swell of her breasts brushing his ribs, the fresh sunshine scent of her hair, the feel of her in his arms, all had so beguiled him that for long moments he had forgotten their audience. He stifled the urge to bang his head on the bedpost and laid her down on the mattress.
Long slender fingers scraped the covers to one side and bared her face to him. Rosy color stained the high ridge of her cheekbones. She blinked and scanned the chamber through half-hooded eyes.
“They are gone.” He flexed his fingers in an attempt to repress the sudden need to sit her on his lap and stroke her back. Before the temptation overcame him, he spun around and walked over to the bowl of water warming in front of the fire.
He swept surreptitious peeks at her while assembling the cloths and checking the water temperature. She sat up against the headboard with the blankets wrapped snugly about her shoulders and neck. He noticed no obvious signs of agony or pain on her face, though his new wife blushed even more deeply when she glimpsed his scrutiny.
At a loss as to how to proceed, he concentrated on his immediate task and carried the brass container and the linens to the table by the bed. When he sat on the mattress, her gaze fixed on his groin, and she quickly averted her glance. Dráddør looked down, noticed the bloody streaks on his cock’s crown, and choked back a vile oath. He snatched a small fur from the bottom of the bed and covered his manhood. Then he lifted her sideways onto his lap.
Tilting her chin so she had to meet his stare, he spoke slowly, “Are you in pain?”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head.
“Let me attend to you.” He tugged the blanket off her shoulders and reached over to dip a cloth into the warm water.
She grabbed his wrist and mouthed, “Nay.”
“Aye. ’Tis my duty as your husband.” His lips twitched when she narrowed her eyes and smacked his arm. Her natural response and obvious annoyance pleased him inordinately. The breaching of her virginity had not cowed her spirit. Not that he had made the event any easier by losing his control. “’Twill take longer if we must argue. Have no doubt, sváss, I will prevail.”
Crossing her arms, she tried to squeeze her legs together, but he’d anticipated the move, and cupped his hand over her mound. To his surprise, her folds were moist even though he had not spilled his seed inside her. Then he remembered how slick she had been to his brief caress. His pecker, ever the eager fool, thickened.
Stiff and bristling with angered irritation, she kneaded a bed cushion and deliberately turned away from him. “You will shred the poor pillow.”
By Freya, she had the prettiest puss he had ever seen. Rich curls, a shade darker than the chestnut locks hanging past her waist, framed plump folds of a hue akin to a raspberry. His damnable cock twitched and leaked onto the fur covering his groin. His stones ached, but he gritted his teeth, and cleansed a thin streak of blood from her thigh.
Keeping his touch gentle, he washed her sex, and used another cloth to pat away the dampness. He threw both linens aside and wrapped the covers around her again. “There. All done.”
She craned her neck to see him, brows puckered, an unspoken question in her beautiful eyes.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” She answered no to his questions with quick, frustrated shakes of her head. He repressed a curse. Why had he not had the sand tray brought to the chamber?
A notion formed. He set her small palm to his chest. “Write on me.”
The sudden flare in her eyes made him smile and her echoing grin had him preening. He tried to keep his breathing even, but the graze of her fingertips sent his desire soaring. His dolt of a cock gave another hopeful twitch.
See Jennie, she traced.
Of course. What a lout he was. “Aye. I will take you to her. She will probably be sleeping, but we can check with the healer.”
The fur thudded onto the cold stone floor when he stood, but the blankets were long enough to cover his erect shaft. Dráddør debated donning a tunic, but knew none but his men roamed Lathairn this eve.
She tangled his hair in one hand, yanked, pointed to the covers, and then the discar
ded cyrtel.
“I am taking you to your mother. And nay, it makes no sense for either you or me to dress. You are wrapped snug as a swaddled babe, my men would not dare glance at you, and there is no one else about.” Shifting her in his arms, he fumbled with the bar on the door. ’Twould’ve been easier to open the door if he set her down. But he liked the feel of her in his arms, the slight tickle of her breath on his shoulder, and the way her curls brushed his chin.
The two men guarding the chamber’s entrance straightened away from the wall when he stepped out of the room. Xára buried her face in his shoulder. Her modesty pleased him and he gave her a little squeeze of approval.
Dráddør spoke in Norse, “Be at ease. I but take my wife to her mother. Is all quiet?”
“Aye, my lord,” answered the taller of the two, a warrior new to Dráddør’s service whose name he could not recall.
He inclined his head, turned in the opposite direction, and marched to Lady Jennie’s chamber. The door stood open and a few tallow candles on a table flickered long, angular shadows on the wall behind them. Both the healer and Jennie slept, one on the bed appropriated from a nearby farmhold, the other on a pallet on the floor. Dráddør halted at the side of the bed.
Xára stiffened in his embrace and pushed at his chest.
“Nay,” he whispered, cursing his reluctance to release her. “She sleeps. Slumber heals.”
The sight of her misty eyes and trembling lips as she examined her mother’s features tugged at his heart. By Loki’s stones, she was the daughter of his sworn enemy and deserved no pity. Dráddør clenched his jaw and cast her a quick glance.
Sorrow canted Xára’s mouth down and she blinked rapidly.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Your mother has regained some color, I believe.”
Both silky dark brows climbed to her hairline, she bent over, and studied Lady Jennie once more. Xára nodded and flashed him a querulous smile before mouthing, “Aye. She has.”
Guilt added speed to his movements and he spun around to leave. While the yellow tint to Lady Jennie’s complexion had faded a tad, Dráddør had no doubt the woman would die soon, mayhap before dawn.
If only his brother’s wife was not large with child. Konáll and Nyssa lived not far from Caithness, and she was not only a half-goddess, but also a magikal healer. Mayhap Nyssa could’ve worked her enchantment on Lady Jennie.
When they arrived at the master chamber, Dráddør conversed with the new guard briefly in their native language.
He hipped the door closed, checked the flames on the fire, and walked to the bed. “I have sent for food and wine. Aught else you desire?”
She fingered the edge of the blanket and glanced at her discarded gown, but said naught.
“I ordered your sand tray brought here.” Dráddør had no intention of allowing his bride to dress and planned to spend the night accustoming her to him. He swung onto the mattress and settled her sideways on his thighs.
One pale foot peeked from her blankets, and, unable to resist touching her bare skin, he palmed Xára’s heel. Unlike his rough soles, hers were smooth and soft, her arch high and noble, and the toes long and slender. He kneaded the plump spot under her big toe, and she sighed in his embrace, relaxing against his chest, and rubbed a cheek over the top of his arm.
Resting his chin on the top of her head, he massaged first one foot then the other. When the tension seeped from her shoulders and she snuggled closer, he said, “’Tis not long before dawn and there is much to be done on the morrow. Sleep.”
She pushed away from him. With one finger she wrote on his chest, I cannot sleep. I worry of Jennie.
He knew she wanted to sit by her mother’s side. “I cannot have any question the validity of our marriage. We must stay here together until the cocks crow.”
When she tried to slide off his lap, he held her fast, not willing to release her yet. Remembering her slick folds, he decided to move ahead with his plans for binding her to him. She had responded well to his caresses earlier, and forgotten their audience until he’d ruptured her maidenhead. Mayhap a taste of the pleasure to be had in bedsport with him would distract her from worrying about Lady Jennie.
He nuzzled her neck. Loki’s balls be tied. She smelled of all a woman should, spicy with a hint of some floral sweetness, and a secret musk that had his half-hard cock erect in an instant.
She wriggled her shoulders but sank into him and tilted her head to one side. The action was slight, nigh imperceptible, and had he not been attuned to her every nuance, he would not have noticed. A siren’s invitation he could not refuse.
He sipped the downy, fuzzy hairs at her nape and slipped his hand underneath the covers to the soft curve of her belly. When the tips of two fingers grazed at the rim of her navel, it took all the warrior discipline beaten into him to resist the call of her puss.
Cupping her cheek, he turned her face to him and caught her mouth with his.
To his delight, she opened for him, parted her lips, and squeezed his forearm when he tasted her deeply.
He could not resist the flavor of her, honey, nay, mead and fruit and a hint of smoky allure, the complex tang too intoxicating to do naught but drink more, linger more.
She squirmed, the delicious roundness of her arse moving from side to side over his engorged pecker. Temptation reared and his sac drew up. His mind filled with images of spreading her legs wide and hammering into her until he found release.
“Virgin,” he muttered, having enough reason left to speak in Norse, leaned his forehead on hers, and choked back a groan. It had taken all his control to withdraw from her tight sheath without finding his pleasure earlier. Indeed he would not have been capable of resisting pounding into her puss had she not stiffened and scoured her nails on his back when he took her innocence.
He was a Viking, a warrior, a man of honor, and, by Freya, he would wait until Xára signaled her readiness before taking her again. Yet, he could not wile away this chance to teach his bride the sheer ecstasy to be found ’tween a man and a woman.
All at once, he grinned. Aye, he could not breach her tender sheath until she healed, but there was more than one way to pleasure a new wife.
He trailed his hand slowly across her stomach and met her dreamy stare. “Like you the kissing?”
She smiled on a deep sigh, dipped her chin in a yes answer, and smoothed a thumb over his mouth.
“Will you give me your trust once more?” He couldn’t draw in a breath; he wanted, nay, needed, her assent.
Her eyes widened, she swallowed her lips, and peeped down at the space ‘tween their bodies. The swollen head of his cock twitched around a fold in the bed covers.
“Nay. I will not assault your tender puss.” He lifted her chin and winked. “But kissing feels good all over.”
Twin curly fringes of dark lashes fluttered. A pink tint rioted over her throat and face.
He waggled his brows and said, “I will show you. Close your eyes for me again, sváss. I will tell you when to open them.”
For a moment he expected her to revolt, to bound off the mattress, and flee. Instead her blush deepened into a dusky wash of color that had his pecker throbbing. She blinked and then lowered her lids.
Dráddør strangled a victorious howl. He didn’t want to startle her and shifted slowly so they laid side-by-side on the mattress, but left the blanket in place draped over her shoulder and hanging ‘tween them.
“Your skin is soft,” he whispered, and trailed kisses over the plane of her cheekbone. “And you taste like nectar.”
Nectar, nay, Valhalla, the paradisiacal reward all warriors sought. He could not get enough, and dipped into the moist recesses, licked along the smooth evenness of her small teeth, tangled their tongues together, and suckled until she was tempted into play. She grew bolder and imitated his actions.
When he eased his hand under the cover and cupped her breast, she held still. He nipped the tip of her tongue and s
ipped at her lower lip.
She grasped his shoulder, squirmed closer, and thrust into his mouth.
Dráddør traced the circumference of her sweet titty, set his thumb to the nipple, and rolled her flesh gently.
Her fingers tangled in his loose hair and she pressed him to her, and tentatively licked the corners of his lips.
Changing the angle of their fused mouths, he allowed his spiraling desire free reign, and ate at her like a man denied sustenance for an eternity. Greed attacked the last thin threads of his discipline. He threw the covers off and nibbled his way down the long line of her slender throat. He paused to savor the throbbing pulse in the center of her graceful collarbone.
Dráddør inhaled to absorb the thickening fragrance of her growing arousal and groaned when he latched onto the puckered tip of one breast. Gluttony drove him, he could not get enough of her, he moved from one taut bud to the other, dragging hot, wet kisses ’tween the wonderful valley and the swollen pink nipples.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her fingers into his scalp, her silent urging and furious writhing inciting him beyond reason. Desperation funneled him to one goal, one end, and he wanted naught more than to taste her cream. He rolled them over so she lay on her back and then he slid down her body. Holding her thighs apart, he buried his nose in her damp curls, and breathed in the honeyed spice of her puss.
He drew back and feasted on the evidence of her need. Her folds were plump, slick, and shiny, the curved lips a deep rose. Fervent as a pilgrim, he traced the outline of her sex with his tongue and growled when her sheath clenched. Settling on his elbows, he nudged until she was fully open to him, the beauty and wonder of her spread for his carnal indulgence.
She arched and lifted her hips in a mute plea that freed the hedonistic berserker in him. He inserted a finger into her tightening channel, pulled back the hood guarding her reddened pleasure nub, and grazed his teeth over the sensitive flesh.
