by Jianne Carlo
She dropped the knife and held his gaze. “Two seasons ago, when Ciárrán and I journeyed to the sirens, a Saracen captain invaded our ship and took me prisoner. He intended to sell me at the slave markets in Miklagard. A storm arose, the ship capsized, and I washed ashore on the siren’s isle. ’Twas the last time I saw my half brother as a man.”
“I cannot believe a chance storm saved you from slavery and another chance storm brought me to you.” He outlined her mouth with his thumb.
She shivered. “Too much happenstance. What evil plagues us?”
He framed her face. “I know not, Nyssa, but I will allow none to hurt what is mine. We cannot afford any to foster mistrust ’tween us. I know not your reasons for this handfasting, but I vow to you on my honor, you are my wife and I will ne’er cast you aside. Will you give me back this vow?”
Her lips trembled. She pressed a fist to her mouth, and her eyes brimmed. She shook her head.
A band tightened around his chest, he dropped his hands, and searched for the words to persuade her to his side.
“You will not want me as a true wife.” She spoke to the space between their torsos. “I am tall and ungainly. I have no womanly curves. Until four seasons ago, I had not even these meager titties, and I have seen eight and ten summers. ’Tis true what Monette says, I should have been born a warrior and not a woman.”
Rage bubbled through his veins setting his blood to boiling. He cupped her cheeks. “To me wife.”
Tears coursed down her cheeks wetting his fingers. “You are bewitching and beautiful beyond comparison. Ne’er have I seen a woman find her pleasure with such passion and abandon. Aye, you are slim, but strong, and I have no use for jugs of breasts. Yours are perfection, small, firm, with rosy nipples and after this night—you will ne’er doubt what you are in my eyes.”
He tore the sheet away, laid her down on the pallet, and cupped her breasts. “Perfection. Rounded, firm, with nipples that beg for a hearty suckling. You are beautiful, Nyssa.”
She blinked, long lashes now dampened to a deep brown. “I cannot be beautiful. My hair is shorn.”
“Mìlseachd, mìlseachd. You are more beautiful with shorn locks than any woman with tresses to her knees.”
“Grelod’s hair reaches well past her knees.”
“Stubborn woman. Worry not of the length of your hair, Nyssa. Worry that you will have the strength to stand after my loving of you this eve.”
Chapter Six
A night of loving?
Could Konáll really think her beautiful?
A tiny bud of hope sprouted deep in Nyssa’s chest. Mayhap the rest of the curse, too, could be broken.
Konáll had moved the pallet to the middle of the tent and surrounded the soft linen-covered straw mattress with a mixture of candles and oil lamps. He had also stoked the fire in the rock pit near the entrance to a low blaze. Whilst he did all this, she surreptitiously covered herself with the sheet and concentrated on quieting her pounding heart.
Why could she not recall him taking her maidenhood?
The fire, the candles, and the lamps chased any hint of chill from the tent. ’Twas warm and the air seemed to grow heavy and dense with each breath she took. Nyssa glanced up when she no longer heard him moving around.
He stood above her, a warrior in all his glory. The sun had kissed every part of him. E’en his cock’s foreskin glowed in bronzed magnificence. And ’twas of a size to frighten the most stalwart, experienced siren, yet it scared her not. Nay. In truth, the thick rod jutting from his groin fascinated her.
All of him transfixed her, the heavy testicles, the Saracen’s ring embedded in his flesh, his broad shoulders, the runes etched around one bicep, the dark gold curls nestling his enormous erection. Aye, she liked the power of him, the massive muscles of his thighs, but ’twas his pecker, his stones, and that ring that had her mesmerized. Why had he called the ring his weakness?
When he had been in his nigh death trance, she had had to force herself not to touch him, not to learn his body with her hands. Had she known of the Saracen’s ring, her resolve would have shattered.
“What e’er your thoughts are right now, cleave to them, Nyssa. For you are eyeing me the way you did the venison earlier.” He knelt down, tugged the sheet she clasped away, and stayed her protests with a hand. “Nay. First I will have your vow.”
The tiny bud of hope shriveled and sadness weighted her tongue. She could not speak, could not give him back his words.
“Can you not give me your trust?”
That she could and would do. “I trust you, Konáll. I vow to you on my honor, you are my hand—nay—my husband, and that I will ne’er have another.” She held her breath.
Three lines formed between his brows. He blew out a long sigh and the telltale sign of his frustration, the slight quivering of his nostrils, told her he was not satisfied with her response. “’Twill do, mìlseachd. For this eve, but I will have the all of you. Soon.”
Nyssa hooded her eyes afraid he would see the despair in them. For she knew without any doubt he would cast her aside mayhap sooner than a year and a day. Her glance fell on the serpent curled around the pink areola of her right breast, and she shrank into the straw and yearned for the sheet.
“’Tis enticing beyond all reason.” He traced the length of the serpent. “On the morrow ’twill drive my lust to new heights because I will know what it tastes like, smells like, whether the brown color of it deepens after suckling.”
She squished her thighs together hoping to alleviate the burn that had started at her core.
He licked the tip of her nipple.
“Konáll.” She could not choke back his name.
“Nyssa.” He trailed his tongue around the pearled bud and then blew a hot breath on the wet point.
She overheated and could not draw in enough air to fill her lungs.
“Clasp your hands around the tent pole,” he ordered, rested his chin between her breasts, and stared at her.
Her jaw dropped, and she looked back at the branch supporting the middle of the tent. “Why?”
“I will have another promise from you.”
Truly, the blow had addled his brains. She rose onto her elbows.
Resting both palms on her breasts, he pressed her back down. “Ask me what vow I would have of you.”
She crossed her eyes. “Methinks Mús has ne’er been a trial after all. Viking, you are infuriating. So be it. What vow would you have of me?”
“Repeat after me.” He captured her wrists. “I, Nyssa, do hereby swear that I will not remove my hands from this pole until so instructed by my forever husband.”
“You are mad and maddening.” He raised her hands above her head.
“Say the vow.” He feathered his finger under her arm. “Mús tells me you are sore ticklish nigh everywhere.”
She giggled. “Nay. Do not tickle me.”
“Say the words.” He skipped his fingers up and down and around.
Nyssa laughed aloud, flexed her feet, and squirmed. “Aye. Aye. I, Nyssa, do swear that I will not remove my hands from this pole.”
He grinned, set her hands to the smooth wood, and reached for her other armpit. “Finish.”
“Until so instructed by my husband.” She glared at him and nigh shouted the words.
“Forever husband.” He skimmed her arm.
“Forever husband.”
“I thank you for your trust, wife. Now. Where do I begin?” He inserted himself between her thighs and sat back on his haunches. His cock bobbed at her, the shiny reddened crown poking out from the foreskin. A drop of moisture sprouted from the slit in the tip. She licked her lips. What did he taste like?
“You will send me to Valhalla, woman. Another time, you will learn my taste. This eve, you are mine to feast upon.”
She had spoken her thoughts? Nyssa winced and shuttered her eyes in humiliation.
“Be you afraid, mìlseachd?”
She blinked and found him so close th
eir noses bumped. His breath smelled of the cinnamon from the mead he’d drunk earlier. The blue of his eyes had deepened to that of a fathomless lock, but a glimmer of gold showed near the dark circles. He appeared to be waiting and with a start she remembered his question.
“I fear naught, Viking. I am but curious as to why you want me in such a position. ’Tis not as if you were not moments afore inside me hard and heavy and stretching me to bursting.” She lifted her chin.
“Glad I am to hear that you have no fear. I give you my word, Nyssa, this eve I will do only what you desire.”
All the tales she had heard of Vikings spoke of warriors who lived by their word. And naught that he had done or said since she healed him proved otherwise. Nyssa blew out a long breath and gave him a tiny nod. “I thank you.”
“On my oath, you will thank me for all the pleasure I bring you this eve many, many times.” He winked at her, settled between her legs, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath.
Nyssa cringed, enthralled and appalled. His nose near brushed her folds. What did she smell like down there?
“’Tis more intoxicating than the fiery spirit the Scots brew. You smell of clover honey and heat and woman. My stones stand ready when I fill my nose with your essence.”
Nay, she had spoken her thoughts again. Nyssa snapped her teeth together and vowed not another wayward word would erupt from her mouth.
He buried his face in her folds.
She gasped.
Blue-black eyes stared at her above her curls. He looked like a pagan god about to devour her in sacrifice. ’Twas delicious and thrilling—the intimacy of the moment, of his position, had her entranced. Her sheath contracted and dampness coated her folds. Nyssa yelped when his tongue rimmed her center. “Konáll.”
“Nyssa.” He lifted his head. His face glistened with her juices.
A fierce blush scalded her cheeks. Yet the sight of him licking his lips between her legs aroused her to the point of explosion. He must have read her excitement for he grinned, set his fingers to her nub, and pinched. Pleasure and pain racked her from nipple to puss, she clasped the pole so hard a splinter dug into her thumb.
“Methinks you like this.” He rolled the sensitive flesh between his fingers, pried the hood guarding her pleasure back, and tickled her.
The feather light touch drove her mad. She lifted her hips in a silent plea for more. Their gazes met for a moment and the eroticism of his position had her sex fisting and relaxing. She bit her lips and prayed for strength. For she wanted naught but to hold him fast to her, grab the back of his head, and press his face into her, beg him to lick harder.
He set his mouth to her core and thrust his tongue into her channel. He suckled her juices, inserted a finger, and then moved to her nub. She held onto the tent pole as if ’twere her only refuge in a life-ending storm.
She cried out when he added another finger and ground his thumb in a circular motion over her woman’s bud. Every pore on her body erupted and a thin sheen of sweat coated her flesh. She was slick and wet and wanting everywhere.
Her nipples alternated ’tween burning and itching. She yearned for him to pinch her there, to lick and bite the taut peaks.
“Aye. Aye,” he growled and crawled up to cover her. He took her mouth and rolled her nipples between his fingers.
’Twas exquisite but not enough. “More. I beg you. More.”
“Aye. Meiri. Hvatvetna. More. Everything.” He suckled her nipple, his teeth grazed the tips, and he bit down lightly.
Her inner walls convulsed, and she shattered, shuddering through a series of explosive contractions. Unable to draw a breath, unable to do aught but cling to the pole and feel. Feel his mouth drawing hard on her breast, feel his magikal fingers plucking one nipple, feel his pecker riding back and forth over her nub. When the climax subsided, she lay limp and spent, her chest heaving.
He kissed her, his mouth hot and moist. She tasted herself on his tongue, tangy and sharp. ’Twas arousing, the sinfulness, the decadence of such an act, his lips on her folds, his tongue inside her channel, and to her surprise, the sensual excitement began to build again.
When he sipped at her lower lip, she groaned and licked the seam of his mouth. He caught the tip of her tongue between his teeth and the slight pinch was akin to flint to tinder. She explored him, tracing the shape of his mouth, marveling at the contrast ’tween the scratchy stubble of his slight beard and the soft satin of his lips.
She wriggled her hips and his cock slipped and slid o’er her folds. Moaning when his erection pressed on the sensitive nub, she arched and ground against him. Her sex throbbed and pulsed, the inner walls squeezing and releasing in a constant erotic barrage. Desire had her in its hold. Want, longing, the reaching for that sweet release became her sole purpose in life.
His magik hands slipped between their bodies, and he tweaked her nipples.
The blazing need ratcheted, and she yearned for him to fill her.
When he tore his lips from hers, she yelled, “Nay.”
But then he twisted to her breast and bit her nipple. A climax hit her and the force of it bent her like a bow about to spring. She shook with the force of the spasms and cried out his name when he continued to move from one breast to the other, his hands and mouth everywhere all at once.
“Odin’s balls. I can last no longer.” He lifted her hips, set his crown to her core, and drove in so deep she knew he would break her in two, yet she welcomed the furious invasion. Finally, he had filled her, stretching her sheath, making her acutely aware of the way her walls clamped around his cock, straining to contain his girth and length.
His grip on her hips hurt, a sweet pain she endured because he plundered her like a berserker, pounding in and out of her core, and just when she thought she could ascend no higher, his cock hit a spot that caused her to fly apart.
Her walls fisted around the throbbing hard thickness inside her, and she felt the boiling hot spurt of his seed when he found his pleasure. The convulsions went on and on, but gradually lessened in intensity. A bead of sweat dripped onto her cheek, and she opened her eyes to find him watching her like a falcon tracking his prey.
“My arms ache.” For some reason ’twas important he know she could obey him, had given him her all this eve, and had ne’er loosened her grip on the tent pole.
Immediately he reached to pull them down and massaged her hands. “Ah, mìlseachd, I had only meant to keep you that way while drinking your clover honey. Forgive me, ’twas not my intent to cause you pain.”
“Such pain, I would endure o’er and o’er for the pleasure you have given me, Konáll.” She kissed the ridge of his collarbone. “I had never imagined ’twas like this. Torture and ecstasy all rolled into one.”
He nipped the side of her neck and suckled the spot hard. “’Tis ne’er like this.”
She turned to face him. “Truly?”
“Aye. I have ne’er lost control afore. Are you sore? ’Twas a wild ride at the end.” He caught her jaw, and she read the concern in his eyes.
“I am not sore, Konáll. And wanton though I may be, I liked the wild ride.” Warmth threaded up her throat and cheeks, she ducked her chin, embarrassed by her blurted honesty.
His cock twitched inside her, and her walls reacted with a mighty clench.
“Cease woman. My cock is baseless and will be tempted into another pounding if you tease.” He flicked her cheek and their gazes met. “Methinks, my pecker believes the mere fact you exist is a tease. Look to me, mìlseachd. I like you wanton. There is naught more arousing than your passionate abandon when you reach your pleasure. ’Tis a sight to behold.”
Mischief danced within her. She studied him and then squeezed, her inner walls tight, hard, and fast.
He eyed her from under half-closed lids. “Siren. ’Tis some torture taught you by them?”
“Nay. Forsooth, they ignored me for the most part. Though, they did instruct me on all the woman and man parts and the many ways of joining
and pleasuring. To be truthful, I believed all they said to be falsehoods. Until I saw the initiation.” While she had not suffered during her stay with the sirens, it had been a time of complete discomfort. For she had felt unwomanly and graceless amongst the beautiful, elegant females.
“Initiation?” He toyed with her earlobe.
“Aye. A siren must bring a man to climax first with only her hands, then her mouth, then her tongue, then her sheath.” Nyssa could scarce believe the words jumping out of her mouth. Yet it all felt so right, him inside her, them speaking of love acts—while not with ease, not blushing furiously either. If any had told her afore that she would feel relaxed while naked and filled by a warrior, she would have scoffed and rebuked them.
“The women of Saracen harems are taught such skills.” He rolled them over and pulled the sheet to cover her shoulders.
She rested her chin on hands fisted together in the center of his chest. “You lived with the Saracens?”
“For a few winters to earn my coin.”
His voice had lost the playfulness of earlier. A shadow crossed his face. Nyssa glanced at the candles, but they still burned brightly.
“Are you content, mìlseachd?” He had reverted to the Konáll she first met, his features schooled into stern lines, his mouth grim set.
“Aye.” A sense of foreboding raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
“We must talk of the morrow. Tell me all that has happened since your parents left for Kenneth’s court.”
Blindsided, not expecting such a demand after their sweet intimacy, Nyssa searched for a way out. “I must seek out the bushes, Konáll.”
He tipped her chin and locked their gazes. “Grelod will have left a chamber pot. I will step outside whilst you use it. I will have another vow from you, wife.”
She shook off his touch and gnawed the insides of her cheek to prevent an angry retort. “What now, Viking?”
“I will have your word you will never lie to me.”
* * *
Konáll checked his sleeping wife’s pretty tits as she inhaled and exhaled in an even easy rhythm. Nyssa had lied to him. Every instinct told him so, but wherein was the falsehood?
