by Sandra Hill
“Sorry,” she murmured, a blush blooming on her cheeks.
Now she was embarrassed? Will I ever understand women?
“It’s just that I’ve missed you so much. And it’s been so long since I’ve had sex.”
It has been a long time for me, too. Six bloody months. “How long?”
“You know when the last time was, honey. Remember? Out in the surf, during low tide. Like that scene from the movie From Here to Eternity. Almost five years ago.”
Five years! No wonder she is so lustsome.
A thought came to him, unbidden. He had meant to sate his brutish urges on her body, bend her to his will, but her kisses bestirred him mightily, and it was possible she was the one bending him to her will. A lady availing herself of a man’s charms? Now, there is a twist I could like.
He began his long, slow strokes then, relishing the way she picked up his rhythm . . . like old lovers, which they were not, no matter what she claimed. It was the first time he’d engaged in sex with his cock sheathed in a membrane, and he decided he preferred to be bare. Still, she felt so good. Like a hot silk glove, tight and slick. Do not let go yet. Think of something other than my raging enthusiasm. Think of lutefisk. Sex had never been this intensely pleasurable for him, even covered as he was.
She peaked with a gasp of appreciation when he touched that place betwixt their bodies, the nub usually hidden by woman folds but openly exposed now by her widespread thighs. That was good, but mayhap if I put my lips on her breast and suckle her nipple . . . This time, she peaked with an unending wail. The third time . . . and he had been thrusting into her tight grasp the entire time . . . he peaked with her, and it was uncertain if he or she was the one who groaned loud and long, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhh. ”
At the end, she said, “I love you so much.”
And his heart clenched in an odd fashion, despite his resistance to her charms. He did not want the wanton’s love.
Everything was a haze of sexual ecstasy after that. One episode moving into another, almost without interruption. She was insatiable. He was insatiable.
They sank to the floor, and she rode him as if he were a destrier and she the battle knight. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend that this was Luta, but his brain was increasingly telling him it was not so. Which brought him both joy and sorrow. If it was her, that meant his son was alive. If not, Miklof was dead.
How they got to her sleeping bower was unclear to him later. What was absolutely clear was the way in which she kissed and licked his entire body. His entire body. With throaty endearments of adoration. For the love of Frigg! Luta—or Lydia or whoever in bloody hell—was accomplished in the bed arts. In the dark, he could pretend she was anyone. Likewise for her, he supposed, as she paid homage to his body as no one ever had.
And he surprised himself when he reciprocated, bringing her to more peaks, using his tongue and teeth as instruments of sexual torture in places his tongue and teeth had ne’er been before. His thrusts were so hard they moved across the bed and almost fell off.
She tongued the inner whorls of his ears, and he nigh exploded with enthusiasm.
He flipped her over and took her from behind, her face on the bed, her buttocks raised high, one of his favorite positions, one Luta would have never allowed.
She actually screamed when her last series of inner spasms hit, causing him to roar out his own lengthy peaking.
Afterward, he fell into a deep sleep, facedown, arms and legs splayed on her soft mattress. He did not recall having felt this kind of complete physical satiety in all his thirty years.
“I love you, darling,” he heard as he drifted off to sleep.
Oddly, the words soothed his tortured soul.
Chapter 6
Listen to the lion . . . uh, Viking . . . roar . . .
He is not Dave.
Or he might not be Dave.
To her horror, Lydia came to these conclusions as dawn light began to spread over her bedroom, and the giant male specimen slept, sprawled out on his back, taking up all the space on the bed. Just like Dave. But not Dave.
Like a pendulum, she switched back and forth to opposing viewpoints. His eyes were identical to Dave’s. And she’d felt a shock of recognition the second she’d seen him. And he kissed like Dave.
If not Dave, is he Dave reincarnated?
Or a man sent to me by Dave?
Or just wishful thinking?
Like dominoes, thoughts turned over in her head.
He used a condom. Still, good thing I’m still on the pill. Those damn menstrual cramps.
I just made love with a total stranger.
I did that . . . THING to him.
He did that . . . THING to me.
He said his name is Thorfinn. What kind of name is that?
But wait, didn’t Kirstin say this was her cousin Finn? So maybe he’s not an ax murderer or serial killer or pervert.
And always she kept coming back to her original idea . . . that maybe Dave hadn’t died in the explosion. That he’d been injured, requiring facial reconstruction, and that the government had taken advantage of his changed appearance to utilize him in some hush-hush mission . . .
But, no, Dave would never have allowed her to suffer all this time, not knowing.
Unless . . . he’d had amnesia!
His eyes were closed, and those had been the most compelling reminder of Dave. Truly, his very unusual silver gray eyes were identical to Dave’s. And his body was similar, too. Long. Lean. Muscular . . . not just arms and legs, but hard ridges of abdomen and stomach. And his penis, well, yeah, it was impressive. But his face was different and that silly long hair with the beaded braids! And did he really think wearing brass armbands made him look macho?
On the other hand, maybe Dave really is dead, but he sent this man, and the eyes are a signal to me.
How can I be sure?
I need time, she decided, time to figure out what’s going on. I can’t let him leave me yet . . . I have to keep him here.
Going into the kitchen, she used the combination to open Dave’s Navy SEAL operative drawer for the first time in five years. She hadn’t been able to face disposing of the contents before. Scrambling among the pager, gun, KA-BAR knife, night vision goggles, Kevlar gloves, satellite phone, length of thin rope, and black balaclava, she came to what she had been looking for: a package of disposable flex cuffs, the lightweight, extra-strong handcuffs used by police and military today.
I must be losing my mind.
Going back into the bedroom, she saw that her Dave, who was not Dave, still slept soundly, thank God. Quickly, but gently, she cuffed both wrists in one double cuff to the headboard, and each ankle to opposing lower bed-posts. At one point, he moved a bit, scaring the spit out of her, then went back to sleep with a soft snore.
A half hour later, she was in the kitchen, having her second cup of coffee, when she heard his roar of outrage.
Tears of a Viking . . . oh, my! . . .
He was a captive.
In all his thirty years, many of them engaged as a far-famed warrior, Thorfinn had never been captured by his enemy. But he was now, and the enemy was a woman.
He let out a roar of outrage as he fought against his restraints, to no avail. Both wrists and ankles were locked to the bed with some thin black ties. Not rope, but just as strong.
Almost immediately, the wench appeared in the doorway.
“Good morning.” Come closer, you evil witch.
“Now, don’t be mad,” the idiot woman said.
Mad? How about stone-cold furious? “Now why would I be mad?”
“I just want to ask you some questions.”
I am the one with questions. Like where the bloody hell have you been the past five years? And where have you hidden my son? And who taught you to do that trick with your tongue?
“Just a few polite questions.”
“And you needed to tie me up for that purpose?”
She nodded. “I was afraid you would
leave before I could ask all my questions.”
She was right there.
“So, just bear with me for a few moments. Okay?” The whole time she spoke, the wench avoided looking below his neck.
She swives the sap right out of me, all night long, and now she plays the modest maid. Hah! I am not buying the act, m’lady harlot. “Let. Me. Loose,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“After I get some answers.”
“Like?”
“Who are you?”
“Thorfinn Haraldsson.”
“Finn?”
“Some call me that.”
“Did Dave send you?”
“Dave?”
“My husband.”
“You have a husband, and you tup strangers from taverns?” Thorfinn had a policy of never engaging in bedsport with married women. “Am I expected to pay for your freely offered services?” It will be a cold day in Nifhelm afore you see any of my coin, you traitorous wench.
Her face bloomed with color.
Interesting . . . that she can blush.
“My husband is dead. I mean, last night I thought you were him. Dave, I mean. You have identical eyes, and there are some other similarities, but, really, you’re not the same, are you?”
“You think your dead husband sent me to you?” Likely excuse to swive one and all.
“Yes.” Her face brightened with hope. “Did he?”
Pathetic, lackwitted woman! But best he not be too open with her . . . till his restraints were loosened. “Mayhap.”
You would have thought he’d told her there was a sack of gold awaiting her pleasure, so joyous was her demeanor now.
“Release me now.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Heed me well. If you do not release me immediately, I am going to throttle you when I am free.” Or should I tup her a time or two first?
“I don’t think you would do that. Dave wouldn’t let you.”
He rolled his eyes. “A dead man is going to control my hands? Have you gone addleheaded?” Not that I care.
“Probably.” No matter who he was, Lydia decided she had no night to restrain him. She left the room and came back with a metal scissorlike device, which she used to cut through the restraints. While he was pulling them off the rest of the way, she left the room again. He used the opportunity to find her bathing chamber, relieving himself in the toilet, then taking a shower. When he returned to her bedchamber, one towel wrapped around his waist and using another to dry his body, she was just setting down a metal tray on a side table. On it was a large glass of orange juice, a delicious beverage he’d never tasted until coming to this country, and two slices of toasted bread spread with butter.
“When you’re done, you can call a taxi to take you home,” she offered politely.
“Do you want me to leave?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t blame you if you want to go, though. I haven’t handled this well, I know.” She turned, about to leave.
“Wait!”
Stopping, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. She was wearing short braies . . . very short braies, which ended mid-thigh on long legs made golden from the sun, as was the skin on her bare arms and face. He had learned whilst staying with Torolf that folks in this country favored tanned skin on their women, as compared to milk-white complexions, which were revered in his country and time. In any case, the long, supple legs on this woman, tanned or not, were very attractive, especially when he got mind-images of how they’d looked yestereve wrapped around his hips.
Another thing he’d noticed the night before. She had no hair on her underarms or legs, unlike most dark-haired women. Did she pluck it out like a harem houri? What else can you do like a houri?
Today, she wore no lip or cheek rouge, nor eye kohl. Her face looked scrubbed and, well, passing fair. Hah! In truth, she was beautiful.
“I saw some framed portraits on your mantel . . . of a small boy,” he said. “Bring them to me.”
“Why do you want to see pictures of Mike?”
“Because he is my son.”
She gasped. “Why do you say that?”
“For months I have wondered why I have been sent here, and now I know. Leastways, I think I know. My son has drawn me here.”
She was staring at him as if he were the gold at the end of a rainbow once again. Then she went out and returned with three frames, all of which she set on the mattress beside him where he sat. Taking the frames in his hand, one at a time, he studied the images. First, a baby with scraps of dark hair, very much like he recalled Miklof having soon after his birth. Then there was one of a toddler, now with more dark hair, and finally, one which must be more recent. “How old is he here?”
“Four, soon to be five. It was taken earlier this year.”
He nodded. That would be about the right age. “He has gray eyes.”
“Yes. Sometimes Mike’s eyes are bluish gray, and at others, a true silver gray.”
He did not need to say, “Like mine.” The conclusion sat betwixt them, a living, breathing entity. “You call him Mike.”
“Yes. That’s his nickname. For Michael.”
Thorfinn knew that nicknames were shortened names given to people, just as some in his country and time called him Finn, instead of Thorfinn. And, yea, Mike was a logical one for Miklof, he supposed. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s adorable. A scamp, but an adorable scamp. He walked and talked earlier than most kids. When you touch the bottoms of his feet, he giggles. He likes to play rough boy sports, but then he can sit still for an hour or more if I read stories to him. His favorite is Trolls, Dragons, and Other Scary Beasts. He swims like a fish, and his skin gets brown as an acorn in the summer. He has gone to preschool, but next year he goes to kindergarten. He can’t wait. He’s on my parents’ farm right now, as I told you last night. My dad got him a pony and he’s teaching him to ride. He’ll go to your parents’ neighboring farm next week. That is, if you really are . . .” Her words trailed off. She must still be thinking he was her dead husband again. Which was no more demented than his thinking she was Luta.
But that was neither here nor there.
He’d always thought he would be the one to teach his boy to swim and to ride his first horse. He would have liked to see him take his first step. Or hear him giggle. There were so many firsts he had been deprived of these past five years. And what did she mean about his parents’ farm? His parents did not farm.
“You have tears in your eyes,” she informed him. In truth, she had tears, too.
“I have missed my son sorely.” And all because of you. Unashamed of his eye dew, he did not bother to swipe it away. Instead, he continued to study the pictures.
And then she said the one thing that tore at his heart. “He misses you, too.”
I’ll be your sex slave if you’ll be mine . . .
He needed to disconcert the woman, who was clearly alarmed at his inquiring about his son. Soon she would be kicking him out the door . . . or trying to. “Did you plan to make me your sex slave?”
Her mouth dropped open, and she appeared to be speechless. “No. Of course not. What makes you say such a thing?”
Uh, dost really need to ask that question, oh, thick-headed one? “Mayhap because you lured me to your lair. Distracted me with numerous bouts of sex. Then chained me to your bed. You said you did it because I look like your dead husband, but methinks you were just looking for a sex slave.”
“You . . . you . . . you . . . ,” she sputtered.
“Not that I have e’er been a sex slave afore, nor had the need of one myself. But I have heard of such.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So you say.” He shrugged. Then he stood, dropped the towel around his waist, and lay down on the bed. “Just so I am back by a week from next Frigg’s Day.” That was when he took his Navy SEAL test. Not that he would tell her that. Bes
t not to give the enemy too much information. “I’ll have to tell Torolf to cancel my tutoring lessons in the meantime.”
“Tutoring? For what?”
“My English is not so good.” That is an understatement.
“Why didn’t you put your clothes back on after you took a shower?”
He declined to tell her that he was getting perverse pleasure over her discomfort at his nudity. She looked everywhere except at his manparts. Which was amazing, considering everything she had done to said manparts the night before. “Take off your garments.”
“Whaaat? Why?”
“What kind of a sex slave would I be if I swived you fully clothed? I am a man. I like to see what I am doing. And what you are doing.”
“Stop talking about sex slaves. I never wanted a sex slave. Why do you use those ancient words?”
“Why do you avoid what I tell you to do?”
“Did you wear those fake gold armbands in the shower? Be careful or they’ll rust.”
Now she was being rude. He drew himself up straight. “These are pure gold. Gifts from my mother when I first went a-Viking and from King Olaf for a successful mission against the Saxons.”
“Ha, ha, ha. If those were real gold, they’d be worth a fortune.”
All these irrelevancies! He inhaled deeply for patience.
“Anyhow, we need to talk. So get dressed, please.”
Talk is the last thing I have in mind for your mouth. “I can talk without my clothes on, talented fellow that I am. And I tell you now, if you ask me again who I am, I may very well heave the contents of my empty stomach.”
“Oh. You’re still hungry?”
I thought you would never ask. “How brilliant of you to notice! What did you think that rumbling noise was?”
“You. Growling.”
He arched his eyebrows. “Sarcasm ill-suits you, m’lady.” And, yea, I will be soon growling if you do not hop onto the bed and prepare to be swived.
