by Bambi Lynn
Without thinking about it too much, she unlaced the drawstring at his waist and worked the hide down over his hips, trying as she did to avoid looking at his cock. It was not easy. She had to work his hips back and forth to tug the wet leather over the cheeks of his arse, but soon his man parts were readily exposed to her hungry gaze.
She had certainly seen a man’s cock before. She had grown up in a household full of men, after all. William had taken his out when he tried to get her to put it in her mouth. She shuddered at the memory. But when she looked at the Viking’s cock, the fire that raced down her spine made her more than shudder. She sizzled. Slipping her tongue between her teeth, she moistened her lips, sliding her tongue back and forth across them. The very idea of putting that one in her mouth made her...well it did not make her stomach turn as it had when William suggested it.
Ignoring the fluttering in the pit of her stomach, she continued to work his pants down his legs. She laid them out on the only cot in the room, close to the fire, then returned to examine him further.
He had a nasty gash on his thigh that looked to be particularly gruesome. The wound did not smell any fouler than the rest of him, nor were the telltale red streaks of poison evident along his flesh. She knew from experience, however, it would have to be cleaned and dressed right away before it festered. It might already be too late.
She filled a pot with water and set it by the fire. Gathering clean rags, she returned to kneel by her patient…prisoner, she reminded herself.
She reached out slowly and brushed his hair away from his face. She wondered what color his eyes were and half wished he would open them. She rested her hand on the hilt of the knife tucked into her belt and once again considered binding his hands. But he was now stark naked, had no weapons and would surely be weakened when he eventually roused from his stupor. For now, she felt safe enough despite being alone with him.
With the pad of her finger, she touched several of the nasty scars on his chest. Chills raced up her arm at the feel of his skin, warming now that he was out of the cold air. The muscles beneath were like stone. She splayed her hand over one mound, his dark brown nipple pearled against her palm, and squeezed slightly. Reaching up with her other hand, she did likewise with her own breast.
What a difference. She marveled at the contrast between his firm muscles, the roughness of his skin and her soft, pliable mound.
Fingers spread, palm tickled by the dusting of coarse hair sprouting from the indentation between his breasts, she slid her open hand down over his stomach, skimming the pads of her fingertips over the gooseflesh that rose beneath them. She admired the many ridges of the man’s stomach, noting again how similar it was to the board William had carved for her to scrub her family’s dirty clothes.
Undeterred by decorum, she continued her examination. The sharp bones of his hips protruded against the tender skin covering them. The nest of blonde hair at the juncture of his thighs sprouted a cock that lay along the length of his uninjured thigh, stretching nearly to the half-way mark even in its flaccid condition. William’s had not been nearly so large, even as engorged as it was at the time.
Amazed at the sheer pleasure she derived from merely touching this Viking, she considered making him her slave.
She jumped back, startled as Wulf crashed through the door, her modor following on his heels.
“So, ‘tis true.” She lowered her eyes at her modor’s angry glare. “You have brought a viper into our midst.”
“I’d hardly call him a viper.” She nodded at the nude, unconscious man lying on the floor.
“Forever bringing in strays. Didst never learn to say ‘no’?”
Inside she simmered that her modor did not even allow her to explain. The loss of her children one by one had hardened the older woman against any feeling she might have expressed for either of the two who remained. Always critical and seeming to wait for the day she and Wulf would drop dead as well, their modor seldom had a kind word for either of them.
She bit back a retort. Honor thy Faeder and Modor. “The man is no threat, Modor.” She spoke with a steady voice, serene and calming. “We needs must take advantage of this…opportunity.”
The three of them stood staring down at the man who represented so much sorrow and despair. “What are your intentions?”
Kaylla shrugged and looked at Wulf. With fire in his eyes, he made a slashing motion across his throat but said nothing.
Their modor did not miss the gesture. She nodded her agreement. “Kill him.”
With a wide grin, Wulf pulled his knife from his belt. Before she could react, commotion from outside alerted them.
“We’re under attack,” her modor screeched.
Wulf pulled the door open enough to peer out. Holding his knife at the ready, he surveyed the courtyard. He opened the door further and called out. “What is happening?”
“Rheda has returned,” Mae answered through labored breaths. Kaylla recognized the voice and bristled. If anything out of the ordinary happened in the village, Mae would have her nose in it.
Wulf took off through the door.
She watched the blood drain from her modor’s face. Her own panic rose to her throat. “Something must have happened.”
“You stay here,” the older woman said. She cast a hate-filled glare at the prisoner before trailing after her son.
Chapter Five
The man struggled to cleave his way from the bottom of the sea. The water, thicker than tree sap, held him under. Brine choked him, seeped into his lungs. Death entangled his legs, pulling him deeper and deeper into Helheim.
He welcomed the peace of eternal rest, felt no fear. Indeed, he looked forward to the celebration in Valhalla with comrades who had fallen before him. But his body refused to be dragged into the underworld by the goddess. He would fight her in death, as he had fought his enemies in life. With renewed determination, he made a last surge toward the surface, at last breaking free.
***
Peeling his eyes open to mere slits, Rolf stared with blurred vision at matted straw where there should have been open sky. Was he dead? Not likely. He felt the ache of battle too clearly. Sliding his burning eyes fully open, straining to clear his vision, he found himself in a hut, much like the one he had left in Noregr.
His body hurt all over. Lifting his head, he peered down the length of his torso and found it pierced with so many abrasions he wondered if he had likewise been mauled by some animal. His flesh sported painful new bruises, enough to make him doubt that he still lived. He lay upon a pallet, naked without so much as a covering against the chill. Where am I?
He made to rise but failed. He sucked in a sharp breath at the pain that coursed through him from head to toe. Unfortunately, he indeed lived.
Letting his head fall back, Rolf returned his gaze to the straw covered rafters overhead. Memories of the attack on the king’s fleet peppered his thoughts.
They had been attacked from all sides.
Ulfrik’s greatest rivals.
And one traitor.
Rage rose within him like the sap of an untried boy in a hut full of whores. No doubt his fellows had perished. With dread in his heart, he recalled that his king, Ulfrik, had drowned himself before allowing his enemies to take that final honor from him.
Thor had spared his life. Now he was slave to a vow he had made in the heat of battle. There could be no honor in it. None except to wreak vengeance on the man who had betrayed his king, his clansmen.
At the sound of approaching footfalls, he closed his eyes, slowed his labored breathing. His senses, keen despite his injuries, detected the approach of a female. He knew by the sound her feet made upon the earthen floor. She squatted next to him. He felt her gaze on him even before she nudged his shoulder. He made no response. Better to wait and discern her intentions.
The woman prodded him, with more force this time. She dropped to her knees. Her bare thighs brushed against the bruised flesh along his ribs as she knelt next to him and
placed her hand on his chest. He struggled not to wince at the pain, relieved though it was by the feel of her warm flesh against his.
When he again made no response, her touch became gentler, almost caressing. His heart hammered against her palm, but as she traced his wounds with her fingertips, he almost lost control. Many a full moon had come and gone since he had felt the soft stroke of a woman.
Her touch soothed him. Despite the calluses of a hard life, her tiny hand felt soft against the ragged planes of his body. As she stroked his skin with a feather-light touch, he imagined her loving caress could take away all his pain. She continued her scrutiny of him, sliding her hand across his stomach and charting a path from his chest to his...
By the gods. She was a bold wench. She stroked his tight curls with the tips of her fingers, tickling him beyond what a mere man should be able to tolerate. Her tantalizing caress tortured him, almost more than he could stand. His cock stirred, awakened and sought attention from the brazen wanton who knelt at his side. She jerked back with a gasp at the sudden growth of him.
If the woman realized he no longer slumbered, she did not show it. He struggled to control his breathing, not yet wanting to alert her. He dare not risk a peek, more than curious now, anticipating her next move.
His cock stretched to its full length. The sweet pain almost chased away the hurt of battle. He listened to the woman’s heavy breathing and resisted a knowing smile. Back home, the size of his cock had become legend amongst the women of the surrounding clans.
Instinctively, he knew he was not in Ulfrik’s kingdom. He had probably washed up on the coast of Angleland. He had engaged in many an onslaught along these shores, but he had yet to sample any of the dark beauties he had encountered, choosing instead to claim his reward from the wealth of gold and silver piled high after each raid. He had taken note of the ripe farmland, the settled villages that flourished. He had dreamt of a life less…debauched.
While his comrades violently relieved themselves on the unwilling slaves they captured, he preferred his women compliant. He took nothing they did not offer freely.
So far, none of the local women had offered.
As he lay there struggling to remain motionless, he considered taking a slave of his own. He almost laughed. Here he lay, naked and injured, and all he could think about was taking a slave. When she took him in her gentle grip, his ruse drew to an abrupt end.
In one swift movement, he flew at her, flipped her onto her back, straddled her thighs and pinned her arms to the floor. She squealed at his sudden attack. The hem of her skirt had ridden up to her hips in the assault. The aroma of her puss wafted up to him, and it took all his strength not to plunge into her, compliance be damned.
The fleeting expression of fear in her hazel-colored eyes might have been enough to stay him. But the desire that welled from her depths, like dark mead rising up through the emerald green water of the fjord, aroused him even further. He leaned forward and covered her mouth with his. Caught by surprise, she relented when he pried her lips open and plunged his tongue inside.
Gods! She was like a feast for a ravenous man. He swirled his tongue around inside her, reveling in the sensation of filling her. Her innocence tasted sweet on his tongue. Suddenly revenge did not matter. Nothing mattered except that his tongue was in her mouth, her soft body pressed against his. Everything else fell away.
He slid his mouth over hers, nipping at her, drawing her lower lip between his teeth and suckling erotically before releasing it with a slurp. He returned and latched his mouth to hers, plundering as he was born to do.
Nearly overcome with the desire to devour her then and there, he forced himself to pull away but just far enough that he could look into her eyes without letting her up. His cock, hard as stone, or nigh as uncomfortable, leastways, pressed against her soft thigh. He took advantage and ground himself against her. A quiet moan escaped his lips.
“Who are you?” His voice grated against his throat. He had swallowed much sea water and the passage felt raw. When the woman, a mere girl he realized, did not answer, he asked again in the tongue of the Angles.
This time, she swallowed hard and made to push him off her. Weakened anew by their encounter and seeing her as no threat, he released her, pushing back to his heels. With a swiftness he would never have suspected, she flew from beneath him, produced a knife, and held it before her.
“I will ask the questions, swine.”
Hatred burned in her eyes, the rich brown flaring out to devour the green. Hair as dark as buckwheat honey and equally thick fell about her, cascading all the way to her round hips. He had a sudden vision of those tresses spread across his thighs as her soft, warm mouth closed around him.
His cock, rock-hard and painful, jumped.
He almost grinned when her eyes grew wide. Wisely, he drew his lips between his teeth just as her gaze snapped back to his. When no questions were forthcoming, he said, “You have the advantage, girl.” He indicated his nudity. “Might I have my clothes back?”
Making no other movement, she lowered her weapon. The knife itself held no threat, still he would need to regain some of his strength and learn the extent of his captivity before deciding on a strategy.
Tucking the knife back into the folds of her garment, she turned away from him. He took the opportunity to support himself with one hand on the dirt floor while taking several slow, deep breaths. He squeezed his eyes closed against the dizziness that popped behind them.
The young woman retrieved a bowl and wooden spoon she had apparently left on the floor while she satisfied her erotic curiosity. By the time she returned, he had composed himself. He would not show weakness before this girl.
She handed the bowl and spoon to him then stepped out of arm’s reach.
He sniffed the contents. Some kind of mash. His stomach knotted at the aroma. How long had it been since he had eaten? He shoveled the food, a balm to his sore throat, into his mouth. Honey-sweetened, he found the taste more than appealing. “I am Rolf Bloodhands,” he said, his mouth full.
Her gaze darted to his hands. Thank the gods, they were not covered with blood.
“Unless you intend to parade naked through our village, Bloodhands, you will remain inside.”
Her voice flowed over him, warm and comforting. He felt a measure of his strength restored.
“More than one of my kinsmen would be only too pleased to slit your throat.”
“I am your prisoner, then?” He scraped the remainder of the mash from the bowl, resisted the urge to lick the inside, and handed it back to her.
“You are. And so you will remain.”
He pushed carefully to his feet. “Your slave?” He let the words flow slowly from his lips, the question lingering in the air. He stalked toward her, glowering at her from beneath a lowered brow—a tactic he had used often to break the nerve of a tentative opponent. To her credit, she did not tremble at his approach as many warriors had done. She stood taller, pulled her tiny shoulders back, braver than he would have expected.
“You do not frighten me, Viking.” She ground out the words through clenched teeth. “There is nothing your kind can take from me that I would fear losing.” He barely noticed the slight lift of her chin. “Not even my own life.”
Suddenly, he froze. The cold sting of her blade pressed against his balls, the point dangerously close to his rassgat which was now puckered up tighter than a mare’s in a Slavic prison.
Chapter Six
The wall behind her closed in fast. Kaylla trembled, struggled to maintain her grip on the knife. When she ran her tongue over her lips, his gaze drop to her mouth. He leaned toward her. She inhaled sharply, anticipating his mouth claiming her once again. But this time he pulled up short, leaving her breathless and irritated.
Grinding the flat of her blade against him, she said, “I shall count to one, Viking.”
He dared to laugh at her. “One?”
“’Tis as high as I can count. Now move back.” When he l
eaned away from her, she scurried away from him. She needed to hold him at bay long enough to regain her composure, a difficult task considering his state of undress.
She tried to remember why she had thought keeping him naked was a good idea. Ah, yes. He would be easier to control. Well, thus far, she did not feel in control at all.
With a lop-sided grin, he held his arms out even with his powerful shoulders. He took a step back and turned in a slow circle, giving her opportunity to inspect his entire body.
She allowed her gaze to drink in every bulging muscle, every chiseled valley. She licked her lips at the sight of the solid muscles that covered his torso. Her gaze dropped even further to his cock, hard now and begging for attention. He turned away, offering her a clear view of his backside. The tight, masculine cheeks of his arse made her want to press her bare flesh against him, feel the hard mounds slide across her belly as she reached around to take him in her hands.
She would need both hands to handle such a monstrous cock. Lord forgive her. The very idea made her ache in places heretofore unexplored.
“Do with me as you wish.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. Though rough and cracked, he spoke with a commanding tone. He shifted until he faced her once again.
She ran her tongue around the backs of her teeth. His enormous cock made her hunger. She wanted to take it in her hand, make that hands, as she had done while he slept. Then it had been malleable. It had made her tingle all over.
Now he was wide awake, his cock likewise. She would never have guessed the very sight of it would make her burn, make her yearn to be filled by him.
Even better - to have him at her command.
Sinful visions filled her head. Images of this gorgeous man servicing her, touching her, stroking her. She could have sworn she felt his mouth on her. The sensation stole her breath. Like the fleeting whispers of a dream, she saw his head buried between her thighs, his blood-stained hands on her naked breasts.
