Caroline's Christmas Viking

by Daisy Dexter Dobbs

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Caroline’s Christmas Viking

  ISBN # 1-4199-0451-5

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Caroline’s Christmas Viking Copyright© 2005 Daisy Dexter Dobbs

  Edited by Briana St. James.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication: December 2005

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Caroline’s Christmas Viking has been rated E-rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  CAROLINE'S CHRISTMAS VIKING

  Daisy Dexter Dobbs

  Chapter One

  My Dearest Caroline,

  Although it’s been many years since we last sat together over mugs of hot chocolate and spoke of hopes and dreams, and the future, I’m certain you’ll remember the charm enclosed here.

  I told you then that one day it would be yours. It is the most precious possession I own. More valuable than any amount of money. This amulet has been passed down through the women of our family for generations. Its magic will work only once every fifty years. Keep it near your heart. Though your mind may be cluttered and uncertain, your heart will know the right wish to make when it’s time. Trust your heart, my dear.

  You’ve suffered much heartache, but I do hope you haven’t lost your faith in the power of love and magic, for it is, indeed, real and true. Believe me, Caroline, I know.

  With all my love until we meet again in the great hereafter,

  Auntie Helga

  Caroline McNulty read the letter aloud for the third time, erupting in a new wave of thunderous sobs. Sent from Norway, the package arrived in Chicago a week before Christmas—the second Christmas she’d spend alone because her cheating rat bastard of a husband left her for a younger, slimmer model a year ago. On Christmas Eve.

  After reading a document from the executor of her great aunt’s estate, Caroline took the tiny golden Viking trinket and its fine chain from the box and studied it.

  She remembered Helga regaling her with romantic accounts of love and fairytale-like happily-ever-afters. Caroline listened with rapt attention, gobbling up legends of enchantment and strong, handsome Vikings. Especially during those special times when her great aunt brought out the little charm in the form of a Viking and spoke of Norse folklore. Family legend said the magical charm had been given to the matriarch of a Viking king by Odin, the most powerful of Norse gods.

  Of course, now Caroline knew the fascinating tales were simply make believe.

  Her fanciful great aunt may have been naïve enough to believe in myths, Viking love charms, Norse gods and the rest of that paranormal gibberish, but Caroline knew better.

  She knew firsthand that life was a bitch and fairytales were meant for wide-eyed children.

  As she opened another small envelope in the package, she found a long braided lock of hair. Caroline fondly recalled the ever-present plaited coil of white-blonde hair affixed to the top of Helga’s head. As a child she’d wished she could have flaxen locks instead of her stark black hair. While Caroline had the tall, large-boned, full-bodied physique of her mother’s Scandinavian side of the family, she got the black hair and midnight-blue eyes from her father’s side. The Black Irish, as her paternal grandmother had called it. Both sides shared the pale, easily sunburned skin.

  And Caroline could never forget her great aunt’s kind, pale blue eyes that seemed to hold the secrets and wisdom of the ages. She remembered Helga instructing her to look deep into her eyes, saying that if she gazed hard enough Caroline would see her true love.

  “Tell me what you see, dear.”

  Caroline would squint, focusing all of her concentration on Helga’s eyes. “Ooh, I think I see a Viking, Auntie Helga!”

  “And what does he look like?”

  “He’s very tall and handsome, with long hair, lots of muscles and a sword and shield.”

  “Sounds like Erik the Red,” Helga had said.

  And Caroline shook her head from side to side. “No, Auntie Helga, my Viking has blond hair. He must be Erik the Blond!” Then they giggled and hugged.

  Gullible little Caroline had actually convinced herself that she had spied her true love in Auntie Helga’s eyes.

  Carefully stuffing everything back into the envelope, Caroline smiled when her dog, Thursday, came sniffing around. “Sorry, Thursday. Nothing here to eat, boy.” She massaged the back of his ears, getting a big juicy face lick in return. At least her faithful dog would be with her for Christmas.

  She was about to place Helga’s package in a drawer and hesitated. It was almost as if she heard, or was it felt, the little Viking charm calling to her. That was beyond ridiculous. Pure wishful thinking. The lure of recapturing the innocence of her childhood.

  And yet…

  After all, her favorite relative had made a special point to set her magic talisman aside for her great niece. And then to write a loving letter in her own hand, shaky as it was at ninety-five and riddled with arthritis. Not wearing the charm would be like a slap in the face to Auntie Helga, and Caroline couldn’t do that.

  She took the chain out of the box and held the gleaming amulet in the palm of her hand. The Viking’s detail was amazing—the textured fur of his tunic, the horned Brunhilda helmet, the sword, his muscles—all meticulously crafted in metal. The color reminded Caroline of rich deep butterscotch. Funny, she didn’t remember the charm being gold. She could swear it had been silver. Knowing Auntie Helga’s zealous efforts to extol the virtues of magic to everyone she knew, Caroline wouldn’t be a bit surprised if this charm was simply one of many the old woman kept tucked away in a box. She’d probably left instructions for her executor to dole out miniature Vikings to each relative and friend, complete with her mystical tale of supernatural powers and one-time use. The thought made Caroline chuckle.

  She slipped the chain over her head. It was the perfect length. The Viking fell just next to her heart.

  ———

  The day before Christmas Eve was clear and sunny, until Caroline left the office and the heavens opened. She blustered a string of curses while scraping ice and snow from the windshield. Once behind the wheel, she reached for the glove compartment, licking her lips in anticipation of sinking her teeth into a chocolate bar, knowing the sensation of rich velvet creaminess melting
on her tongue would soothe her ice-savaged psyche.

  When she popped open the glove box and reached inside, Caroline grew cold at the ghastly realization that the cupboard was bare.

  “No. No! Nooooooo!”

  Leaning forward and banging the heel of her hand against the steering wheel, she felt the tiny Viking amulet press against her breast. “Yeah, lot of good you’ve done me, you little golden twerp.” She rolled her eyes. “Jeez. Now I’m not only talking to myself, I’m talking to a goddamned dime-a-dozen charm around my neck too.”

  And then she smiled…no, grinned, when her thoughts turned to the chocolate stash in her nightstand. Yes, she could hang on until she got home and ripped into the cookies and candy. She drooled at the thought…literally drooled.

  “Caroline, you’re one sick chick,” she told herself through wicked laughter as she swiped a tissue across her chin. “I guess that’s what happens when you go for a whole year without getting laid.” Not that sex with her ex-husband Herbert had been anything spectacular, but it beat the standing Saturday-night trysts with her trusty four-speed vibrator. Well…on second thought…

  After crawling through bumper-to-bumper traffic, snarled by throngs of last-minute holiday shoppers, Caroline finally pulled into her driveway. She heard her best buddy, Thursday, whimpering as she put her key into the door. She’d never been a dog person until he came into her life. It wasn’t love at first sight. Thursday was foisted on her by Herbert a few months before their divorce. On a Thursday to be exact—the day of the week named after the Norse god, Thor, son of Odin. With all the imagination and creativity of a thumbtack, he’d named the dog Ruff. That changed the day after Herbert, an English professor, left her for a perky little college student.

  Herbert found the motley midnight-black mutt shivering and huddled next to the trashcans in the alley one morning and brought him inside. Caroline’s first memory of the sizeable creature was watching him lift his leg and pee on the side of her suede sofa. “Do you have any idea what dog pee does to suede?” she’d asked the dog. Not getting an answer, she posed the question to Herbert who didn’t answer either.

  She only tolerated the animal because Herbert—whom she hadn’t yet realized was a lowdown cheating walking scumbag sonuvabitch—said Ruff reminded him of the dog he’d had as a boy and lost to a car accident. Shit. How could she throw the beast out—Ruff, not Herbert—after hearing a story like that?

  Herbert demanded custody of Ruff when they divorced, which was fine with Caroline. When he moved out, he said he’d be back for the dog once he was settled. That was twelve months ago and she hadn’t seen him since.

  And then a funny thing happened.

  Caroline and the dog got to know each other. And they actually got to be friends, really bonded.

  “Do you know why I love you so much, Thursday?” she’d asked him. “Because you listen when I need to talk. You watch my favorite old movies without making fun of them and don’t look at me like I’m a moron when I cry at the happy parts. You never come home drunk and obnoxious. And, most important, because you don’t care if I’m not a just-out-of-her-teens size five.”

  “I swear,” Caroline said now as she turned the doorknob and opened the front door, “if I’d known at twenty what I know at thirty-eight, I would have opted for a dog instead of a husband.” Yes, Thursday was her little sweetie pie. Her loving, adorable, attentive pal.

  Stepping inside, Caroline could swear her eyeballs popped out of her head and dangled on springs as she viewed the catastrophe before her. She zeroed in on remnants of the bag of chocolate sandwich cookies that trailed from the living room to her bedroom. And then she saw the candy bar wrappers.

  “My chocolate! Thursday!” Clutching her hand to her breast, she screeched, “You goddamn flea-ridden, piss-pawed excuse for a dog. How could you do this to me? I needed that chocolate today!” A quick scan of the floor revealed that he’d also christened the plush ivory carpet with dog vomit. Dark, crisp, scattered patches of mustard yellow with black cookie crumbs and chunks of regurgitated chocolate embedded in the midst of it all. If that weren’t bad enough, the dumb dog who was probably on a sugar high had toppled the Christmas tree, leaving her treasured family heirloom ornaments resting in splotches of puke.

  After hearing Caroline’s anguished cry and glimpsing her crazed expression, Thursday hastily skulked off, tail between his legs, to some hidden corner.

  “Yeah, you’d better hide, you fiend, because at this very moment I am planning your demise.”

  Grumbling, she gingerly sidestepped the barf as though the blotches were a minefield and padded into the bedroom. Her shoulders slumped as she bellowed a gargantuan groan. Not only had Thursday vomited on her bedspread, but he’d deposited a nasty clump of poop on the carpet. And there wasn’t a single uneaten cookie or piece of chocolate left anywhere in sight.

  “Damn it, Thursday! Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

  How in the world he’d managed to open the drawer of her nightstand was beyond her. And how he could devour that economy size bag of double-crème-filled cookies and all the candy without leaving any for her made her see red. Knowing chocolate can be toxic to dogs, she supposed she should be relieved that he barfed it all out. But at the moment…

  As Caroline churned out another round of profanity, there was a knock at the front door.

  Shit. Now what?

  She wasn’t going to answer it…but what if it was some kid selling chocolate bars for school or scouts or something? There was more knocking and then the doorbell rang. Desperately in need of chocolate, she dragged her frazzled nerves across the room and opened the door.

  Uttering a gasp of astonishment, Caroline’s hand flew to her chest, pressing against the golden charm, which suddenly grew warm.

  Standing across her threshold was a living, breathing golden-haired, half-naked hunk of a man in full Viking regalia.

  Chapter Two

  “I sorry to bothering you,” the tall, astoundingly handsome man said in broken English. “But I be locked.”

  Gawking at the towering presence filling her doorway, it took Caroline a long moment before she was capable of speech. Sun-bronzed skin, thick golden hair that fell to his shoulders, powerfully built arms, broad pecs, powerful thighs, striking blue eyes… He was Erik the Blond, her childhood fantasy come to life.

  “What?” she eked out breathlessly, wholly aware that her pussy was creaming.

  “English not so good, my pardon I beg,” he said. “No keys to house or auto car.”

  Caroline’s fingers twisted the charm inside her blouse, unable to focus on his words because she was too busy salivating. The big stranger had a sword sheathed across his back and carried a round shield. He was so breathtaking she felt a tremor zing to her clit and then her dribbling pussy clenched.

  “Erik the Blond,” she whispered in awe.

  The man grinned and nodded. “You knowing my name!”

  She blinked hard. The guy’s name was Erik the Blond? No. Uh-uh. Totally impossible. Her frown slowly morphed into a smile. Finally she laughed.

  “I get it. My great aunt set this up, didn’t she?”

  “Not understand. I play.” He clapped his hand against his chest. “I need to play,” he said earnestly.

  Caroline looked him up and down, uttering a throaty chuckle. “Oh, I just bet you do, big guy, but not with me you don’t.” She started to close the door, but the Viking’s hand caught it.

  “Please. Help Erik play.”

  His mouth was sensitive, his jaw strong. Lust, pure and potent, coiled deep in Caroline’s belly. Unable to drag her gaze from his mesmerizing eyes, she was so turned on by this walking, talking embodiment of her fantasies that she could barely breathe.

  “Yes,” she said, “this would fit perfectly with Auntie’s sense of humor. She put something in her will about sending a Viking to poor lonely Caroline for Christmas. Is that it? Well look, buster, I’m not that lonely. So you can take your phony accent and your
animal pelts and your horned helmet and your big sword…” For some ungodly reason Caroline chose that particular moment to drop her gaze to the man’s crotch. And damned if her pussy didn’t gush. It had definitely been too long since she’d been laid. She sucked in a deep breath. “And you can just get out of here. The last thing I need in my life now is some big, overgrown muscled—

  Erik touched his fingers to her cheek and Caroline gasped. He cupped her chin. “Why you lonely?” he asked. “You so beauty.” He looked so sincere, so caring, so fucking hot as he said it that she wanted to rip those pelts off of him with her teeth and feast on him.

  As his thumb stroked her cheek, Caroline suddenly wanted to rush into his arms, wailing like a baby against his broad chest about how unfair life had been and how it sucked to be without someone to love at Christmas and how she was thankful for her four-speed vibrator but yearned to feel a flesh and blood cock inside her again. And then she wanted Erik the Blond to respond by uttering a manly grunt, mercilessly impaling her with his rugged Viking cock and fucking her senseless.

  She swallowed hard. Absently fingering the charm, her thoughts raced as her panties moistened. Yup, the big muscled hunk of her doorstep was probably a high-class male escort—which was a nice name for prostitute—hired by her great aunt’s executor. Erik the Blond here was probably Helga’s final parting gift to her great niece, to keep her from feeling alone and abandoned at Christmas. Caroline looked the hunk of prime beef up and down slowly, amazed at how suitable he looked in the realistic Viking getup. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in the stubborn jaw, the sexy mouth and the glimmer in his eyes.

  Why not? What could it hurt? She craved the delicious heat of a hard, strong body covering hers—the erotic friction of a cock sliding deep in a slow, grinding rhythm. Caroline’s belly churned in excitement and uncertainty. No decent woman would ever conceive of doing what she intended to do. But, dammit, she could be bold and brazen and devil-may-care just this once. After all, men satisfied themselves with prostitutes all the time, didn’t they? And her great aunt certainly wouldn’t engage anyone for the job who hadn’t thoroughly been checked out beforehand. She should graciously accept Helga’s generosity and indulge. She appraised him once again. Yup, fucking a Viking would be much more satisfying than chomping on a few measly pieces of chocolate.