by Jianne Carlo
Her eyelids slid to half-mast as she munched.
“’Tis delicious,” she uttered. “I have not tasted such cheese before.”
“’Tis from Verona. I purchased it in the markets there,” Torsten explained, unable to drag his gaze from her glistening ruby mouth when she licked her lips. His ballocks grew taut, and his belly hunger vanished as an idea prowled the corners of his mind. “Do you swim?”
His abrupt question startled her into blinking.
“As well as a trout,” she replied, her eyes twinkling, her lips curving. “My sons too. ’Tis my secret pastime when the sun is hot.”
Torsten grinned, shoved the chair back, and stood, cradling her in his arms. “My brothers will arrive soon, and we will celebrate our union with a feast.”
He marched through three chambers.
“There is more than Ruard and the one who fetches the boys?”
Liking her swift acceptance of his need to hold her close to him, he stared into her wide emerald eyes, and couldn’t resist pressing his lips to hers.
“Aye four in total—Ruard, Magnus, Njal, and Jarvik who brings the boys.” He freed one hand to unbar the rear door to his lodge and shove it open.
“Is Helga your sole sister?”
Hearing the anxiety in her tone, he glanced at her, strode outside and pulled the door shut.
“She is my stepsister. Thank Odin I have only the one. Helga departs to wed her betrothed soon.” Making a mental note to learn of Helga’s treatment of Ainslin, he made his way to the private bathhouse nestled into the mountainside. Her breath warmed his flesh when she sighed, and her stiff limbs relaxed in his arms.
Smiling when she gasped as they entered the wooden hut, Torsten lit two hanging stone lamps to allow her to see the hot spring, the wood stacked near the stone pit’s side, and the iron tray filled with smooth rocks. Rising steam warmed his back, and he slid her down his body. Torsten stooped and raised her skirts to savor the silkiness of her firm calves and run his fingertips along the back of her knees.
She moaned, and her hands resting on his shoulders gripped tighter when he repeated the caress. He stifled a grin as he stood, brought her fingers to his lips, kissed each one in turn before asking, “’Tis to your liking?”
“’Tis wondrous,” she murmured, wriggling her toes. “The floor holds not the winter’s chill.”
“Nor does the spring. ’Tis shallow at the edges, but deeper in the middle.” Unfastening the laces of her gown as he spoke, Torsten sighed when her breasts sprang free, the pouting nipples pleading for his mouth. “Mine.”
Cupping her breasts, he weighed them before tasting one, then the other. “For two seasons I have dreamed of these.”
“My lord?”
He cursed his loose tongue. “I chanced upon you when I visited the Canute’s court to negotiate a ransom.”
Helping her to step out of the crytel and the half-torn chemise, he continued. “’Twas then I learned you were widowed, and I petitioned for your hand.”
A half-truth because he didn’t want her to know the lengths to which he had gone to make her his. He prayed his new wife would never discover the power she wielded over him.
Her eyes grew as wide as a fawn’s. She shook her head. “We did not meet—I would never forget you.”
“You were attending the king’s wife, Queen Emma. But ’tis good you find me unforgettable.”
Pink washed over her throat and cheeks when he shed his breeches and his cock pranced and preened.
“’Tis time to make good on our bargain, Ainslin. I will kiss your injury better and you will kiss mine. I fear ’twill take many kisses before either one of us is healed.” He tilted her head back, set his mouth over hers, and drank deeply.
Chapter Four
Ainslin reeled under the onslaught of Torsten’s lips, too giddied by his tongue’s slow exploration of her mouth to gnaw at the worry plaguing her mind. She tiptoed to absorb more of him, her breasts grazing the planes and hollows of his ribcage. She clenched his arms when he licked the ridge of her teeth.
His skin exuded heat, and she whimpered when his palms massaged her rear end. He rubbed against her, his weeping cock dampening her belly. Warm curls of steam wrapped around her legs.
He stoked a fire deep inside her and she clung to him, linking her arms around his neck.
“Ainslin.” He pressed hot, wet kisses along her throat.
“Torsten,” she moaned when a whirlwind of sensation shivered up her spine and her womanhood grew slick.
His hand slipped between her thighs, one finger sliding up and down her folds.
Her inner walls clenched when his finger probed her entrance.
A ferocious growl erupted from him, and he tore away from her, panting. He snarled a few Norse words she did not understand, but the scowl writ upon his face made her flinch.
What had she done wrong?
“Nay, wife. Do not shrink from me. ’Tis angry I am at myself. You are tender and swollen and I will not take you again this eve.” He shot her a sheepish grin and a dimple dented one cheek. His pecker twitched against her pelvis. “As I mentioned before, my prick oftentimes has a mind of its own.”
The world tipped when he swept her off her feet, and in one stride they were in the water. Soothing waves created by his bulk lapped at her bottom and tickled the undersides of her breasts. He made for a large boulder that breached the spring’s surface, and set her atop its flat surface, arranging her so her legs dangled over the rock’s sides.
When he eased her thighs wider apart, she cringed and could not look at him. If he glanced down he would see her woman parts, what he called her puss.
Torsten chuckled, he snagged her jaw. “To me, wife. You blush from head to toe. Why?”
“Why? You ask why? ’Tis not seemly for you to see me thus exposed. I am cert ’tis sinful. Mayhap even a mortal sin.” Indignant that he had the boldness to ask such a question, she folded her arms.
“Naught that we do alone together is wrong, Ainslin. Have not your priests taken vows of chastity? How can one who has never joined with a woman know what is wrong or right or sinful ’tween a man and his wife?” He combed her curls with his fingers, the gentle strokes both comforting and cherishing.
Ainslin had never heard anyone question the church’s teachings. Yet, his words made sense. Priests did take vows of chastity. She chewed on her lip and considered his reasoning. “It feels wicked for you to see me there.”
“Wicked and pleasurable?” he prompted.
“Aye.” And thrilling and exciting.
“I make you a bargain then, sweetling. If anything I do or say upsets or disturbs you, then I will do so no more, but if what I do or say brings you pleasure, then you must give me the right to do so again.” He cocked a brow and grinned down at her.
Remembering the ecstasy he had rained on her with his mouth and hands, she did not hesitate. “I do so give you leave.”
“Then lie back, wife, and let me feast. For you are a banquet to me.” He bent to her and sipped at her lips, his tongue teased them apart, and dipped inside. Ever so slowly, he licked and explored, and suckled. She leaned into him and opened more for him giving him free reign to do as he would.
Blazing heat blossomed inside her, and she grew drunk on his carnal kissing. Sensation after sensation plowed through her when he nipped the tip of her tongue. No longer able to think, she latched her arms around his neck, and scraped her tits against his ribs. Her nipples stiffened and the coarse hairs dusting his upper torso abraded the tips so they burned.
When he moved his mouth to her throat, she moaned.
“Lie back on the rock, elska. Relax and close your eyes.”
He helped her to settle against the smooth boulder and set his lips to the pulse beating in the center of her clavicle.
“’Tis pleasurable for me to taste you here?”
“Aye. Aye,” she mewled.
Bliss, sheer bliss, the tickling of his soft mouth as he tast
ed the slope of her breast. She shivered when his tongue flicked the tip of her bud. “And here—’tis pleasurable for me to lick you here?”
“Aye. More,” she begged.
He suckled her tits and the heaven of his hot mouth laving and abrading her flesh near had her swooning with pleasure.
Warm breath fluttered over her skin when he trailed wet kisses over her ribs and down to her navel. He licked around the circle of her belly button and when he dipped inside, she arched her hips in a silent plea for more.
“You enjoy that, wife.” He peeked up at her from his chin perched on her hip, his gray eyes glinting with wicked intent.
He nuzzled her stomach and nosed his way down her pelvis.
“Your skin is like the finest silk. Here you taste of your woman’s musk.” He caught a clump of her woman’s curls between his teeth and tugged slightly.
The slight sting had chill bumps prickling her nape, and the pink areolae of her breast.
When he brushed two fingers down the center of her sex, she gawked at him, at the contrast between his bronzed arms and her pale thighs.
“Here.” He set his thumb to the hooded flesh at the apex of her womanly parts and twirled his forefinger over her damp flesh. “Here is your honey. Pure nectar from the gods.”
He inserted two fingers into her core, and she gaped when he pumped a few times, and then withdrew and brought the slick digits to his nose. “Nectar.”
With that he slurped her honey noisily.
“Torsten, you must not—”
“Hush, elska. I must. I crave to taste your puss, to drink your nectar.” He nuzzled her sex, moving his head from side to side and lapping at her honey.
Fear and excitement caught at her throat when he parted her folds with his hands, and pressed a kiss to the sensitive nubbin guarding her core. When he took the tingling button between his teeth and gently bit down, she screamed, “Aye.”
Bereft when his weight lifted off her, she opened her eyes, and looked down. Oh, the wickedness of his dark head resting between her thighs. His charcoal eyes glistened with mischief, and he crooked a brow. “Aye? ’Tis pleasurable for me to kiss, and lick, and bite you here?”
“Oh. Aye and aye and aye again.” She boosted her drenched flesh closer to his wonderfully, wicked mouth.
“Mayhap, now I can lick the wound I inflicted earlier better, heh?” Then he grinned, a grin so self-satisfied and smug and all male, that she near exploded with desire.
“’Tis the place I injured?” he queried, sipping at her folds.
“Nay—mayhap here?” He lapped at the juncture of her leg and her womanhood.
Ainslin rested on her elbows, shock draining the blood to her sex at the sight of his raven black hair teasing her thighs, his lips suckling her swollen flesh. He looked up at her and smiled when he saw her slack-jawed reaction.
“Nay, ’tis not right.” When he spoke, the sound rumbled to her core, his hot breath sailed over her slickened folds, and her eyes closed when his mouth firmed around her secret bud.
His tongue swirled over and over the pulsing nub. Ainslin arched her hips in a silent and desperate plea for more pressure, more exquisite sensation. His teeth scored her nubbin lightly.
The walls of her sheath contracted, the ache inside unbearable. Her legs crossed on his back, and when he nipped the bud hard, she crested. Her bottom wrenched off the rock, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his head fast to her puss.
Giddied, consumed by the ecstasy he’d wrung from her. She went limp and her bones felt all wobbly. When he moved to lay his cheek on her stomach, she relished his heaviness, grateful for the comfort of his bulk. He slipped his arms around her waist, rolled onto his back, and gathered her close on top of him. His hands glided over her spine, the rhythmic caresses gentle and calming.
Gradually, her panting slowed. She lifted eyelids more weighty than the boulder on which she rested, and her clasp on his shoulders loosened. He hauled her off the boulder, strode to shallower waters, and sat with her on his lap.
“Your honey is sweeter than the finest nectar,” he murmured and brushed his lips over hers, sliding his tongue over the seam of her mouth, dipping inside to touch the tips together.
Ainslin couldn’t absorb it all, too dizzy from her explosive peak to think.
Breaking the tender kiss, he met her glazed stare, a golden twinkle from the hanging lamp glinting in his gray eyes. “I fear I did not find the injury to soothe, Ainslin, so I must needs try again.”
She squeaked.
Dawn neared when Torsten carried her back to the bed in the lodge.
Her scattered thoughts gathered as memories alighted from their time in the bathhouse. Never would she have imagined the things they did. The cock that had frightened her mere hours before had now become an obsession.
He settled alongside her on the mattress, shifting her so she rested on his ribcage, and he toyed with her hair. “Ask your questions, Ainslin. We are man and wife now, and I will have no secrets between us, and no unanswered queries. ’Tis plain you did not know the intricacies of bedsport.”
Ainslin’s eyes narrowed and she raised her head. “You read minds as well?”
“As well as what?”
His broad grin did not amuse her.
“Ah, I see from the rosy hue of your cheeks what you think. You needs know more about me kissing your puss better. ’Tis a pleasure practiced by many.”
Her face grew warmer. “My mother died before I was of an age to learn about…”
She swallowed, resolved not to waver, jutted her nose, and continued. “To tell me of bedsport.”
“Elska, your face tells every thought.” He reached between her legs and cupped her mound. “’Tis termed a puss oftentimes, when warriors converse.”
Capturing her hand, he curled her fingers around his cock. “’Tis a pecker, a willie, a shaft, a prick, a cock.”
“I know that one,” she protested. His pecker thickened. “And does it never get tired?”
“Nay.” His snow-white teeth glistened when his grin widened. “But you do.”
He touched the tip of her nose. “Thus, now we sleep.”
To her utter surprise, he untangled her fingers from his willie, and urged her with his palm against her face to press her cheek to his hard chest. She listened to the steady beat of his heart and, when he placed her bent leg over his groin, snuggled closer to his warmth. Cocooned in the shelter of his embrace, she blew out a satisfied sigh, and closed her eyes.
While she counted her marriage to Hadrain a happy one, for he had loved her like a daughter, never could she have imagined the rapture Torsten had shown her last night and this morn. As was her routine before preparing to slumber, she asked God to keep Brom and Rod hale and harbored, added another fervent prayer for Torsten’s health and safety, and begged the lord to help her keep him happy for as long as they both lived.
Chapter Five
Torsten studied his slumbering wife and a wry grin quirked his mouth.
Not once had she tossed or turned, not while he dressed and armed himself, not even after he fetched her trunks from the cottage she and her nurse, Martha, had occupied during the last couple of days. She slept like the dead.
But, he had kept her awake and active until dawn’s glorious red and orange streaks lightened the dark horizon. Because he had observed her mellow nature, the tender care she showed for her sons, he had anticipated having to woo her gently and slowly. He had not expected her passionate response to him. In truth, naught that occurred last night could he have predicted.
He had taken her maidenhead. No man had ever known her carnally. Pride puffed his ribcage to bursting. She was his and his alone. Yet, he had been crude and crass in the taking of her. Too overcome with lust to care for her as he should have. He vowed to court her with more finesse.
And prayed to the gods his vaunted discipline would return and allow him to do so, but her sweet, innocent, ardent enjoyment of their fucking d
id him in. When she insisted on kissing his pecker, he had spilled his seed like a gawky and immature boy of three and ten summers who had never swived a woman.
Self-disgust crashed over him.
Ever since his fifth and tenth year when he attained his warrior status, he adhered to a strict routine and prided himself on his discipline. Never had a woman shattered his self-control—until Ainslin. He had hoped that once he’d had her, her appeal would lessen.
He snorted.
Even now he lingered too long simply because he enjoyed watching her flushed skin, the way she curled her knees to her elbows, and slept with her hands under one cheek.
Lout, dolt—to be so addlepated about a mere female.
No more.
Ainslin belonged to him, now. She would know her place as his wife. He had loitered too long in her company and could not afford the distraction of her when more important matters needed his attention.
’Twas time to immerse himself in the ways of men. Aye. This day he would train with his men and reinforce the self-restraint inherent to him.
Torsten marched to the door of his bed chamber, glanced back, hesitated for a moment, but forced his legs to stalk forward through the lodge. Once outside in the crisp spring air, he hurried to Bear Hall. As he marched through the doorway, Ruard greeted him with a shout.
Seated at the head table, his brother hefted a horn of ale, and saluted him. “To your bride, brother, and your wedding night.”
His men all stood at once and raised their horns and bellowed, “To Jarl Torsten and his new bride.”
Torsten inclined his head in acknowledgment of the group toast. He strolled around the dais, jumped the two-foot height, and eased his chair away from the table.
One of the many kitchen boys approached and filled Torsten’s horn with ale. He raised the carved utensil. “To your new lady, Ainslin of Stjórardalr.”
His men roared the pledge and all drank.
