by Jianne Carlo
But, he shook his head. “Nay, sweetling. ’Tis my duty to take care of you. I vowed that we will not swive until the morrow. Your woman’s parts must heal, but we will both find satisfaction this day. And this eve. Fear not.”
Chapter Nine
Torsten watched as confusion plowed deep furrows on Ainslin’s forehead. She trained her gaze on his face, assessing each feature in turn, and appeared to come to a conclusion. “Swive is another word for our joining?”
A chortle burst out of his mouth. By Loki’s toes, she made him smile. “Aye. Methinks, wife, I have much to teach you about bedsport. Swive, lick the spigot, service Venus, play nug-a-nug—”
“Lick the spigot? That makes no sense,” she declared, fisting her hands on her hips. “I am cert men make these, these—”
“Apt descriptions. May I remind you of what I licked last eve?” He waggled his eyebrows. “And what I am apt to lick right now?”
“Oh.” She shifted on his lap to peer down at his tented breeches. She stared at his cock, which rose proudly and happily to her intense attention, and a sultry smirk twitched the corners of her lips. Ducking her chin, she shot him a promise-full peep. “And may I lick your spigot?”
He swallowed his own tongue.
For a moment, uncertainty had her retreating from her bold suggestion, and she covered her face with her palms. “I have become wanton.”
“Aye. And never stop, elska. There is naught, naught wrong with enjoying bedsport. And, if I am lucky enough that you wish to lick my spigot, by the gods, I will move heaven and hell to make you happy.” The words poured out of him in a fury, the mere thought of her tongue, her hot haven of a mouth on his pecker had his stones taut and hardened-to-spewing.
Hot, bright color washed her skin. She folded her hands on her lap and stared at her twined fingers. “’Tis a sin. It must be. I am wicked to be thinking such thoughts.”
“Nay. To me, Ainslin.” He waited until she looked right at him, then tangled his fingers in her hair, and tilted her head. “Your God created us—I have the right of this, aye?”
“Aye.”
Marveling once again how in Odin she had remained so innocent and trusting after being exposed to the devious machinations of Queen Emma’s court, he sought to explain more of the swiving ways of the East.
“Why would your God give us hands and mouths and tongues, if not for pleasure? Pleasure in each other. We are meant to taste, to touch, to smell, to see, to enjoy each other. I am new to this Christian God of yours, but I refuse to believe that what gives us pleasure is wrong. What sin could there be in finding joy in what your God gave us—our bodies? Tell me true, wife. Do you wish to lick my spigot?”
Even the tips of her ears lit with color, but she notched her chin. “Aye. I wish to please you, Torsten.”
Close to spilling his seed at her fervent declaration, he hugged her tight to him, swept her hair to one side, and nuzzled her nape inhaling the unique scent of her—all spring and musk. He could think of naught but her lush lips, her very pink tongue lapping his cock. Struggling to contain his lust, he turned his attention to her pleasure.
“During my time in the East, I learned ’tis nothing sweeter than when a man and a woman peak together. In the East, both men and women believe ’tis naught sinful about their bodies. We Norse also believe so. Tell me, Ainslin, have you ever touched yourself, here?” He slipped his hands under her gown and fingered her folds, suppressing a groan when he found her wet and ready for him.
Her half-hooded lids flew up and she gawked at him, her blush fierce and furious. She dipped her chin. “Nay. Aye. When I wash.”
Already slick with her honey, he toyed with her nubbin. “You found bliss when I put my mouth here, did you not?”
“Oh. Aye,” she rasped and peeped at him when he tossed her skirts above her waist.
He liked not the female Mercian fondness for small drawers and swiftly untied the ropes tying the undyed linen together, heaving a lustful sight when her pretty puss came into view.
“Torsten,” she yelped. “’Tis broad daylight.”
“Aye. Swiving and licking the spigot is oft best enjoyed under the warm sun on a spring or summer day. By the gods, ’tis naught more beautiful than your mound of Venus.” He fingered back the hood guarding her bliss flower. “Nay. Mayhap your love button is more beautiful. But naught is more intoxicating than the taste of your nectar, your honey. See how it flows for me.”
Her breathing hitched when he tweaked the swollen nub and her nails bit into his shoulder. She shuddered.
The spice of her arousal had him salivating. He unlaced her crytel and shoved her chemise down to bare her luscious breasts. He tugged her gown and chemise over her bottom, and she helped him by wriggling and arching her hips. Finally, he pulled the clothes past her toes and gently laid her down on the blanket. “Beauty, wife, beauty.”
Too tempted to even attempt to resist, he mounded her tits together and ate at her nipples, suckling and nibbling until the peaks were rosy and swollen. She cupped the back of his head and pressed him harder to her breasts. The most delightful sounds erupted from her, a deep throaty growl, and a sighing mewl of his name.
He pressed kisses to the slight indent between her ribs, tasted the sweetness of the swirl of fuzzy hair around her navel, and traced a darker line down to her woman’s curls. Her soft, pale hair was damp and pungent with her desire. Her love button winked at him and he lapped tiny circles around the slick flesh.
“Oh. Oh. Ooooh,” she moaned, and spread her thighs wide apart in a blatant plea for his attention.
Her nectar tasted like Valhalla, honeyed and salty and musky. He paid tender attention to each pretty pink fold, and licked and sipped her succulent flesh.
She thrashed and wriggled and squirmed. “Please. I beg you.”
He plowed her core with light flicks and teasing nibbles and when he thrust his tongue into her channel, she arched into his mouth. Her internal muscles quivered and he knew she neared her climax. He pressed his thumb to her nubbin and buried his face in her puss.
He swathed her lips and core with his lips and tongue and pinched her button.
“Torsten,” she cried out.
He plunged his tongue inside her sheath. Her woman’s muscles clamped around him, her contractions coming in rapid-fire bursts. Her honey drenched his nose and chin. He lapped at her, soothing the swollen and reddened lips of her puss as her climax waned.
Needing to see her face, to savor her bliss, he inched his way up her body and smiled down at her. He had pleasured his wife well. He brushed his lips to hers. “Now wife, did you enjoy me licking your spigot?”
Slowly, she lifted her lids and slid him a most sated smile. “Aye.”
He savored her wanton abandonment, arms thrown above her head, breasts and nipples reddened from his carnal attentions, thighs and sex bared and open for his enjoyment.
She flushed all over.
“What are you thinking, elska?” He ran a finger from her temple, across the hollow of her cheekbone, and outlined her plump, cherry-red lips.
Her color rioted. “That such pleasure will surely cause my heart to stop.”
He chuckled, amused by her breathy description. “In truth, the Franks call it a little death.”
She blinked at him. “I have heard of the Franks. You have seen so much of our world. ’Tis why you know so much of…pleasure.”
“Aye. And other things too, Ainslin. I have observed different customs, and have learned to pick and choose which ones I favor. ’Tis the reason I spoke of our bodies and the gods giving them to us for pleasure.” He curled a loose ringlet around a finger.
“’Tis my turn to lick your spigot?” she demanded, her voice a bit on the shaky side.
“To me, wife.” When she looked right at him, he continued, “My cock and your puss are both different and alike. Untie my breeches and free my pecker.”
Her eyes, deep as the forest, widened, but she fumbled to obey his comman
d, and he sucked in his belly when her fingers brushed his cockhead.
Shite, she tested his discipline.
He nuzzled her ear, rolled them so they were on their sides, and prayed to Thor for control. “Take me in hand, wife.”
His entire torso juddered when she grasped him at the base of his pecker. Bracing himself, he lifted his head and nigh burst out of his skin at the incredible sight of her hands on him.
Liquid seeped from the slit on his crown, and his cock jerked and twitched. “Stroke me.”
She whipped her gaze to his. “’Twill not hurt?”
“’Twill be agonizing and ecstatic. Both hands up and down,” he begged, his voice coarse and hoarse.
Her first few tentative strokes had groans erupting from his mouth, and he knew he would not last. He covered her hands with his and placed her thumbs and fingers so she abraded his most sensitive flesh. He loosened his hold on her, and the back of his skull thunked on the boulder behind him. “Like so. Faster. Aye. Aye. Nay. Don’t stop.”
’Twas sheer paradise watching her fierce concentration, following her jerky caressing of his pecker, and he flinched when her nails scraped the underside of his cock’s head. He had long since ceased to breathe and his chest burned. His heart battered at his ribcage. The hot sun blazed down upon them.
Unable to haul his focus from her fingers and his shaft, he fought to prolong his rapture, but her grip firmed and her rhythm speeded up. His ballocks tightened, painful bliss banded his groin. The climax thundered from his clenched toes, along his legs and thighs, and his pecker erupted. He spewed his ecstasy in frenetic bursts of his hot seed.
Abruptly, she halted all movement.
“Nay,” he moaned and clamped his fingers around hers and finished himself off with a few hard strokes. Exhausted, he managed to find the energy to tuck her head in the crook of his neck, and collapsed against the smooth surface of the rock.
When his harsh panting slowed, and his mind began to function, he cursed himself. He had meant for them both to pleasure themselves together and not to be a selfish arse. Her fingers twitched under his, and he cursed himself again. For their hands were coated with his sticky seed. Would she be disgusted by the mess?
She fidgeted, her shoulders wriggling against him.
Drawing back, he searched her features for any sign of disdain or repulsion, but her lips wore a slight uptick, and her eyes had that dreamy cast he so relished. She glanced down at his cock in their mutual grasps and then darted him a swift siren’s smirk. “I pleased you.”
“Nay, wife, you pleasured me. You wrung every drop of seed from my body.” He released her grasp of his pecker. “Come. Let us swim for a while.”
Within moments, he stripped off his clothes and led her into the shallow pool. To his delight, she did indeed swim like a trout and had an almost childlike enjoyment of the water, splashing and spraying him, and then skipping smooth stones across the rippling blue surface.
He joined in her water play and taught her how to float. When he was confident she would not sink, he held her hand and floated with her. Together, they found shapes in the fluffy clouds coasting across the cerulean sky; a dragon spewing fire here, a half-moon to the right, and a cross near the horizon.
“Mayhap we can teach Brom and Rob to float,” she said when he helped her onto the bank and swaddled her in the blanket.
“Aye, we will. ’Tis a necessary skill in our land. Think you Sigrid has any suspicion that the boys are his?” He had meant to broach the whole topic in a more subtle manner.
She stiffened in his hold and stared at him, fear glittering in her eyes. “Why ask you such a question? Now? Nay. He could not. For ’twas all done with the utmost secrecy.”
“Be at ease, elska.” He combed her wet curls off her face. “Tell me the all of it while we dress. ’Tis nigh time for us to head to the lodge.”
Ainslin donned her chemise, fumbled with the ties, and then shrugged on her crytel. “’Twas soon after my marriage to Hadrain that King Canute bid us attend the Witan. While we were at court, Sigrid visited our keep in our absence, and ’twas then that he raped Lavanya. By the time we arrived back at Castle Næss, she was three months gone with child, and came to me in her disgrace. I told you before that Hadrain had long suspected Sigrid planned to petition the king for Castle Næss and my hand after Hadrain’s death. So, Hadrain sent us to the highlands, then he met with the king and told him I was with child, and secured a contract that, whether the child was male or female, he or she would inherit, but be the king’s ward until coming of age.”
’Twas smart maneuvering on Hadrain’s part, for, Canute would reap all rents, tithes, and dues while the child was his ward. Torsten drew on his breeches and tunic. “Was it obvious your maid was increasing?”
Ainslin shook her head. She sat to pull on her stockings and garters. “But, she suffered badly with the vomiting that so oft accompanies a pregnancy.”
Torsten, hopping on one foot to shrug on his boot, stifled a slew of curses. In a small keep, such an incident would be remarked upon and gossip would fly. “’Twas common knowledge then, what had happened?”
“That she was with child, aye, but not by whom. Lavanya was too ashamed to admit what had happened. She blamed herself.” Ainslin picked up her drawers, but Torsten took the garment from her, and dumped the cloth on the blanket. She wrung her hands. “You are scaring me, Torsten.”
“Then, how could you hope to pass off her child as yours?” He captured her wrists and rubbed circles over the soft undersides.
“The moment I saw Lavanya I knew that something was wrong, and I made her confess. I went straight to Hadrain with the tale. The morning after our arrival Hadrain announced that I became with child before we left King Canute’s court. From that day on until we left for the highlands, I, too, pretended to be ill in the mornings and I padded my belly. We were but a week at Castle Næss. I am cert none suspected. Why do you ask these questions?” Her voice trembled with fright.
Chapter Ten
Ainslin knew something had gone terribly wrong and that it had to involve Sigrid and her sons. She could scare draw breath while waiting for Torsten’s answer.
But instead of replying right away, Torsten rolled her drawers in the blanket, and stuffed the cloth log into the straw basket. All at once, he pivoted to face the clearing, and then he picked her up and tucked her behind him. “Someone comes.”
She heard the faint drumming of hooves pounding the packed earth. Fear had the pulse in her throat ready to burst the thin skin there.
“Torsten.” The shout came from a vaguely familiar voice.
Ainslin peeked through Torsten’s akimbo-planted arm.
His brother, Ruard, fair hair flying in the wind galloped through the clearing, and hauled hard on his reins when he spied Torsten. He walked his steed over to the bank and surveyed the scene before him. “I see you and your lady have been enjoying a swim. Beg pardon for interrupting, but I needs speak with you.”
Though Ruard spoke without haste, Ainslin sensed urgency in him. She stepped around Torsten and blurted, “Has aught happened to my sons?”
Torsten caught her waist with his arm, and the warmth of him soothed her rising terror.
“Nay, lady. Your sons are safe with my brother, Jarvik, not two days’ travel from Bear Hall.” Ruard dismounted.
“See. All is well. While I speak with Ruard, pray collect, and pack away the leftover food. We leave naught that will attract bears and wolves. ’Tis one of the rules of our holding.” Torsten pressed a kiss to her forehead and marched over to his brother.
Her worry somewhat appeased, Ainslin collected the remnants of the food and wine while keeping an eye on her husband and Ruard.
The two men had ambled in the direction of the far line of trees and talked in low murmurs. She couldn’t understand what they said for they conversed in Norse far too swiftly for her to pick out words.
Finally, after what seemed to be an interminable time, Torst
en and Ruard turned around, and headed back to her.
“My lady, I take your leave.” Ruard bowed to her, threw his long and lanky form onto his steed, and yanked his hand to his chest. “I will see you anon at the náttverðr.”
“My thanks brother.” Torsten’s set jaw spoke of anger.
“Something is amiss?” Ainslin craned back to search his expression.
“Naught but early guests for the feast on the morrow. We needs feed a score extra mouths this eve. I am at a loss as to what to do, wife. Do I order Helga to—?”
Ainslin jumped at the opportunity. “Nay, husband. I shall see to these duties. I must needs find Thora and Greta immediately.”
“They will have returned to Bear Hall to assist with our wedding feast on the morrow. I will accompany you there.” He plucked the basket from the boulder and offered her his arm.
Her mind worked in several different directions at once as they strolled back to the longhouse. “What are the ranks of these visitors? Are visitors housed by rank as in my land?”
“Aye and nay. One is a noble, two are freemen, and the rest are servants. On the morrow, our neighbors will begin to arrive for our wedding feast. I know not how you plan to handle Helga, but she has worked diligently to prepare for the morrow.”
“Though she offered me insult this day, I will not sink so low as to be uncivil to her. Earlier you mentioned that Helga’s betrothed, Jarl Olsson, is also our neighbor. Is he invited to the feast?” She knew precisely what her approach would be and, unless Helga threw a fit of temper, all would be well.
“Aye. He will.”
They passed the swine yard and a couple of grubby bearded men greeted Torsten who inclined his head in return.
She grinned and wanted to clap her joy. “Is the hut of Wilma the Wise on the way to Bear Hall?”
He halted and caught her chin. “Aye, it is. I ask you again, Ainslin, do you have need of her? Did I hurt you last eve more than you wish to admit?”
His frowning concern sent hordes of delicious butterflies awhirl in her belly, and she tiptoed to kiss his cheek. “Nay and nay. I simply wish to speak with her about the local herbs and spices.”
