Conquests: an Anthology of Smoldering Viking Romance

by James, Elle

  He groaned against her ear, and then his strong arms were around her, his grip holding her in place as he pushed her whole body down onto his thick cock. Only when he couldn’t push farther did he stop, but he still kept her in place.

  Melite was breathing heavily, her face nuzzling his neck – it had looked big before, but inside of her, it felt huge, filling every inch. Her heart was beating so loud that Arestes could likely hear it, but she didn’t care – she just tried to get her breath back under control. Then, when they both had calmed a little, she leaned up to his ear once again, her voice hoarse and hot against his skin. “Fuck me.”

  That seemed to be all the encouragement he needed.

  With a feral snarl, he lifted her out of the water as if she was no heavier than a rag doll and turned both of them around. Then he pushed her onto the marble tiles next to the pool. She gasped when he spread her legs and lifted them onto his shoulders, and her moan echoed from the bathroom walls when he thrust back into her with one swift motion.

  And then he stopped holding back. The slapping of wet skin against wet skin reverberated through the bathroom, intermingling with her breathless moans and his growling and grunting as he drove his hard cock into her wet heat again and again and again, making her body explode with wave after wave of raw, pure lust.

  Trapped between the hard muscle of his body and the cold marble of the floor, Melite could do nothing but to give her body, all of herself to the large, calloused hands of the barbarian who pounded into her with voracious hunger, who made her loins sing and her heart stutter. His hands let go of her legs and grabbed her breasts again, squeezing them with feral strength as his thrusts got even faster, even harder, but more erratic.

  She came when he slammed his body into hers with one last, brutal thrust, and the wave of her climax nearly pushed her over the threshold of consciousness. For a second, her vision went black, but she could still feel Arestes spill deep inside, before his body collapsed on top of her.

  She needed half an eternity to regain enough control over her breath to gasp out, “I have never been taken so thoroughly in all my life, Arestes…” She opened her eyes to see his face above her own, a little grin playing in his exhausted features.

  “Haraldr,” he said, cradling her head and kissing her forehead.

  Melite frowned. “What?”

  “That is my name. They call me ‘Arestes’ because they can pronounce it easier, but my name is Haraldr Sigurðarson.”

  She felt a smile spread on her face. “It’s not so hard to say, though, is it? Haraldr.”

  His grin grew wider, and he gently kissed her lips again. “My name sounds beautiful from your mouth.”

  “Haraldr,” she repeated, answering his kiss with one of her own. “Haraldr…”

  She could feel his sex, which he had not pulled out after his climax, stir inside again. Oh, the blessings of youth…

  “Say it again,” he whispered as he slowly rocked against her body.

  She grinned and started to stroke his golden hair, which had dried and framed his face in angelic waves now.

  “Haraldr,” she whispered against his lips, and his rocking turned into thrusts again. “Haraldr… Haraldr…”

  They still had hours left before the sun would rise.

  How to Train Your Skjaldmaer

  Delilah Devlin

  Norway, 924 AD

  “That creature is a Jarl’s daughter?” Left unsaid in Lothar’s wide gaze was the fact she would also be Torvald’s wife.

  Given the sight that beheld their eyes, Torvald might have felt it unfair to chastise his companion, but he couldn’t overlook the disrespect. So he jerked his elbow backward and up, neatly breaking Lothar’s nose. While the man groaned and bent at the waist to keep the blood streaming toward the rushes covering the rough dirt floor, Torvald stepped deeper into the taproom.

  The brawl was well underway. His bride seemed to have things well in hand. Something that might have amused him in his younger days, but he had a position to uphold and ambitions beyond his own jarldom. Bringing back such a wife to his holdings could prove a hindrance to his plans.

  Not that she wasn’t a handsome woman. Beneath the dirt on her cheeks and the blood smeared on her chin, her face was nicely formed and her eyes a direct and chilling blue. Her hair was such a pale shade as to be nearly white, and so thick it escaped her braids to fly about her back and buttocks like a wild mare’s mane. And she had surprising strength and stamina in her tall robust frame, which admittedly intrigued him.

  As he watched, she turned sideways, gripped the edge of a table, and flipped over it, planting her feet in the center of a large, brutish man’s belly to topple him. The man went down with a roar then kicked out his feet, pulling himself to stand in a single, astonishingly graceful motion.

  His bride glanced up the big man’s frame then planted both fists on her hips in a fearless stance. “I tipped a bull once. He thrashed a bit, but didn’t get back to his feet nearly as quickly as you.”

  Her words were brusque but admiring, and her expression gave away her cheeky lack of contrition.

  The red-headed brute glanced down at her, nostrils flaring, his cheeks so flushed Torvald feared he’d pop a vein—and then suddenly, he tossed back his head and laughed.

  The sound was large and loud inside the small, ale-saturated room. He clamped his arm around the woman’s shoulders and turned her toward the bar. “Mead for the lady,” he roared.

  The brawl ended in an instant. Laughter and loud claps to shoulders filled the room.

  Lothar sidled up beside Torvald, a cloth pressed to his nose as he stared through bruised and swelling eyes. “Will you break something else if I say she’s not exactly the woman Hagar promised?”

  Torvald blew out a breath and nodded. “It can’t be the same woman. A sister, perhaps.”

  Hagar, the chieftain of the neighboring jarldom, had promised a girl so fair roses blushed in dismay. A woman as slender as a reed, as graceful as a soaring falcon, with hair as dark as midnight, skin as pale as snow.

  This harridan’s tall angular frame and blonde hair were the exact opposite of what he’d been promised, and her ruddy complexion was berry brown from exposure to the sun and weather.

  “Is it a trick to save his treasure for a higher bidder for the beauty’s hand? This one’s more skjaldmær—shieldmaiden—than bride.”

  “I don’t know, but this…” Torvald said, pointing toward the sturdy figure dressed in a man’s breeches and kyrtill wasn’t an acceptable trade. “This will never do.” No matter that she appeared strong and would likely birth warriors full-grown. She’d never stand up to the scrutiny a future queen would face.

  Taking a deep breath, he indicated to Lothar to watch the door and strode toward the woman who’d raised a full horn of mead and drank it like water. He tapped her shoulder.

  Her gaze swung toward him, a scowl digging a crease between her cold blue eyes.

  “Are you Solveig, Hagar’s daughter?”

  She set down her empty horn with a thump. “And who is asking?”

  “Torvald Haroldson. I have come for you.”

  Solvi felt an unwanted prickle of attraction as she eyed the big man’s stony face. She’d noticed him the moment he’d entered the taproom. Who wouldn’t? Standing as tall as her opponent, he was leagues more handsome. With the sides of his head shaved, and brown hair worn in braids down his back, tattoos ringing his wrists, he was an imposing sight. “I don’t know you.”

  “Your father sent me.”

  “Again, we’ve never met, and I know all my father’s underlings.”

  His green gaze narrowed. “I am not his man. Do you not know my name?”

  She squinted up at him, noting the irritation clear in his expression. “Torvald, huh? Wasn’t that the name of the poor sod my father sought to give my sister to?”

  “Poor sod…?” A frown dug a line between his dark brows.

  A crooked smirk stretched her mouth. “I
take it you haven’t met Runa.”

  His mouth twisted into to a frown. “I was sent to retrieve you.”

  Strangely, she liked annoying him, liked the way his body stiffened the longer she argued. She guessed there were few who would risk his anger. “Father knows I’m sailing with Halvar. He doesn’t expect me to attend the wedding. In fact, he told me he’d prefer I didn’t.” She leaned close. “He thinks my behavior and appearance will reflect poorly on his house and name.”

  His mouth straightened into a firm line. “’Tis two days’ travel. Best gather your things. We’ll leave at dawn.”

  She grinned. “I sail at dawn.”

  “You would refuse your father’s command?”

  “I have doubts he issued the order. He was quite adamant I make myself scarce.”

  “Well, he’s changed his mind.”

  The red-headed brute drinking beside her gave a growl. “Solvi, do you want me to toss them out the door?”

  The way her friend’s body tensed, he was likely to start another fight. And already, she ached from the pounding she’d given him. “No need, Halvar,” she said, patting his arm. “I’ll see them away. I’ll meet you on the docks in the morning.”

  Halvar snorted and gave the interloper a deadly glare before his gaze fell on Solvi.

  Solvi grimaced because she noted a hint of lust in her friend’s hot stare. She’d started the brawl to convince him she was as strong as any man and to make sure his interest would be dampened. What man wanted someone built as sturdily and manly as she was? Now the thought of months spent escaping his attentions in the cramped confines of a long boat didn’t seem the fine adventure she’d imagined. But one problem at a time…

  She led Torvald from the taproom and into the chill air outside. “Give my regards to my father and my sister when you see them,” she said, glancing backward. But he’d moved beside her, snaked an arm around her, trapping her arms against her sides. “What are you—?”

  A sack settled over her head and his arm slipped away, but before she could drag the burlap off her head, she was upended, her stomach hitting one of those strong shoulders she’d admired.

  “This is completely unnecessary,” she said, kicking her legs, her toes connecting with an iron thigh, but an arm clamped around the backs of hers. Trapped, she wriggled, knowing she was wasting breath and energy in vain, because he had her. “I’m telling you, he doesn’t want me at your wedding.”

  “Not my wedding, Solveig,” he said, his voice coming through the fabric muffled and pitched low. “Our wedding.”

  “What…?” Her mind reeled. “You’re mistaken. He’d never—”

  “He sent me to fetch my bride. Said you were unaware of the arrangement. I thought it odd until I realized he’d switched daughters.”

  “Well, see?” she said, stopping her squirming. Relief rushed through her body. “He’s tricked you. You can break the arrangement. Call foul.”

  “Except that I need your father’s backing. The arrangement stands.”

  “But he tricked you. He’d give you his backing just to save face.”

  “Maybe so, but I promised to wed his daughter. I don’t break my word. Ever.”

  Footsteps hurried toward them. “I have the horses saddled,” came another gruff voice, likely his bruised and bloodied companion.

  “Good. We should leave before that red-headed troll looks outside and sees we’ve stolen his sweetheart.”

  “We aren’t sweethearts,” Solvi grumbled. “We’re just friends.”

  “Men don’t befriend women.”

  She wriggled again, anger making it impossible to hold still. And she itched like crazy from the rough burlap. Never in her life had she been treated like this. Thor’s balls, she’d never been bested by a man.

  That thought hammered through her mind at the same time a slithering heat curled inside her belly. She’d never been bested. But here she was, slung over a man’s shoulder. One who wasn’t breathing hard from the effort. One who’d tossed her around like she was a waif. The thought tantalized.

  Torvald slid her off his shoulder and into another man’s arms. She kicked out, the toe of her boot thudding against soft tissue. From the quick exhalation and the gagging that followed, she’d hit him squarely where he deserved it—whoever he was.

  Again, she was thrown over a hard curved surface—from the smell, a horse.

  “Lothar, you’re in no condition to sit a horse for hours,” Torvald said, his voice harsh. “Rest. Follow us to Hahn’s tomorrow.”

  “If you’re sure…” Lothar’s voice came, sounding strained.

  She snickered, glad of the burlap because she knew men were sensitive to laughter regarding their dangling parts. A slap landed against her bottom.

  “Sorry, I meant to nudge the horse,” Torvald murmured.

  And then the horse bolted forward, jerking her against it. Without hands to reach for a mane or sturdy thigh, she flopped with each rolling gallop. Torvald turned the horse with a nudge of his thigh, heading to higher ground, away from the docks, away from the small village that hugged the edge of the waterway leading to the ocean. Up and up they went, the horse’s smooth gallop becoming choppier as it strained against the incline.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she cried out.

  It wasn’t until they leveled off that he halted the horse and lifted her, dropping her to the ground where she landed on her bottom. She wrestled with the bag until she freed herself, and then glared. From the ground, peering up at him sitting atop his tall horse, he appeared almost frighteningly large. Moonlight highlighted bladelike cheeks and the bumpy ridge of his nose. In shadow, his gaze gleamed like dark hollows, seeming sinister now. Perhaps he’d taken her father’s betrayal to heart and intended to retaliate with violence.

  Did he know he was better off without Runa? If her sister had thought to pass off the child growing inside her belly as Torvald’s, one glance at his hard, implacable features must have frightened her enough she’d confided in their father. Why else would her father have offered her to Torvald? Solvi had bolted from her father’s fortress at her sister’s confession, knowing she’d never keep the secret safe. Her disgust at her sister’s behavior wasn’t something she’d have kept hidden.

  She pushed back her wild hair. “I’m not the bride you bargained for. You can tell him I sailed. That I was gone before you arrived at the dock.”

  “I don’t break my word. Neither do I lie.”

  His tone was so deadly even, it made her gulp. “You won’t let me go, will you?”

  “You are promised—already my bride by right, to do with as I see fit. If the wedding is what you fear, we will forgo it. A ceremony is not required. What is required is that we lay together.”

  Solvi swallowed then coughed. Her cough wasn’t convincing, but she didn’t want him to know that she’d conceded she really had no choices here. She wasn’t going to win an argument, but she might delay his intentions long enough to escape. “I think I may have broken a rib. In the brawl. Hanging on a horse didn’t help.”

  “We don’t have far to go. We’ll stop at one of my holdings. And then I’ll take a look at those ribs.”

  Maybe she should have opted for a fracture somewhere less embarrassing.

  He held out a hand and crooked his foot. “Ride with me. Or walk. Your choice.”

  Since she preferred saving her energy for battle, she accepted his hand and stepped onto his foot, settling against his large frame, her legs spread over his warhorse. Something she’d not considered risky until she was there, trapped between the front of his hard saddle and the equally stiff appendage pressed against her backside.

  His arms bracketed her body as he held up the reins. His right thigh tightened, pressing into the horse’s side and nudging the back of her leg. As intensely intimate and awkward as the moment was, Solvi couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Well, she’d wanted an adventure.

  With their bodies pressed together by t
he saddle’s high pommel in front and the cantle at the rear, there was no hiding his reaction even through the thick wool of his breeches and Solvi’s kyrtill. Torvald’s cock was full and hard, and after an adjustment to ease it upward for comfort, it nudged beneath the rising hem of her overtunic to ride the soft division of her buttocks.

  And she was aware, he knew, because she sat rigidly in front of him, barely breathing.

  He cleared his throat. “The house we’re going to isn’t far.”

  “Then you have river access. Have you ever sailed?”

  “Twice. In my youth. Before my brother’s death.”

  “Second son?”

  Second choice. And his dreams dashed, but he wasn’t going to complain. “Yes.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Rusland. Ireland. I had plans to go farther west.”

  “I would like to see those places.”

  By the way her voice softened, he knew she spoke from her heart. “Well, you won’t,” he said brusquely. “We are both land bound for the foreseeable future.” Likely for the remainder of their lives, given the ambitions of his family.

  They rode in silence for another hour, her sighing and shifting. His erection waned as his body relaxed. Moonlight shone from a cloudless sky, reflecting off patches of snow in rough rock outcroppings. Enough light he knew where he was, knew when they drew near Hahn’s longhouse.

  Shouts rang out in the still air. The doors to the lodge were flung open. “You have her?” came Hahn’s voice.

  With servants arriving with lit torches, Torvald handed down Solvi to Hahn, who set her on the ground, and then blinked as he eyed her up and down. “She’s a beauty, Torvald. If she proves too much for you to handle…”

  Torvald slid to the soft turf and delivered a fierce glower, which caused Hahn’s mouth to twitch with merriment.

  Hahn raised his hands. “I only meant it as a compliment to your fair bride.”

  “I’m not his bride. He was tricked,” Solvi said, her hands fisting on her hips.