Rough and Ready

by Sandra Hill

  Okay, there was an exercise called hooking, which military men were taught when flying jets or race car drivers were going faster than fast. It involved tensing and untensing the abdominal muscles to brace against fierce gravitational pulls, called g-forces, that occurred at high rates of speed. Well, man, he was hooking like crazy now, for fear he was going to embarrass himself. He inhaled sharply, bracing himself, trying to focus, focus, focus. Shit! I might as well give it up. They can put on my grave marker, Died of Hilda’s Gravitational Pull.

  He levered himself off Hilda and sat on the bench, his elbows on his knees, face in hands, taking long breaths in and out.

  “Well, that was interesting,” Hilda said. He heard her behind him, adjusting herself.

  “Interesting?” he choked out.

  “Yea. Interesting. So that is what cunning-tingles are all about? Interesting.”

  He started to laugh then, and laugh, and laugh. At least he was no longer horn-dog hard.

  Hilda sat beside him on the bench, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had . . . and frankly he didn’t give a rat’s ass . . . because he was about to do something . . . well, crazy.

  “No, Hildy, there may have been tingling involved, but that was not cunnilingus. But I’d be glad to demonstrate.”

  Before she could say, “Demonstrate what?” he lifted her up and over him, straddling his lap. Then, while she looked at him with surprise, he spread his legs wide, taking hers with him. She didn’t have to be a modern woman to understand she was totally exposed to him now. She inhaled sharply.

  Lifting the hem of her chemise, he raised it over her head and tossed it to the side. She moved to put her hands over herself, and he brushed them away. “Uh-uh-uh! Modesty is not welcome at this party, sweetheart.”

  Trailing his fingers along the insides of her thighs, he whispered, “Welcome to my world, baby.”

  There are tingles, and then there are TINGLES . . .

  Hilda was sitting on the lout’s lap, naked as the day she was born, with her legs spread like the worst wanton.

  “I must be losing my mind,” she muttered. Touch me.

  “Me, too.”

  “I should smack you.” Touch me.

  “Or jump off my lap and run for your life.”

  “For a certainty. But I can’t move.” Touch me.

  “Why?”

  “I am still recovering from that amazing thing you just did to me.” Touch me.

  He smiled a slow, lazy smile that caused her nipples to tighten even more than they already were. She glanced downward. From this angle her breasts did not look quite so pathetically small. Touch me.

  “You shouldn’t say things like that to me, Hildy.”

  “Why?” Touch me.

  “It encourages me.”

  “To do what?” Touch me.

  He smiled some more. “Everything in my repertoire.”

  “Ah, a bedsport repertoire. And is it vast, this repertoire of yours?” Touch me.

  “Very vast.”

  “Show me,” she said, then slapped a hand over her mouth, shocked that she would say such a thing. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

  “No, no, no! That is not the kind of thing that can be taken back.”

  For way too long, even before Steinolf ’s invasion, Hilda had been living her life for others. To please her mother, she had been a good girl growing up, never running wild as her brothers had. To please her father, she’d married three men who were far from favorable to her. To please her people, she had learned everything there was to know about running an estate. To please all the victims of Steinolf ’s abuse, she had established The Sanctuary. None of these things did she regret, but she could not recall the last time she’d done something strictly for herself. Perchance now, just one time, she would allow herself to think only of her own pleasure.

  She smiled at the rogue, teasingly. “Show me,” she repeated, this time in a husky voice of seduction.

  She felt his thighs spasm under her. “Put your hands behind your back and lock your fingers together.” Without hesitation, she did as ordered. And felt deliciously wicked. Mayhap now he will touch me.

  He fluttered the tips of his fingers against her nether hair and murmured, “Blonde, too,” then asked, “How does that feel?”

  At last, at last, at last! “Like butterfly wings, inside and out.”

  “Good. And this?” He used the back of his middle finger up and down through her woman folds.

  Feelings Hilda had never experienced before flooded her body, from that place where he touched, to her breasts, to her loins, to her belly. It was like before, but different.

  “Don’t close your eyes, Hildy. I want to see you come . . . again.”

  “Come where?” Why must the dolt keep talking? Just keep on touching me, you fool.

  He laughed, then slid a finger inside her body, then back out, in again with two fingers, out, then three. She gasped at the fullness inside her and the tremors that rippled out from there. Plus, there was a part of her body down below that seemed to ache in an odd way.

  “Now, Hildy, listen carefully. Are you listening?”

  I am too busy concentrating on your touching.

  “Put your hands on my shoulders and ride me. Slow at first.”

  “Huh?” Why can he not just keep touching me?

  “Like a horse.”

  At first, she didn’t understand, and then she did. Holy Thor, she did! “I am not sure I can.” But she did, awkwardly at first, but then with more ease. Every time she came back down on his fingers, a part of her hit his thumb, and she nigh saw stars.

  He put his free hand to her nape and drew her face down to his. He wet her mouth with his tongue, then inserted his tongue into her mouth, catching the same in-and-out rhythm as her riding him. She slapped his hand away from her neck. “Nay, I cannot concentrate on both places. ’Tis too much. Toooo much!” She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, pressing her lower body hard against him, rubbing that special space against the bulge in his braies. She was exploding with sparks of the most incredible pleasure . . . so powerful, they were almost painful. From far away, she heard his groan and her long, unending whimper.

  She must have fainted then, and Hilda never fainted, because she found herself lying on his cloak on the bench, and he was leaning over her.

  When she opened her eyes, he said, “Wow! Are you ready for me to go down on you?”

  She frowned her confusion.

  “Cunnilingus.”

  “That was not . . . it?”

  “No, honey, it was not. This is.” With those words, he parted her legs, shimmied himself downward so that his face was there and began to lick her. Licking? There? Oh, good gods! Mortified, she tried to shove him away, but he would not budge. “Be still, Hilda, I want to eat you.”

  Eat me? Eeeeek! “Nay, stop it at once.”

  But he would not stop, and soon she did not care. In fact, her fingers were in his hair, encouraging his talented tongue. In the end, when he sucked on her there, she screamed. Low and long. Until there was silence and she lay limp as a soppy rag.

  When she was finally able to sit up, she noticed that Torolf had doused himself in the cold waters of the rinsing pool, and even as she watched he slid under the waters totally, coming back up with a splash, then raking his blond hair off his face with his fingers. He raised his head, and his eyes made contact with her. They were hot and hungry. Glancing lower, she saw that he had removed his braies, and his manpart was long and hard, even in the cold water. She realized then that while he had given her pleasure three times, he had taken none for himself.

  Do I have the nerve? Yea, I must. ’Tis only fair. She opened her arms to beckon him forth. “’Tis your turn now.”

  He stood and shook his head, even though his staff jerked at her words. “No, I was only teasing when I made that deal with you. I never intended to follow through.”

  She pondered his words as she joined him in the poo
l and splashed the sweat from her body, sweat brought on by the steam but also by his ministering to her needs.

  He was already out of the pool, drying himself with his tunic and then pulling on his braies. Nay, nay, nay! It cannot be done with.

  She walked out of the pool, strangely uninhibited in her nakedness as he watched her. Slowly, she dried herself with a linen, aware of a strange sensation between her legs . . . not soreness, more like awareness. After she pulled her gunna over her head, she looked at him. Two can play at this teasing game. I only hope I am talented enough. “If you had told me yestereve that you were teasing, or even this morn . . . bloody Asgard! . . . if you had told me this an hour ago, I would have cursed you to hell. But now . . .” She shrugged.

  “Now?”

  “Now, I would welcome you . . . for this one night.” She dried her hair, plaited the wet strands into a long braid as he watched her like a feral cat and she the tasty mouse. Does the lout take the bait? He looks interested. But he is stubborn. “Tonight I sleep in the stable. There are no horses there anymore, of course, but there are bed furs. Come, if you want. Or not.”

  With those words, she walked past him, swaying her hips the way Rakel had taught them.

  Follow me, Torolf. Follow me.

  But he did not.

  Chapter 11

  Surrender is sweet . . .

  Hilda made a bed for herself in one of the former horse stalls. The stable had been unused for that purpose for fifteen or more years, but the scent of animal and hay still lingered.

  She put a large candle resting in a soapstone candle holder up on a shelf so that there would be no risk of fire. Then she settled one red fox bed fur onto the straw, fur side up, and lay another on top of it, fur side down. It was chilly in here, but not so cold as outside, since the timber sides buffeted the frosty winds. Any sennight now the snows would come.

  She dropped her gunna and was about to blow out the candle when she heard a rustle behind her.

  “Don’t.” Torolf stood there, pulling his tunic over his head, staring at her hotly. “Don’t blow out the candle.” He toed his unlaced boots off, then shrugged out of his braies, leaving him nude. And aroused.

  He came! Oh, my! Now what? Hilda was still shy about her body, despite what she’d let Torolf do to her, but she restrained herself from covering her intimate parts with her hands. “I thought you were not coming.”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  Dost hope to seduce me with insults, knave? “You told me afore that you did not want me if I did not want you. Well, mayhap the opposite is true, too.”

  “I don’t mean that I don’t want you. Hell, the genie’s out of the bottle now.” He waved a hand downward and smiled ruefully. “I just know it’s not a smart idea.”

  “Then go.” Do not dare!

  “I don’t think so. There’s not much fun in smart.”

  “Fun?” she squeaked. Hmmmm.

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “I must needs remind you that I am not a virgin. My virtue cannot be forfeit any longer. Some men are repelled by that notion.”

  “I’m not some men. Besides, you know what they say. Virginity is like a bubble. One prick, and it’s all gone.”

  “Huh? Is that another of your jests?”

  “I’m not a virgin either, Hildy. Does it matter to you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There you go.” He knelt down and flipped the top fur over and slid in between. Holding a hand out, he invited her to join him. “Come on, sweetie. I’ll show you how the big boys play.”

  And he did.

  Torolf felt the same adrenaline rush he did when jumping out of a Black Hawk over bloody Iraq. He was soaring through the air, his chute not yet open, but he still hadn’t pulled the cord. He glanced downward at his . . . cord. Hold on, boy. Your time is coming.

  With a self-deprecating chuckle, he adjusted Hilda under him, then rubbed himself back and forth over her. His cord was real happy about that. “You feel so good.”

  “So do you.” She had to be feeling the soft fur under her and hard body on top. Penthouse Fantasy #2 . . . sex on a fur rug in front of a roaring fire. The only thing missing is the fire. He decided to make one himself . . . figuratively speaking. “I want to make this first time long and special for you, but I’ll never make it. This first time has to be short and sweet, to take the edge off. Okay?”

  She nodded hesitantly.

  He reached over and got a condom from his pocket. She watched intently as he peeled it on. Then, reaching down, he touched her. Satisfied with the slickness he found there, he spread her legs, pressed her ankles back practically to her ass, and entered her with one long thrust. She was tight and hot and wet and spasming, and he thought he might just die. Gritting his teeth, he arched his neck back and scrunched his eyes shut. Once he’d regained a modicum of control, he looked down at her.

  If ever a woman was poleaxed, here she lay.

  “What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

  Turning you on. I hope. “Making love.”

  She reached her hands up to touch him, but he pushed them back down. “Just be still and let me do the work. This time.” Unless you want this heat-seeking missile to fizzle out.

  He was braced on both hands in sort of a push-up position, but his thoughts right now were far from PT. Leaning down, he placed his lips over hers, and then he began the long strokes against the abrading muscles of her inner walls. She sucked at him there, then let him slide. Merciful heavens! He’d thought to be the one running the show, but she was the one unconsciously calling the shots. He heard himself making woofing sounds and chanting, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes . . .”

  She had begun to match his thrusts, now hard and short, with her own undulating hips. Either I’m a good teacher, or she’s a good student, or I’m nuts for trying to figure anything out when I’m in this condition. Then she spread her legs wider so he could go in farther, and his eyes about rolled back in his head from the sheer ecstasy.

  He was out of control.

  She was out of control.

  He ground out his mind-blowing release.

  She arched her belly up against his and refused to let his cock go as she convulsed around him, pumping every drop from him.

  He was in dick heaven.

  There was going to be hell to pay for doing this. He knew it, sure as SEALs loved sexy women, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not now. Not when he planned to take her again. And again.

  And then he did it again . . .

  Hilda was stunned speechless, probably for the first time in her life.

  So this is why men rut so much. This ecstasy, which is hidden from women, is what drives them.

  “You’re smiling . . . again,” Torolf said, gazing down at her face. He was lying on his back, her head on his shoulder.

  “So are you.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “So, is it this way for you all the time . . . every time you rut?” Please do not say this was nothing special.

  “No! Making love has never been like this before.”

  Thank you, even if it is a lie, thank you. She tilted her head to the side, unconvinced.

  “That’s not a line, Hildy. You’re incredible. Together we’re more than incredible.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah!”

  “Can we do it again?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” He nuzzled his face into her neck. “But we’ll have to wait a little while till I . . . um, regroup.”

  “Hmmm.” She placed her hand over his limp manpart, and immediately he grew against her palm. She smiled. I love the way I can make his body do things, just as he can make mine do things, too.

  “Witch!” he said, rolling over on top of her. “This time we’re going to take it slow. Very slow. And I’m going to learn all your secrets.”

  “I have no secrets.” That you need to know.

  “Wanna bet?” he said. “First, I think we
need to find your G-spot.”

  “My what?”

  “G-spot,” he repeated, putting a hand over her nether hair. “It’s right about here . . . on the inside.”

  “And what does this spot do?”

  “It will make you come . . . like a man.”

  Hilda furrowed her brows, unable to figure out what he meant.

  “And after that, I think we should find your Viking S-spot.”

  “You jest.”

  “No, I do not, babe.”

  “I have ne’er heard of it. How can you call it Viking?”

  “Well, maybe only the Vikings in my family know of it.”

  “And where is that S-spot located?”

  “Uh, uh, uh! It’s a secret, but I’ll give you a clue. It can only be found with the male tongue.”

  “You are teasing me.”

  “You’ll find out.”

  And she did. Praise Valhalla, she certainly did.

  Oops, she did it again . . .

  “Hilda? Are you in there?”

  Hilda was hiding in the storeroom late the next morning, trying to gather extra garments for the men who had come yesterday.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Torolf said, coming into the room. “Are you all right?”

  “Yea, I am all right.” Nay, I am not all right. I have lost my bloody mind. “I am just . . . oh, my gods . . . your mouth looks all bruised and—”

  “As if I’d been kissed . . . a lot?” He grinned. “You have a hickey on your neck.”

  She had a fair idea what he meant by hickey and slapped a hand to her neck.

  He came closer.

  She backed up. “We decided, Torolf. No more bedplay.”

  He nodded and still came closer.

  She hit the wall.

  “Just a kiss.” He rubbed a thumb across her bottom lip.

  She moaned. “We cannot.”

  He settled his lips on hers and coaxed her with little licks and nibbles to open for him. Then, somehow, his tongue was in her mouth, her gunna hiked to her waist, his braies pooled at his ankles, her legs wrapped around his naked hips, and his manpart stoking the still burning fires within her. A short time later, they lay sated on a pile of wool blankets.