Santa Viking (6 page)

With each of his charges, her “Oh” of outrage rose louder and louder. Finally, she sat up, oblivious to the slipping bed fur, and shoved him hard, almost knocking him off the bed. “You blowhard! I ne’er seduced you. You seduced me. And a poor performance it was, too.”

“Hah! Those screams of yours were of pleasure, not outrage. You begged me for it, milady.” He stopped cold, gaping at her. “By the runes! You have pretty breasts. And a good size they are, too, especially when they are ripening for bedplay.”

“Good size? Ripening?” she sputtered, then looked down, saw her nipples hard and pointy with arousal. She had not realized she was getting aroused. With a cry of distress, she pulled the bed fur up again, plopped down, then turned away from the beast.

“What? Now you are angry because I give you a compliment.”

What strange land does he come from that he thinks “good size” and “ripening” breasts are words a lady wants to hear?
“Do not speak to me ever again.”

“Mayhap I should write a poem about them. Yea, that is a good idea,” he said, completely ignoring her order not to speak. “Hear one and all, this is the ‘Ode to Katherine’s Breasts.’”

Once was a lady from Britain

With whom all the men were smitten.

She thought it was her land they coveted

But ’twas more like her body they wanted.

In truth, her nipples were tasty budlings

Red as a rose and hard for sucklings.

With breasts so pretty, like swollen peaches,

The lady had no trouble attracting male leeches.

“That was not funny.”

“It was not meant to be. Your breasts would tempt a priest to sin.”

A tingle of pleasure rippled through Katherine that he liked her breasts. “Speaking of priests, didst know that one is arriving within days from a nearby estate, once it stops snowing. Mayhap Finn and I will be married then.”

That shut up the irksome oaf.

But he had gotten the last word in, so to speak, because her nipples were indeed hard and aching for a good suckling.

The best kind of wake-up call
 . . .

Bolthor awakened in the middle of the night, refreshed from several hours of undisturbed sleep.

He should get up and put another log on the fire afore it died out, but it felt so warm and cozy under the bed furs. And a certain part of his body was liking Katherine’s body spooned up against his, one arm over his hip, her breath feathering against his back. Thank the gods he was on his own side of the bed, lest she awaken and accuse him of accosting her.

Carefully, he eased himself out of the bed and covered Katherine again, but not before taking a good long look at her naked body. A man would have to be half-dead not to want her, and he was nowhere near half-dead.

He placed another log on the fire, trying not to make noise and awaken the sleeping beauty. Then he went behind the screen and relieved himself in the chamber pot, hoping that would tamp down his thickening. It didn’t. Swishing some water about his mouth, he spat it out, then climbed into the far side of the bed, Katherine’s side, away from her tempting body which was hogging his side of the rush-filled mattress.

He slept, and this time awakened as dawn approached. His new predicament had him alternately smiling and grimacing. This time he was on his back, his arms thrown over his head. Katherine was snuggled up against him, with her face resting on his chest. But the worst thing
 . . .
or best thing, depending on one’s perspective
 . . .
was that her little hand was wrapped around his big cock
 . . .
big, as in a very large thickening.

She was going to kill him if he did not wake her soon.

“Katherine,” he said softly.

“Hmmm.” She snuggled closer and her hand tightened.

His thickening thickened.

“Katherine, wake up, dearling.”

“Hmmm. What?” she murmured.

Her breath against his chest hairs also caused more thickening. Holy Thor! Did she just lick his nipple? He was going to explode soon with all this thickening and licking. ’Twould make a good poem, “Ode to a Norseman’s Thickening,” he thought with morbid, self-mocking humor.

He sensed the moment she awakened. It was a slow process. First, her eyelashes fluttered against his chest. Then, there was a small gasp. Then, her hand loosened on his cock. But, before she could leap away in shock, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up and over him so that she lay, breasts against chest, belly against belly, and her legs straddling his legs.

“I am so embarrassed,” she said, hiding her face.

He kissed the top of her head. “Do not be embarrassed, sweetling. It was my pleasure.”

She raised her head to stare at him. She had to be aware of his cockstand as it pressed insistently against her belly.

“This is a mistake,” she said.

“Or not.”

“You tempt me sorely, Bolthor, but if I do this thing again, I will be cutting my chances with Finn.”

He nodded.

“That is all? You nod, you say nothing?”

“My nod says it all.”

“In other words, so be it? I cut my ties with Finn, then hang in the wind, waiting for the remote chance that another good man will come along. If it were only me, I would have no qualms
 . . .
leastways, no insurmountable qualms. But I have children to consider.”

“You missay me, Katherine. My nod did not mean what you said. It meant
 . . .
um, surrender.”

She frowned and tried to shove away from him.

He held tight, kissing her cheek, her hair, her shoulder, even her fingertips, wherever he could reach and escape her slaps.

“Surrender to what, you fool?”

“To you.”

She stilled. “What does that mean?”

“It means I give up. You win. I am yours.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered by that non-proposal?”

“’Tis just a statement of fact. Every soldier knows when to pick his battles and when to recognize defeat.”

“I do not want to defeat you, Bolthor.”

“I know, but I am just a simple, confused man who is finally seeing the light, thanks to you.”

Hope sprang into her beautiful blue eyes. She was beginning to understand. “Say the words,” she demanded.

“I love you, Katherine of Wickshire. Will you be my wife?”

She gulped and blinked rapidly to stem her tears. “I love you, too, Bolthor, and yea, I will gladly be your wife.”

They kissed and kissed, before Bolthor rolled them over so that she was flat on her back gazing up at him. With a twinkle in his one eye, Bolthor asked in a sex-husky voice, “It’s about that mustache claim of Finn’s.”

She tilted her head to the side in question.

“Wouldst like to see what a true Viking can do
 . . .
without the mustache?”

“Hmmm. I am not sure.”

He pinched her bottom.

“Oh, well, I guess I would.”

“And whilst I am there exploring, wouldst like to see if I can find the famous Viking S-spot?”

Her answer, when it came, was a gurgle of shock and pleasure.

Another Viking bites the dust
 . . .

Bolthor the Skald and Katherine of Wickshire were married by Father Ignatius on New Year’s Eve before the hearth at Dragonstead. Actually, it was a ceremony that combined both Christian and Viking rituals.

Tykir and Alinor stood as witnesses for Bolthor. Eirik and Eadyth were witnesses for Katherine. The bride was given away by her four sons, who had been smiling for days at the prospect of Bolthor for a father.

Katherine wore a magnificent white wool gunna covered with a scarlet surcoat, both embroidered with green acanthus leaves. The garment was lent to her by Alinor, who was noted for the fine wool she wove from her many sheep. She wore no jewelry except for a thin gold chain from which dangled a heart-shaped amber pendant, a bride-gift from her husband-to-be. Also as part of her bride gift, Bolthor had surprised both her and all attending by his wealth and generosity: Odin’s Lair, a small estate in Vestfold, a dozen chests of gold and amber from the days of amber hunting with Tykir, many ells of Samite silk, casks of wine, and pledges of fealty from two dozen hersirs.

Bolthor looked handsome in the brown tunic and braies that had recently been gifted to him by Tykir and Alinor. At his side was scabbarded his second-best, pattern-welded sword, “Blood Friend.”

For her groom gift to Bolthor, Katherine offered three estates in Northumbria, including Wickshire, all the meager furnishings, and two hundred chickens. She refused to explain the latter, except to Bolthor, who howled with laughter.

With one hand each on the hilt of his sword, Bolthor and Katherine linked their other hands. Tykir and Eirik recited together: “We declare ourselves witnesses that Katherine of Wickshire and Bolthor of Odin’s Lair, do bond themselves in lawful marriage. Do you both promise love, honor and fidelity as long as blood flows through your veins?”

They both said, “Yea.”

Then began the
brudh hlaup
or bride-running, which was difficult being indoors. Still, Katherine lifted her gown up to her knees and raced for the stairs leading to the bridal chamber, chased by her new husband who beat her by a mere few steps. Grinning, he laid his sword across the bottom of the doorframe. Once she stepped over it, they would be officially wed.

In true Viking style, he then whacked her across her buttocks with the broad side of the sword
 . . .
just to show who would be the master in this marriage. It was a traditional Viking jest, trollish to be sure, but not really serious.

Tykir surprised everyone by composing a poem in honor of his good friend Bolthor. “Hear one and all, this is the story of ‘Bolthor the Thick-headed Warrior.’”

This is the story of the far-famed Bolthor.

Over the years did he sample many a whore.

A great berserker he was in battle,

But good women he could not break to saddle.

A shield he placed afore his heart.

But then, no one said that he was smart.

Lo and behold, along came Katherine.

Bolthor was old, but it was not too late.

She pulled, she pushed, she was a great tease.

But ne’er would she let him touch her woman’s fleece.

But then a wise man known as Tie-keer

Locked up the two lackbrains with a leer.

They swived, they fought, then swived some more.

This is the stuff of Viking folklore.

The moral of this saga is: Tup more, talk less.

Everyone thought Tykir would make a great skald. To which he said something that could not be repeated, not even in the midst of rowdy Vikings.

At the end of the evening, when the bride and groom had retired to their “honey moon” chamber, and the other guests were high on mead and good cheer, Tykir and Eirik sat with their wives, discussing this and that.