And then he stopped.
Until she stared up at him in question.
Then he started all over again.
Long.
Slow.
Strokes.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Then he stopped. And had to bite his bottom lip as Joy peaked again, clasping and clasping his manpart, nature’s way of attempting to keep him inside and spill his seed.
Joy was blinking up at him now, knowing he had not yet reached the peak of his own enthusiasm.
“I learned a trick from a harem houri one time.”
“Oh, no! Not the kinky stuff!” She tried to laugh but could not, so tense was her body, still.
“I plunge in slow and deep nine times with the tenth being hard and fast. Then I stop. Next time, it is eight and one. Then seven and one.”
“What happens at the end?”
“Very hard, very fast for as long as I am able.”
She smiled. “Sounds good to me.” But then she proved that the path of all the sex games in the world could be diverted by one female deliberately and skillfully flexing her inner muscles, milking him to madness.
Even so, Brandr was a stronger man than most, though beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and underarms and chest. He counted and stroked, like a demented demon. And when he came to the end, thank you gods, he gripped her ankles and shoved them up to her chest, widening her knees so that she could take even more of him.
By now his cock was plunging fast through searing moist heat, the wet, slapping sounds a further impetus to his rush to peak.
Disjointed words came from both of them.
“Please.”
“Now!”
“Yes, like that. Oh, my!”
“Spread wider, sweetling. Like so.”
“I’m going to come. Again.”
“Sweet torture!”
“Harder, dammit! Harder!”
His last rational thought before catapulting through the fiercest peaking was,
We are going to kill each other with an overabundance of Joy.
Heat exploded in his genitals, rushing outward to all his extremities, and she screamed . . . she actually screamed her unending pleasure. Was there ever a greater gift from the gods than a man and woman peaking together?
Once sated, he rolled over to his back, taking her with him to his side, lifting one thigh over his. His chest was heaving still, and she panted her warm breath against his neck.
She rose up to look at him. The glow of wonder in her eyes humbled him.
“You are mine,” he proclaimed.
I am never going to let you go now.
“Say those words you said to me afore.”
She tilted her head in question. Then, “Ah.”
He waited, heart pounding like a battle drum.
“I think I love you.”
“Think?” He wanted all she could give, not some halfway declaration of mayhaps and perchance. And was that not odd for him? He should not care how she felt about him, as long as she was willing to spread her winsome thighs.
She smiled and put a gentle hand to his cheek.
The gentle hand was his undoing. He could almost feel the first crack in his dark soul. Lifting her hand, he kissed the palm.
“I love you, Viking, warts and all.”
“What? I have no warts.”
“Believe me, baby, you’ve got warts.”
Chapter 15
There are bulls, and then there are bulls . . .
Joy was neck deep in another of her quicksand
What was I thinking?
moments, and she could not care less.
Her lips burned in the aftermath of their lovemaking, her nipples felt raw, and there were muscles in some places between her legs that were screaming
Whaaaat the hell?
She loved the damn Viking, no matter how bad an idea it was. But then, who said love came when and where it should? At the moment, she didn’t want to think about the future and how this relationship would inevitably reach a dead end. For now, she wanted to hold her nose and do a huge belly flop into the unknown pool spread out before her . . . a very, very inviting pool.
“I do not have warts,” Brandr said again.
“Yes, you do, honey.”
“Show me.”
“They’re the kind of warts that don’t show. Like your chauvinism.”
“Show me what?”
“Chauvinism. It’s another word for men thinking they are superior to women.”
“Well, they are . . .”
“I beg your pardon!”
He pinched her butt for interrupting, then finished, “ . . . in some ways.”
“Another wart of yours is stubbornness.”
“Is that not like the fjord calling the ocean wet?”
“I’m a little stubborn, but I never said I didn’t have warts, too.”
He kissed the top of her head where her hair was beginning to dry. It would soon be a curly bush without her necessary blow dryer and diffuser.
“Tell me more,” he encouraged.
“Although I haven’t seen any evidence of it yet, you’re a berserker. I would think that’s a whopper of a wart.”
“That is beyond my control.”
“Actually, it’s not. I could show you—”
He kissed her quick and hard, no doubt to shut her up.
“That’s another wart of yours. Always trying to shut me up.”
“You are not going to cure me of berserkness, Joy. Forget about it.”
“Okay.”
Wanna bet?
“I know where I have a big wart.” He glanced downward.
“Honey, that’s not a wart. That a bleepin’ tree.”
He chuckled. “Why don’t you show me more of your . . . you know?”
“I do?”
“Uninhibitedness.”
She grinned and moved so that she was half on and half off of him, one breast and one leg pressing down on him, not to mention a hand, which was meandering across his belly. He already sported a hard-on that could star in a porno movie. She wasn’t going near that big boy yet. Still, it was past time to teach a Viking a thing or two about modern women. “Anything special in mind?”
Like I don’t already have my game on!
He grinned back at her, dimples and all.
Man, she loved the guy.
“Whatever you want, sweetling.”
Yeah, right. “Listen, you had a great time torturing me with that start, stop, start, stop teasing. Time for a little reverse torture, I’m thinking.”
“Me?” He put both hands to his chest in fake affront.
“I didn’t see anyone else having sex to a count. You were practically shouting, ‘One tickle tummy, two tickle tummy, three tickle—’ ” She flicked her fingertips over his tummy for emphasis.
Instinctively, he sucked in his belly, and his “tree” grew another inch or five. Okay, she was exaggerating. But not by much.
He burst out laughing. “I must say, I never knew sex could be so . . . fun.”
“Hey, you know what they say, there’s nothing sexier than a man who can make a woman smile in bed.”
“How about a woman who can make a man smile in bed?”
“That, too.” She swung her leg over farther so that she straddled him, her butt on his thighs, Mr. Big Boy standing up in front of her like a neon sex sign blinking
Here I am, here I am, here I am, just in case you hadn’t noticed.
Yeah, like anyone could miss
that
.
His eyes roamed her body in the most delicious way. She could tell he liked what he saw. He was probably viewing her through the rose-colored prism of sex, not seeing her flaws. But right now, she didn’t care. She would take his adoration any way she could get it.
“In my country, they have what they call cowboys.” She twirled the hair on his chest with seeming nonchalance. “Do you know what that is?”
“Nay,” he said, at the same time he was running his calloused hands lightly over the outside of her arms—shoulders to wrists, back up, then down again, over and over—in a feathery caress.
“Well, they are men who ride horses to round up cows that are left to roam on the open range. Sometimes cowboys ride wild bulls in rodeos, too.”
“Your point?” His wicked fingers had now moved to the outsides of her breasts. Not under. Not between. And definitely not the aching centers. Just the outsides.
“My point is that there are cowgirls, too.”
When he finally understood, a mischievous smile split his lips. “Am I to be the horse or the bull?”
“Both, I think. First, a little easy riding. Then maybe some wild bronco busting. Are you up for it?”
He glanced once again at his erection, then up at her. “More than up, I would say. In fact, I dare you to do it and last for, oh, let us say, a half hour.”
“How will we know when a half hour is up?”
He lifted her up and slowly, agonizingly lowered her onto his huge staff, which she could swear was pulsing. “We will know because that is the longest I will be able to hold off my peaking.”
“You mean orgasm?”
He nodded.
She pretended to consider whether she was interested in his challenge or not. Meanwhile, she fought the impulse to move herself on his marblelike penis, to have her way with him in her own way, to prove a point. Though she was having an increasingly harder time remembering what that point would be.
But then he said those magic words. “I double-dog dare you.”
The Viking was a quick learner.
Even Vikings need a break once in a while . . .
Three hours had passed since Brandr took Joy to the bathing house. He knew because he checked the time candle in the clean, empty kitchen as they passed through just now.
With an arm looped over her shoulders, he had her tucked close to his side. For once, she was quiet and docile. He liked to think he’d worn her down to acceptance of her lot with their strenuous love play, but he was not such a fool. Her meekness would not last long.
He wished he could have kept her in the bathing house all night, but both of their stomachs had started rumbling with hunger. Sex, satisfying as it was, could only feed one hunger. Besides, his bed would be more comfortable.
They peeked into the great hall and saw that dinner was over and many of the folks were already abed. A few of the men were playing
hnefatafl
, a board game, whilst others threw dice for coin. “Let’s go back to the kitchen and get something to eat,” he whispered in her ear.
“As long as I don’t have to serve you.”
He pinched her bottom. “I will serve you. This time.” “Oh! I don’t believe it!” Joy exclaimed, then shot out of his arms and across the hall.
“What in bloody hell . . . ?” He followed after her to where Tork had a maid up against the wall, tupping her, he assumed, or about to. It was the new thrall, Ebba. Was this what had Joy in an uproar?
He caught up with Joy just as she kicked Tork in the buttocks.
“Whaaat?” Tork spun on his heel. Luckily, he still had his braies on, but they were unlaced. The tupping had not yet commenced. Otherwise, he might be suffering pain from both sides.
“You rat! Can’t you find an unmarried woman to boink?”
“Huh?” he and Tork said at the same time, turning to the flustered maid, whose huge breasts were exposed by the lowered bodice of her gunna.
He pulled Joy back. “Behave! The wench does not appear unwilling.”
“She came freely,” Tork said indignantly.
“How would you know? Did she have a choice? Did anyone ask her husband if he objected to sharing? Men!”
She was about to stomp off, but Brandr grabbed her by the upper arm. “Oh, nay! You are not going to brew up trouble, then leave the mess you make.” Turning to Ebba, he asked, “Are you married?”
Her eyes shifted from side to side, worried. Over to the side, he saw a man rising from his sleep pallet, walking toward them. It was the Saxon thrall Osmund, the woodworker.
“Is that your husband, Ebba?” Brandr asked.
She nodded, even as she cast accusing glares at Joy. “I ne’er complained to her, Master. I know me place.” Then she burst out bawling, huge sucking cries accompanied by a running nose.
“Ebba, even thralls have a choice here at Bear’s Lair. Especially if you are married to another man.”
“Hey,” Tork intervened. “Do I not have some say in the matter?”
“Shut up,” Joy said, then ducked behind Brandr.
“Can you not control your bed thrall?” Tork spat out.