Dark Viking (17 page)

“M‟lady, I must forewarn you. I passed Elof on his way to the garderobe. He told me the master was in a fury over your disappearance. Did you not tell him where you were going?”

“Ooops!” Technically, she owed nothing to Steven, but she supposed it would have been polite to tell him where she was going. Truthfully, though, she had expected to be gone only a few hours.

“The master thinks you have gone back to . . . to wherever you came from.”

So it was with trepidation that she walked through the mostly quiet keep, approaching her bedchamber. The few people she passed, men dicing or sitting about drinking ale, stared at her in the oddest way. Geirfinn shook his head at her, as if he pitied her.

Rita wasn‟t afraid. Fear had never played a big part in her life. Danger was just another name for obstacles to be mastered.

Still, with a sense of foreboding, the fine hairs stood out on the back of her neck. She knew .

. . she just knew . . . she was about to be thrust headlong into another major turning point in her life. As if time travel wasn‟t enough! 

Should he wring her neck or swive her silly? . . .

Steven‟s moods swung from hurt to rage like a pendulum, and it had been the same way since early this afternoon when he had discovered that Rita was missing, and no one knew where she had gone.

“Bloody damn woman. I should have lopped off her head when I first saw her in a fish garment.

“But she makes me smile.

“Hah! I could bring a jester to Norstead, if humor is what I want.

“I am bored, and she is . . . was different.

“What about her connection to Thorfinn?

“Bloody damn woman!”

Suddenly he realized that he was talking to himself! Son of a troll! Pitiful, that is what he was. Mooning over a fish woman who might or might not be from the future.

He had searched the keep and immediate surroundings, to no avail. When asked if he wanted troops to ride to the far reaches of his estate, even onto Amberstead, he had snarled, “Search be damned! If the woman wants to be gone so bad, then so be it!”

Still, the emptiness crushed him. How could that be? Over a woman he had known only a few weeks? One who was bizarre to say the least?

He now knew how Thorfinn must have felt when he lost his precious babe. Not that Rita was precious to him, but he suspected she could have been, given time. And that was untenable. No person, especially not a mere woman, would ever dig their claws into his heart.

He was not like his brother. Yea, best that she was gone.

On the other hand, his people at Norstead believed that Rita was some kind of light . . . well, they would just have to look for another flame to burn off his blues. That is what the wench had accused him of . . . having the blues. Well, now he 
really
 had the blues. And it was all her fault.

Worse, he no longer had the leverage of a hostage exchange with Brodir . . . Rita for Disa . .

. which he had promised his hersirs that he would at least consider. Another reason why it was good that she was gone.

The humiliation was something else. He would have to live with the rumors for days, even unto the Althing, where men from far and wide would be hearing about the sea woman who had come to Norstead and left, rejecting its master.

Tonight, after trying to get 
drukkinn
 on ale and mead, and only succeeding in turning bitter and foul-tempered, Oslac had suggested he go sleep afore he found himself in the midst of a brawl of his own creation. Steven had actually liked the sound of that. Hitting something would have its own rewards. Finding another woman to share his bed furs was not even a possibility for him in his present frame of mind. In truth, his stomach roiled biliously at the idea.

But he had taken Oslac‟s advice nonetheless. To bed he had gone . . . hours ago.

Sitting on the side of the bed, elbows on knees, chin braced in his hands, he pondered his dismal state. Mayhap he needed to marry, after all. Mayhap King Olaf‟s daughter wouldn‟t be so bad, especially if he taught her to hold her tongue on occasion. Isrid did not strike him as a woman with wanton ways. In fact, she‟d nigh bolted any time he got close to her. He could tell her that excess talking caused excess lust in men, that he would want to tup day and night. That should shut her up. And she 
was
 beautiful. They would make beautiful children. 
Oh, gods! I
 
think I am going to hurl the contents of my stomach.

He heard someone in the hall. Without raising his head, he turned to the right and watched as the door handle turned. If it was Oslac come to offer him more lectures, he might very well have to dump his good friend off the nearest parapet.

But it was not Oslac.

It was the source of all his misery. Or latest misery. Rita.

“You!” he accused as he jumped to his feet and glared at her.

She closed the door quietly behind her, big as you please, as if she were not in so much trouble she ought to be shaking in her . . . yea, she was wearing boots with a night rail and carrying a large cloth bag. Her short hair was wet and spiky. 
While I sat here stewing, she took
 
the time to bathe?
 Mayhap he should drop her 
and
 Oslac off the nearest parapet. “I thought you were gone.”

“I can explain.”

“I doubt that.”

“I went—”

He raised a halting hand as his heart began to race so fast he could scarce breathe. In fact, he began to pant, trying to get more air into his lungs. Was he going to choke to death now?

Would it be the ignominious straw death for this warrior . . . to die in his own bed straw?

“You‟re hyperventilating. Sit down on the bed and put your face between your knees,” she advised, shoving him to sit back down on the edge of the bed and pushing his neck down betwixt his thighs.

Caught off balance and surprised by her reappearance, he had allowed her to shove him, but now he was back in control, and his panting had slowed to a regular inhale and exhale. He raised his head. “I was not high-pair anything. I am just so bloody furious I fear what I might do to you.”

“I have a perfectly good explanation,” she said, backing away from him as he stood. Smart wench!

But, instead of advancing on her, as she had expected, he began to remove his clothing, one item at a time.

“Wha-what are you doing?”

“Preparing to have sex with you.” 
And it is the best idea I have had in months, mayhap
 
years.

“Wh-why?”

“Why? Are you daft, woman? Because I want to.” 
So much you would be shocked.

“Well, sex . . . making love . . . should be a two-way affair, don‟t you think?”

He waved a hand airily. “When I thought you were gone, the thing I regretted most was that I never tupped you.” “I hate that word.”

“Tup, tup, tup.” 
Wouldst rather I said fuck?

“That was immature.”

“Therefore, I intend to swive you so many ways you will lose count. I am going to bring you to peak a dozen times, then start over again. When I am done with you, you will scarce be able to stand on buttery legs. So, I will lift you onto my lap and spank your arse for putting me through what you have today.” 
Good gods and goddesses, that sounds good even to me.

“Wow!”

He was not sure if wow was good or bad. No matter! He was nude now, and his enthusiasm stood out from his body like a brainless flagpole. He would be embarrassed at its larger-than-usual size if he were not so brain-melting excited by the woman before him . . . the woman who was studying his manpart with arched eyebrows. “A blue steeler? For me?”

He almost choked on his tongue, so surprised was he by her observation. Blue veins. Steely rod. “Take off the sleep rail.”

“Shouldn‟t we talk first?”

“We most definitely should not talk first.” 
If I wanted talk, I would have wed Isrid long ago.

Still leaning against the door, she dropped her bag and began to raise the hem of her night rail, but he was too impatient. He grabbed the neckline of the gown and ripped downward until her entire body was exposed. Without hesitation, she arched her shoulders until the gown fell from her shoulders to puddle at her feet.

“Merciful heavens!” he murmured, one of his mother‟s favorite expressions. How he could think of his mother at a time like this was indicative of his crumbling mind.

She stood staring at him, her breasts high and full and already rose-tipped with arousal.

Down below she wore the infamous pant-hes . . . a scant garment of red silk trimmed in black lace.

“Merciful heavens!” he murmured again. For the first time, he smiled. “I give you permission to make as many of those silk chastity belts as you wish, but for now . . .” He reached down and untied the bows at either hip.

Forget about choking on his tongue; he almost swallowed it this time as he beheld the wench‟s latest surprise. She had no nether hair on her mons, just a slight blonde fuzz, like a peach. Pointing, he asked, “What is that?”

The wench had the nerve to grin at him. “It‟s a Brazilian wax. Lots of women remove body hair in my time. The last time I had it done was weeks ago, so it‟s already starting to grow back.” Her rambling explanation told him loud and clear that she was as nervous as he was.

The question was, why? Nay, the better question was: What have I done lately to get me in such good odor with the gods? “Why?”

She shrugged.

And didn‟t she look ridiculous and adorable at the same time, propped against the door, nude as a newborn . . . in all ways . . . except for a pair of boots? Boots, for the love of Frigg!

“Cleanliness. Appearance.” She grinned some more. “And some people claim it makes sex more intense.”

That got his attention. 
More intense sex?
 He studied that part of her anatomy by tilting his head this way and that, trying to figure how it would work to their advantage. Once he understood, he grinned back at her.

“Of course, I wouldn‟t know for sure about the more intense sex, since I haven‟t had sex since I got my first wax two years ago.” “Two years?” he sputtered, lifting her in his arms, one hand at her nape, the other cupping one cheek of her buttocks. 
Thank you, God or Odin, whoever is responsible for this gift.

Immediately, she looped her arms around his neck. As she raised her legs to straddle his hips, he heard the boots drop behind him. “Oh, Ree-tah, we are going to be so good together.”

“Ya think?” She nuzzled his neck, which caused her breasts to brush across his chest, which caused his cock to stand even taller.

“I am still angry with you,” he told her.

“I‟ll make it up to you.”

Before he could ask her how or tell her not to bother, she arched her hips and pushed forward, taking him inside her tight sheath. Once he managed to still the roaring in his ears, he asked, “What do you think you are doing?”

“Swiving you.”

I swear, this woman is like none other in the world. What did I do to deserve this?
 “You?

Swiving me? It is supposed to be the other way around.” He was only halfway teasing.

“Ooops. Should I push you out?”

“Do not dare!”

He glanced downward and saw that his cock was imbedded only halfway inside her female channel. He was a big man and ofttimes needed a different angle. Bending his knees a bit, he put his hands on her buttocks and arched her outward. With shallow thrusts in her hot, moist channel, already spasming toward a first peak, he finally worked himself all the way in. Only then did he look upward and see her lips parted and her eyes, darkened like the bluest sapphires, betraying her ardor. Was there anything better to whet a man‟s appetite than seeing his woman‟s pleasure?

The only thing she said was, “Gaaaaaa!”

He was fairly certain that was a signal he was doing something right.

“We should slow down,” he murmured against her ear. “This first time should be a savoring.

It should—”

“Shut up and move,” she grunted out.

Who knew a grunt could be so sexy? A chuckle came out of his mouth as a choking sound.

Then, to his great surprise, especially at her strength, Rita grabbed hold of his arse with the tightened fingers of both hands and locked him against her. He would no doubt have finger marks on his buttocks on the morrow.

There was only one thought in Steven‟s mind then, and for the next hour or more. 
I will
 
never let this woman go.

The erotic tale of Red Riding Hood and the big bad wolf . . .

“This is such a bad idea,” Rita said as she followed Steven, groaning with ecstasy . . . an ecstasy she shared . . . to the floor where his knees folded on him.

“Ouch!” he said, but only half heartedly. He was too busy arranging their bodies to suit his purposes.

She straddled him and continued her death grip on his butt so he couldn‟t pull out. His unique gray eyes were almost silver with a hazy arousal. His lips were parted and plumped with anticipation.

“This is such a bad idea,” she said when he rolled her over onto her back. She would probably have straw in some unmentionable places come morning. “Dost think so, sweetling?” He flashed her a quick smile that would melt the hardest heart and began to torment her with long, slow strokes into her continually convulsing inner muscles.

“This is such a bad idea,” she said when the force of his thrusts moved them across the floor and knocked over a chair.

Flat on her back, she stared up at him as he braced himself on his elbows.

“Don‟t call me sweetling.”

“Why?”

“It makes me tingle.”

“Where?”

“You do not want to know.”

“Yea, I do. I definitely do.” He inserted a forefinger between the place where they were joined, then fluttered it. “Could it be here?” he inquired with the innocence of a wolf in Red Riding Hood‟s bedroom.

Where the hell is Grandma?
 Her moan was her answer. But then she persisted. “This is such a bad idea, Steven. It only complicates things.”

“This is the best idea, and I forbid any more protests to the contrary.” He rotated his hips in such a way that her eyelids fluttered, and she catapulted into what had to be her third orgasm.