The Barbarian (12 page)

"You will
sleep tonight in the little chamber we had last night. And bolt the door
tonight, Villette." Ami was thinking of that loutish young man, Ifyr, and
did not want him making a grab for her maid the moment the girl was untended.
Villette was just silly enough to go with him and think herself in love, but
she had scant experience of men like these.

"But I am to
sleep with the kitchen maids, mistress, in the loft of the cookhouse. It will
be warmer there—the three of us together." She seemed quite excited by the
prospect of sleeping with her new friends. "I don't want to be alone in
that dark chamber, my lady. Not when the wind howls. I should be too afraid to
sleep. Those broken and dented helmets looking at me like the faces of dead
men."

Ami sighed.
"Very well then. I suppose there can be no harm if you are three together.
But stay well away from Ifyr."

Villette somberly
agreed and bowed her head. "Of course, my lady."

When Stryker came
in, he stumbled slightly against the doorframe, stubbing his toe.

"Are you
drunk?" she demanded, too fraught to soften her tone. He drank to forget
his
true love
no doubt, she thought
scornfully.

"Certainly
not," he snapped. With a sweeping gesture he sent Villette out and closed
the door. They were alone. Candle flames flickered and stretched around them,
finding sly drafts that blew in to dance with the fragrant air and tease it.

No, he was not
drunk, she realized. His eyes were clear, his hands steady. Perhaps he was
merely clumsy on his feet. Big, stupid oaf.

"Hurry
then," she exclaimed, lying on the bed, letting the emotion drain out of
her, until she was empty. "Let's get on with it."

****

When he saw her
sitting there, her hair loose, her face so calmly beautiful and yet haughty,
he'd stumbled like a fool boy. Then she lay down and gave her terse command.
The woman would be the death of him.

He removed his
cloak and belt while she closed her eyes and waited.

So that was the
way she wanted it. Fair enough. He'd tried that "wooing" business
today and look where it got him. She refused to even grant him a smile and then
mocked him about Elsinora.

Stryker grabbed
her ankles and pulled her down the bed until her bottom rested on the edge. He
took a white fleece, folded it and positioned it under her lower body. Then she
opened her eyes.

"What are you
doing? Get it over with."

Somehow he
restrained himself from cursing at her. "What am I doing?" He laughed
sharply. "Fucking my virgin bride. Now lift up your skirts," he
growled. "Time to break a hymen." He untied his breeches and swept
his tunic off over his head, angrily tossing it to the floor and causing
another draft that extinguished two candles completely. From this position he
could bend his knees to a footstool and swive her hard, penetrating deeply. The
bed was just high enough. As she said, he'd better get on with it.

Amias rolled up
her bridal gown and her shift. He thrust her thighs apart with his hands and
looked at her pretty pink cunt. Her labia pouted sulkily. Like her damned
mouth. The head of his cock tapped against it for he was already hard. He'd
watched her for the last few hours and thought of nothing but the moment of
consummation, when she could keep him out no longer. Now he would claim his rights
and the high-born lady had no choice but to submit to his every filthy desire.
His sac was heavy and his penis arched eagerly upward, raring to go, scenting
rich, sweet pussy.

But then Stryker
made the mistake of looking at her face, only to find her eyes closed tightly.
A dead woman would show more concern.

That, he decided,
would not do.

Stryker paused.
Was she holding her breath?

Slowly he leaned
over his new wife's body and reached for the neck of her wedding gown.
"This must come off," he muttered.

"Very
well," came the haughty reply. "As you wish."

There were laces,
criss-crossed across a small v-shaped opening that pointed downward to her
breasts, but Stryker was in no mood to fuss with that. He was riven with need
to possess this proud creature and make her feel something. In one jerk he
pulled the thin, fancy cloth, ripping it asunder, even the shift beneath it,
exposing her torso from neck to waist. Her lashes flickered against her cheeks,
but she did not lift them. He took a breath to steady his temper.

His wife's breasts
were full and well-rounded, the areolas dark and wide. The nipples tightened as
his exhaled breath brushed over them. When he held the plump outer curves in
his palms and ran his thumbs across the taut peaks, he felt his balls react,
his dick swell with need. Drawn to the fragrance in the hollow of her throat,
Stryker leaned further, his lips almost touching her skin, his tongue tasting
it already, absorbing the scented oil before he even opened his mouth.

The woman arched
her neck and her spine, pushing her breasts up until those ripened nipples
kissed his chest, and then his column lengthened, aching and pulsing. He rubbed
himself against her mound as he lay over her, the coils of silken hair
caressing his hard veins, teasing, tempting.

He longed already
to thrust his way into her. If this was the simple mating it was supposed to be
for the good of his manor, he could have done just that. But now
he
needed more, not just her dutiful
submission with her eyes closed.

"Amias,"
he whispered.

She made a small
sound he could not identify, so he let his tongue roll out and touch her
throat, the tip stroking her warm skin, the underside of her chin and then her
neck, below her ear. His breeches were around his thighs and he still wore his
boots, but there would be no time to remove them now. The scent of her drove
him wild.

"I'm coming
in. I'm going to fuck you."

She moved under
him, her legs parted further, sliding across the furs. "Yes."

Gently he nibbled
her ear and felt her breath hitch, her belly lower and then rise again as she
undulated beneath him. He hoped she was ready, because he couldn't wait much
longer. He reached down between their bodies, slid a finger through her curls
and touched her soft, pink cleft. He shuddered when he felt the wetness—the
signal he needed. She might not think she had feelings, might not want to show
them, but she couldn't prevent her body's reaction to his.

Slowly,
rhythmically, he moved his finger in a circle, applying steady pressure where
he knew her little rosebud would welcome it.

 
Inside her waited the treasure he would
plunder. She could not deny him that bliss tonight. No more shyness or maidenly
reserve would stand in his way. He would come inside her. Deep inside.

But he mustered
his patience, even with the white-hot hammer of desire pounding in his temple.
Even with his battering ram poised to break down her door.

For women, so he'd
been told, getting there was more than half the thrill.

So Stryker
garnered the courage to kiss her again, as he did earlier that day, but tonight
he was less hurried. His arousal was intense and he needed her to feel the same
excitement. So he gave her a leisurely kiss. It was deep, almost contemplative,
and full of mute yearning. He tasted spiced wine on her tongue.

Finally her lashes
fluttered and lifted. He saw surprise in her brown eyes, but no fear tonight.
He quickened his finger against her swelling bud. She squirmed against his hand
and when she lifted her bottom off the bed, he took his finger away, halting
her climax.

"Not
yet," he whispered, relishing his control. Oh, he'd make her feel
something. He'd make her feel everything.

She trembled, eyes
gleaming up at him. Beads of perspiration formed on her brow, shining in the
candlelight.

Stryker returned his
finger to her pussy, concentrating on that tiny spot again until she mewled and
arched like a cat.

He laughed huskily
and carefully he let his tongue sweep her parted lips, tracing the upper and
lower bows, assigning their shape to memory. There was a slight dent in her
lower lip that made it seem as if she always chewed on it, nervous and
doubting. Like the dips and holes worn into the cliffs by constant pounding of
the waves.

"Say you want
me, Amias," he hissed.

The tip of her
tongue emerged to dampen her lower lip. "I want you."

"Say you want
me to fuck you."

Pause. She
swallowed, shivered. "I want you to fuck me."

With a groan of
victory, he diddled her pulsating nub wildly with his callused fingertip. She
was coming with a violence he'd never expected, and he plunged his tongue again
into her mouth, drinking a series of wanton gasps out of her as if this was his
last meal.

****

Ami had not meant
to touch him, but she found it was impossible to do otherwise now that he lay
over her and pressed his manhood against her mound, the heavy sac laying
against her sticky nether lips. She wanted him to shift lower and thrust his
cock through her folds. Why did he delay?

Her hands moved to
his buttocks. At first she touched him shyly, but the muscle was so hard and
tense under her palms. She was sure that she needed to squeeze roughly just to
make him aware of her touch. As her hands grew bolder, he moved his hips,
pushing his seed bags against her and then retreating. He repeated the motion
until his furry balls were slapping her pussy and she grew wetter, swollen. She
could smell the ale on his breath and the hot scent of man. He was so strong,
so large. And after everything she'd put up with for countless dreary years,
she deserved every inch of this.

That dowry he
needed so desperately, was hers, was it not? He was, in a sense,
her
whore. Oh yes, she would get
her
money's worth.

Perhaps bringing
that to his notice could wait for now.

At last his
cockhead breached her opening and she lay still, preparing herself for more. He
moved his hips, pressing into her and then retreating. Over and over, faster as
she became slick and hot. His finger continued exerting slow pressure at the
crest of her labia, until his phallus took control and then he readjusted his
stance between her legs. He lifted both her wrists and pinned them to the bed
over her head.

Breath by breath,
shudder by shudder, Stryker Bloodaxe claimed her for his bride. There was a
moment of searing pain, but she would not cry out. She bit down on her scream,
swallowed it.

Then he was housed
within her, his massive shaft stretching her conquered maiden walls. He gave a
low, celebratory growl that she felt in waves through his body and hers. There
would be blood on the bed, on that white fleece he'd laid so carefully under
her bottom. Blood stains were hard to remove, she thought dizzily, clutching at
a practical concern as if it might save her from falling over yet another peak.
But it did not. Ecstasy rippled through her, wave atop wave, until she was drowning
in it. When he released her wrists she clung to him, feeling the hot sweat on
his back, every muscle moving in smooth coordination under his skin.

She belonged now
to him, to the barbarian.

He flung his head
back and hissed out some sort of pagan prayer to Odin. That was when she felt
the warmth of his seed flood into her and a glorious sense of completion.

She hesitated to
call it happiness, for how could she know what that felt like? Whatever it was
it invaded her limbs and her bones, rendered her lazy and limp under his heavy
frame. Apparently he was betaken by the same sensation, for he lay there a
while, his cock slowly deflating, his semen trickling out of where it must have
overflowed her tight valley.

There were no
words for some time and she had begun to grow accustomed to his weight when he
finally rolled off her and removed the folded fleece from under her body. She
watched him wipe his prick upon it and then set it reverently aside.

"What is that
for?"

"Proof that I
bedded a virgin bride," he replied, his tone suggesting she should have
known this.

"Proof for
whom?"

"The
manor." He sat on the bed to finally remove his boots and slip his
breeches off. "The manor?"

"Yes."
Now naked, he leapt back onto the bed and stretched out at her side, one arm
slung over her belly.

Ami was so
appalled that it took several minutes to understand. "You mean to show
that to everyone?"

"Of course.
'Tis tradition for the blood to be displayed. If there was none—"

"You will not
display that blood-stained fleece. I am mortified."

"Mortified?"
He sat up. "I thought you had no feelings, no emotions?"

She faltered.
"This is different."

"Different to
what?" He was watching her face, his fingers splayed over her stomach
where shreds of her torn gown yet remained.