Page 48 of The Last Viking

Her emerald eyes looked up in appeal, but he was beyond benevolence now. Blood roared in his veins and pounded in his lust-infused brain.

When it became clear he would not relent, she nodded.

“Say the words,” he demanded.

Her pale face turned pink with embarrassment, but she yielded. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Please.”

He needed no more invitation. Looping a finger under the front band between her breasts, he pulled forward, tearing the garment. Her breasts burst free, and they were glorious, perfect globes of creamy skin and dusky aureoles.

With a groan of pure ecstasy, he cupped each breast from underneath, raised them even higher, then lowered his head to take one nipple deep into the hot cavern of his mouth, suckling deeply.

She screamed, a high-pitched wail of agonizing pleasure.

Had ever a man heard such a sound from his woman and not felt as one of the gods…blessed? In reward for such homage, he gave equal treatment to her other breast and had to hold her upright as her knees collapsed with weakness. With a laugh of triumphant joy, he scooped her up in his arms, prepared to carry her outdoors where they could couple in private.

She did not protest. Not once. Instead, she curled against his chest and buried her warm face in his neck. The smell of drek surrounded him, and Geirolf exulted. ’Twas wondrous, this feeling of man-woman as they prepared to make love.

“I am so pleased that you surrendered, sweetling,” he said huskily against her ear as he nudged the door open with his hip. “I feared you wouldn’t agree that I am heading the project.”

“Wh-what?” Her body went stiff as a warrior’s pike. “You misunderstood. I’m heading the project. Not you.”

She scrambled out of his arms. Her eyes were still slumberous with passion. Her hair flowed every which way in wild disarray. Her nipples continued to glisten from his kisses. But her mood was fast changing. That was more than obvious when she braced her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “I was surrendering my body, not my authority.”

He stepped back. “I’ll not work for you, Merry-Death. Either I head the project, or I’m not involved at all. No more of this ‘I am the employer, you are the employee’ business. No more bloody orders.”

Her shoulders slumped. “That’s one concession I can’t make. I direct the Trondheim Venture. I give orders. That’s the way it has to be.”

Like ice water from the North Sea, her words dashed his excitement. How could he have misread her body signals? Damn her, and damn all willful women who would not bend to a man’s better judgment. She gave him no choice. “Then we have naught else to say to each other.” With that, he stormed down the steps, picked up his blanket roll, and left the keep.

His pride was still intact.

His heart was not.

Chapter Nine

Two days later Thea was on the patio painting bright red nipples on Ingrid when Meredith arrived home. The girl had already given Rolf’s figurehead a base coat in a flesh tint where the flaking “skin” was exposed. Now she was refurbishing Ingrid’s finer points.

“Hi, Aunt Mer.”

Meredith could barely hear her niece over the music blasting from the CD player at her side. The raucous musicians were named some ridiculous appellation like Nine Inch Screws, or was it Nine Inch Nails? Whatever. The lyrics were incomprehensible, though undoubtedly vulgar. Meredith’s parents were just going to love Thea’s music; their tastes ran more to medieval dulcimer.

“What are you doing home so early, Aunt Mer?”

“Mike called and asked me to come talk with Rolf again.” His exact words had been, “Beg the man, Dr. Foster. We’re in deep shit here.” Meredith leaned against the patio door and continued, “Mike said he and the college kids aren’t making any headway on the project. They’re bungling more than they’re building. Meanwhile, Rolf’s ship is going up like gangbusters.”

“Rolf is, like, so cool, Aunt Mer.”

Cool? Hardly the adjective I’d use. “He’s nice,” she conceded.

“Nice? Nice? Peanut butter is nice. Rolf is, like, industrial. Can’t you make up with him?”

“‘Making up’ isn’t what this is about, honey.” Just then, Meredith noticed that her niece wasn’t wearing her usual grunge makeup. Hallelujah! One fewer thing for my parents to complain about. “You have beautiful skin, Thea. Really beautiful skin. I never realized how pretty you are.”

“That’s what Rolf said. He made me stand in front of a mirror, first with my makeup, then without. And he didn’t tell me which one was better. He just asked me which one I prefer. Because that’s the most important thing, you know. Not trying to impress other people. Just being happy with myself.”

Was Rolf’s counsel to Thea supposed to be a not-so-subtle message for me? Meredith wondered. “Well, that’s very good advice, sweetie, but what brought that discussion on?”

“Oh. I’m not sure. We have lots of talks. Rolf never treats me like a kid. He says children become adults when they’re only twelve years old in his country.” Thea put her paintbrush down and tilted her head in concentration. “Now I remember. We were talking about his sister Katla. She married a Viking prince from Normandy when she was only thirteen—they marry young in his country, you know. Anyhow, Katla was always unhappy with her hair. Like, it was so blond it was almost white. So-o-o, one time she dyed it with walnut juice.” Thea giggled. “It took six months for the stain to work out of her hair. And her forehead. And her hands. In the end, it turned out that her prince lo-o-oved her white-blond hair. That is such a totally cool story, don’tja think?”