Page 88 of The Last Viking

She stood and wrapped her now sodden robe tighter about her body. Her green eyes flashed defiance at him.

He inhaled deeply with regret. Why did she fight the inevitable? Was it a woman thing? “Take off your robe and lie on the rug,” he told her as he picked up a small flask of oil. There was a hand-woven carpet, now slightly damp, on the floor beside the tub. He unfolded a dry towel and spread it over the rug.

“No,” she said, backing up.

“Do you say me nay, still?” he asked wearily, and made short work of removing the garment, pushing her to the floor face down and restraining her by sitting lightly on her buttocks.

Meredith was calling him some coarse words that did not bear repeating. And she was flailing her arms and legs, to no avail.

He uncorked the flask and poured a small amount of the oil into his palm, then warmed it by rubbing both palms together. It was rose-scented, of course, but a light fragrance mixed with other essences. Not overpowering.

“I asked you this question afore, Merry-Death. Have you e’er made love with a man who has calluses on his hands?”

She stopped flailing.

“Methinks ’twill be especially pleasing to be anointed with fingers and palms carrying the hardened marks of a workman’s toil. Do you take my meaning, Merry-Death? Soft oil, abrasive skin?”

She seemed to stop breathing. He was fairly certain that was a sign that she understood his meaning.

Moving the wet swath of her hair to the side, he began massaging the oil into the back of her tense neck and delicately carved shoulders. “I have ne’er done the anointing, Merry-Death. So, you must tell me if I am too rough.”

She moaned and bit her bottom lip.

“Was that a good moan, or a bad moan?”

She declined to answer. He’d expected naught else.

As he rubbed the oil into her arms, from shoulders to fingertips, and underarms to endearingly fragile wrists, he talked softly of the day he’d mapped out for her. “’Tis traditional to exchange the wedding vows afore witnesses, but I’ve no fancy for others beholding the ignominy of a reluctant bride. Thus, our ceremony will be a private one…man to woman.”

He saw that she was about to protest, again, but then pressed her eyes closed tightly, dark lashes fanning out against pale cheeks. As if that would shut out his words!

“Tomorrow, or the next day if you prove particularly recalcitrant, we’ll have a wedding feast, with witnesses. In truth, next weekend might be best. More people could come.” He’d moved lower and was oiling her back and ribs and waist. The small of a woman’s back had always had a special allure to him, and he took extra care with that enticing indentation.

“Rolf, give it up. This is the twentieth century. You can’t make me marry you if I refuse.”

“Watch me, sweetling.”

“I don’t want this…this farce.”

“You will yield in the end, that I promise.”

She muttered something about arrogant, conceited Vikings while he switched positions. Still resting on her rump, he faced the opposite direction. Starting with the soles of her feet, which he learned were very ticklish—he stored that information for later—he worked his way up her long legs, stroking her ankles, calves, the backs of her knees and thighs. She was making little mewling gasps.

He forced himself to talk again, to divert his attention from his hardening arousal. “I called Mike this morn and told him there will be no work on the morrow, and perchance not the following day, either. Depends on how long it takes to—”

“You had no right, Rolf. Tomorrow is the first day after spring break. I have classes to teach.”

“’Tis no problem,” he apprised her airily. “Mike said he can substitute for you, especially since you left such detailed lesson plans.” He shifted himself slightly backward to rest on her back and focus on her buttocks. Over and over he kneaded the satiny globes till they glistened and grew pink. Only once did he allow himself the pleasure of inserting his fingers into the cleft, pressing downward. Already her woman dew was rising, slippery and warm.

“Ah, sweetling, your tongue may say you want me not, but your body speaks another language.” With that, he rose to a kneeling position, flipped her over onto her back, and sat back down, now on her stomach. He began to work on her legs, undaunted by her fists pounding his back.

“Let me up,” she squealed. “I’ll finish the anointing business myself.”

He paused and gazed at her over his shoulder. “And will you give your free consent to the wedding vows?”

The foolhardy wench balked.

He shrugged and continued massaging her legs, stopping at the soft curls that joined her quivering thighs. He was saving that delight for last.