Page 93 of The Last Viking

“Don’t you dare cry now,” he ordered as he began to move at last.

At last, at last, at last, she thought as he pulled out almost all the way, then slammed in. Three or four or ten times, he pummeled her with his long strokes. She couldn’t keep count. It wasn’t very many, but her body was climaxing over and over and over each time he hit her pubic bone, and she was sobbing and screeching and hitting his shoulders each time he withdrew.

He might have been making noises, as well. In fact, she was pretty sure he was. He threw his head back, the veins in his neck almost popping, and lunged in one last time, spurting hotly to her womb. And in the end, he did cry out, and she caught his cry with her open mouth.

Oh, my God! Meredith thought just before she passed out.

“Guð minn góðpur!” Rolf said just before he passed out.

Several minutes later, she awakened to feel Rolf’s dead weight on her. It wasn’t unpleasant.

The low masculine exhale he released with excruciating slowness could have been of pain, or exquisite satisfaction. She was betting on the latter.

He rolled over to his side and took her with him. Lifting her one leg over his hip, he remained inside her. Not hard, but not soft either. He kissed her tenderly, then savagely. Then he laughed with utter joy.

She hid her fiery face in his neck, belatedly embarrassed over her uninhibited behavior.

“Do you blush now, wanton witch? Odin’s teeth, you do!” When he saw that she was unsure of herself and the propriety of her performance, he added with a tweak of her chin, “Methinks the anticipation proved too much for both of us, sweetling.”

Gritting his teeth, he eased himself out of her, and chuckled when her hands fluttered with involuntary distress at his disengaging too soon for her taste. “You are a greedy wench, and overeager,” he teased, “but I wouldst try all your charms, and your garments impede my efforts.”

He murmured words of astonishment at what had just happened between them as he undid the shoulder brooches on her overgown and removed the gold-link belt. It was short work after that for him to maneuver her clothing off, but not too short, because he paused and whispered compliments to each body part he bared.

Oh, he was a smooth lover, this Viking was, knowing instinctively what many modern men still didn’t understand—that women need to feel good about their bodies to enjoy making love, even if their attractiveness is only in the eyes of their lovers.

By the time she was naked, her entire body felt heated by his torrid, worshipful perusal. She couldn’t stop herself from asking hopefully, “Again?”

“And again and again and again,” he promised, holding her down at his side when she would have leapt from the bed with mortification at having expressed her craving aloud. “But this time we’ll go slow. This time will be for you, sweetling.”

And who was the last time for? But she decided to keep that revealing question to herself.

“You must needs be punished first,” he warned with silky eroticism as he trailed his fingertips from her knees to the joining of her thighs. She was lying flat on her back now, like a rag doll. “Hmmm. Mayhap your first penance—”

“Penance?” she said breathlessly. “First?”

He smiled. “—shall be honesty in the loveplay. You will tell me with words, as well as actions, what pleases you.”

And that’s punishment? “You tricked me, Rolf. I never intended to marry you, or make love,” she stormed. “Maybe you’re the one who should be punished.”

“Hmmm.” He tapped his chin with a forefinger as if seriously considering her reproach, then agreed too quickly, “All right. But later.”

His callused fingertips brushed over the tight curls between her legs and he sighed.

A feeling of light-headedness flowed over her at that feathery caress. And Meredith thought there should be a dissertation written on the merits of calluses. And the carnal beauty of a man’s sigh.

“Drops of moisture from our first mating linger here,” he pointed out huskily, “like morning mist on seaside grass.”

Her eyes shot wide. Blood roared in her veins and her brain went blank at the seductive praise. She tried to roll over to hide herself, but he wouldn’t allow that modesty.

“Or wouldst you prefer I start here?” He placed his fingertips against her lips, and her neck arched for his kiss. But he was already skimming his fingertips lower, a straight tantalizing line from her chin, over her breastbone, down her abdomen and waist, over her navel, to her thighs again. A violent shiver passed over her.

His lips turned up appreciatively. “Where, Merry-Death? Where do you want my touch first?”

With a soft mewling cry, she took his hands and led them to her breasts. Although he hadn’t touched them since the anointing, the rose-hued nipples were still hardened into pebbles of arousal and the slightly paler aureoles were puffy with desire. She ached for him there.

Instead, he nudged her legs apart and braced himself on outstretched arms. His erection pressed against her thigh and his hips pinned her against the bed furs, but a half-foot of space separated her breasts from his chest.

“Caress me with them,” he coaxed in a voice so thick she could barely comprehend his meaning. When understanding dawned, she wondered if she had the nerve.