Page 97 of The Bewitched Viking

“Thank you,” he whispered against her mouth in a fleeting kiss before he began the serious business of mating.

“Is it time for me to begin the Pater Noster?” she teased, trying for a semblance of levity in an overwhelming situation.

“Don’t you dare.” He choked on his own laughter as he began his first long stroke—out, then in again with a maddening slowness.

She bent her knees, intuitively knowing that it would heighten the pleasure and give him greater access. With each of his long strokes, she keened her enjoyment, throwing her arms over her head in wantonness. He played her like the sexual creature she became, telling her what he liked, asking what she liked, taking her hips in hand to teach her the rhythm, and all the time pummeling her with prolonged slides of what felt like warm marble.

This had to be the best-kept secret amongst all woman-dom.

Did all men have this talent for bringing a woman to peak? Or just Vikings? Or just this one particular Viking? Whatever the case, Alinor was not such a fool that she did not recognize good fortune when it smacked her in the face…rather, smacked her in the…well, there.

Tykir could not believe his good fortune.

The woman was an uninhibited wanton. Arms thrown over her head in abandon. Legs wrapped around his hips. When had that happened? Hips undulating to the cadence he had taught her only moments ago. A quick learner! And her inner folds were clasping and unclasping his hardness. That is something I did not teach her. Clever witch! Who’d have thought the lady would take to the bedsport with such enthusiasm?

Of course, he had a history of woman-luck, due largely to his well-honed talents in the seductive arts and some god-given natural endowments. However, he could not help but think Alinor had been smoldering with erotic embers for a long time, just waiting for the right man to come along.

His penetrations were so deep now that he could scarce contain himself, especially since she was rippling continuously around him. The short strokes were fast approaching. Too soon, but not nearly soon enough.

“Why is your jaw clenched?” she inquired in an oddly wounded voice. “Am I doing something wrong?”

“Nay, Alinor. My jaw is clenched because you are doing things too right,” he choked out on a laugh.

“Good,” she said.

“Witch,” he answered.

She put her hands on his shoulders, drawing him down to her body. Then she did the most amazing thing. She rubbed her breasts back and forth over his chest hairs, and he could have sworn she purred.

He grinned. Two could play this teasing game. Disengaging her leg locks on his hips, his hands snaked out and grabbed her ankles. He pushed them up and out so she was even more exposed to him. And his deep, deep penetration moved even farther into her body, surely all the way to her womb.

She tried to move beneath him, but he remained immobile till he felt her peak begin—at first the gentle clasping motions, then fiercer and fiercer spasms.

A long, long keening wail came from her parted lips. Her eyes were staring up at him, unfocused. Only when she passed her first peak did he start his short strokes. Hard, hard, hard, he pounded her, sensing she could withstand the erotic pummeling.

His groans and hers co-mingled. Desire roared like a waterfall in his ears. He had been the aggressor, but the witch who dug her nails into his shoulders was consuming him with her ecstasy. His erection became so huge—the stuff of boyhood dreams—that he feared his eyes were rolling in his head. Her soft sounds spurred him on even farther. He reared his head back and howled with the sheer elation of the feelings that inundated him. When he finally came with a roar of exultation and spurted his seed into her, he was as mindless and incoherent as she.

Tykir had started this day intending to “torture” the witch, but he wondered now if he hadn’t been hoisted on his own instrument of torture.

Minutes later, Alinor still lay stunned. The Viking, heavy as a small horse, reclined atop her, breathing heavily into her ear. In truth, she could not complain. The troll had given her more physical pleasure than she’d experienced, combined, over her entire life.

Still, she’d surrendered and revealed more of herself to this man than she ever should have. Not that she’d had a choice. Who knew what he would do with that dangerous information?

“Move, you big oaf,” she demanded, pushing at his shoulders. “And stop snoring in my ear.”

He raised his head and stared at her. Good Lord, was that a bite mark on his shoulder?

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he said, chucking her under the chin. “Just recuperating.” He rolled over onto his side and lifted one of her legs over his, as if to maintain intimate contact.

By St. Magdalene’s sin! She needed no reminder with his male member still buried inside her, albeit quiescent now. Was he waiting to regroup, or had he forgotten to remove himself? Silly question! The self-satisfied lout was nigh gloating. He’d forgotten nothing.

This was all so new for Alinor. Her three husbands had been quick to disengage after a coupling. But then, there was no comparison between the swift three-thrust ruttings that her husbands had performed on her with their limp wicks and the spectacular event she’d just witnessed. Nay, she had to be truthful…the spectacular event she’d just participated in.

“You’re smiling, Alinor,” Tykir pointed out.

“You’re gloating,” she countered.

“I’m just happy.” He waited for her to question why. When she didn’t, he chuckled and continued anyway. “Because I’ve just been swived by the most sensuous woman in all England…hell, Norway and the remainder of the civilized world, as well.”