Page 41 of The Very Virile Viking

But she had asked, and he was willing… more than willing.

He molded her breasts in his hands then, taking all of each in his big palms… pushing up, rubbing in a circular fashion, then lifting them again so that his thumbs could strum the pebbled nipples into hard peaks… then harder still and longer.

"Ride me," he encouraged.

And she did.

Magnus had not expected her to comply so readily. Therefore he was unprepared for the immediate assault on his senses. Holy Thor, forget about senses ! Every male part of his body came to immediate attention, and that included his thick male brain, not to mention his thick male… nether part.

Magnus had not tupped a girl fully clothed since he was a boy, and, oh, the sheer joy of it was beyond description.

While she undulated her hips against him, he slid his hands under her shert and shoved her lacy undergarment aside. Taking her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, he tweaked and strummed; he pinched and soothed. She was nigh wailing her pleasure as her woman's cleft slid back and forth along the ridge of his erection.

Gasping for air, he directed her, "Harder. Ride me harder, sweet angel. Bring me to heaven."

He knew Angela did not like to be called angel . The word had slipped out. And luckily she did not seem to mind at this moment, for she began to pound against him now, belly against belly.

"It's been too long for me. A year. I'm so embarrassed," she confessed.

"You are embarrassed! Ha! It has been nearly a year for me, as well. And I am a man," he confided.

"That is such a sexist thing to say."

"I am a sexy man," he replied, assuming sexist meant the same as sexy .

She tried to laugh but it came out as a gurgle. Then she was unable even to gurgle. "Oh, oh, oh, oh…"

she moaned as her peak came.

He let out a roar of triumph at his own climax. Holding both her buttocks in his hands, he pressed her hard against him and let his man part jerk against her woman place… once, twice, numerous times… till he was depleted.

Her head was resting in the crook of his neck. His hands were wrapped about her waist, softly caressing her back. They were both panting to regain their breath.

"You certainly know how to say thank-you," she finally said with a soft laugh.

"Wait till you see how I say, 'Thank you very much ,' " he answered, also with a soft laugh.

She pulled her head back to look at him. "I came here to talk with you."

"I like the way you talk."

"That's not what I meant," she said, and swatted his shoulder playfully. "Magnus, you have to stop telling people that I'm your destiny."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I'm not your destiny."

He was nibbling at her neck now, and she squirmed on his lap, which caused a part of his body that had gone dormant to come to life again. Really, this was beyond belief. He was not going to come in his braies twice. He was not, not, not. With determination bred of some iron will he had not known he possessed, Magnus lifted the squirming wench off his lap and set her next to him on the bench.

Only then did he consider her words. Not his destiny? Ha ! "What do you call my being called halfway 'round the world to your country, if not destiny? What do you call my seeing your grandmother in my

dreams, if not destiny? What do you call the breathlessness I experience whene'er I see you, if not destiny? What do you call the unplanned happenstance that just occurred betwixt us, if not destiny?"

"You get breathless whenever you see me?" she asked, homing in on what was surely the most irrelevant part of all he had said.

Women ever do want to know that they can weaken a man. She must see my breathlessness as a weakness. "Why does that surprise you?"

"Because I get a teeny, tiny bit breathless myself," she admitted.