To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (12 page)

She glanced at the shelter’s narrow opening. “I understand the wet tunic, but my undergarment?”

“At the clearing, you were all too willing to take my clothes off,” he jibed, a fine throb growing between his legs.

“I
liked
the man at the clearing.”

His chuckle rasped harshly. “You’ve got this one now.”

An owl sang his night song overhead. Fern fronds wavered from animals scattering. Sestra’s head shook as if she tried to read him and found herself befuddled. He was sure her eyes shot daggers.

“Don’t talk to me like every other lout,” she snapped.

An angry Sestra was good. She’d revile him.

“Keep testing me and I’ll tear it off,” he said with quiet menace. “Remember, I could make you go naked.”

Her chin dropped bit by bit. Cruel slave traders stripped women bare, stealing their dignity, yet somewhere in this quest, he and Sestra became partners. Equal. His rough-shod words set her squarely back to where they began—thrall and freeman.

“You don’t respect me at all.”

He winced. Pain slanted the shape of her eyes and her voice, the smallness of it, nearly stole his resolve. No words could undo this course. He was a lout for staying in Uppsala when he should’ve gone, for thinking he could set aside this want for Sestra while watching over her, and then sail off to Gotland. Jumbled, uncertain words filled his mouth like loose wool skeins tying up his tongue. Her sadness crushed him, yet he stood limbs locked.

The man Sestra needed the most protection from was him.

She tossed back her braid and yanked the fragile white linen over her head. “You want my undergarment? You can have it.” She jammed the limp cloth into his hand and folded her arms over her breasts. “I should never have let you kiss me.”

“Thralls don’t have a choice.”

Her mouth flattened in an unforgiving line. “Such wisdom from the man who spent all morning telling me I have choices.”

He put a death sentence on what was started in the clearing. Or tried to. Sestra bare-skinned in a dark forest stirred him better then ermine and silk. The craving for sex, for her, was winning over the need for sleep. Women were creatures he appreciated, tarried with for a time, and left. Some highborn, some not. She was a slave, and he’d admit they formed a friendship. Tonight he stood captivated by a lowly thrall, wanting to bury himself deep in the cradle of her hips.

What he wanted, he could never have.

Sestra gripped his forearm and crouched to the ground in front of him, her head brushing his knees.

Air hissed between his clenched teeth. “What are you doing?”

“Untying my boots.” She let go of his arm, sharp humor edging her voice. It was the tone she used when serving ale to other men. “You did say everything wet comes off.”

Tortured by her rustling against his leg, he forced himself to stare into the distance.

“What about you?” she asked. “Your clothes are almost as wet as mine.”

“Not so wet,” he groused.

She made a humming sound, the kind of noise a woman makes when she tolerates a man’s foolishness. If his clothes came off, there’d be no barriers. He grimaced, unable to stop tension pooling between his legs. Even Sestra’s little crooning did things to him.

His trousers bulged uncomfortably. Her shoulder grazed his calf as she tossed one boot aside. In her fumbling, if Sestra’s head grazed his erection, he’d jump out of his skin. He looked down, her body the lodestone drawing his attention. Sestra bent forward, a sensual, a white hourglass kneeling at his feet, her waist nipping small above rounded hips wiggling sweetly as she unlaced her garter.

Knees locked, his fingers dug into her clothes. Otherwise, he’d bend over and grab her soft white bottom with both hands and not let go.

She covered herself with hudfat again and stood up. “You’re next,” she said with too much cheer.

Was she affected at all?

He walked around her to a low branch. Jaw set, he hung up her clothes with his leather bag and stowed his weapons inside the shelter. She turned away when he removed boots and clothes, but he was careful to stay facing her.

Darkness couldn’t hide everything.

Cool air saturated his skin, calming his loins and clearing his brain. He wore nothing save the iron amulet, the metal warm on his breastbone instilled courage to deny himself. He’d denied himself much for years, and this was one measly night.

With her back to him, Sestra waited at the mouth of the shelter, his sleeping fur wrapped around her. So quiet, too quiet. She was fatigued, but this was inner turmoil. She didn’t toss out saucy comments. She waited to see what he’d do.

He scrubbed his face both hands, lack of sleep blurring his vision. His body screamed for rest, yet he couldn’t ignore Sestra’s skittishness. She expected him to pounce from behind. Why wouldn’t she? Telling her he’d tear off her clothes and make her go naked back to Uppsala destroyed what trust they’d built.

“Sestra.” He gentled his voice and touched the hudfat. “I have to take this.”

She nodded meekly as he gripped the fur at her nape. His fingers brushed smooth skin and curls fine as a babe’s hair. A tiny moan came from her, the sound a feather-soft caress to his insides. He hesitated. Coddling wasn’t in his nature, but the little noises she made threatened to undo him, made him want to sweep her into his arms and plant tender kisses on her lips.

Hugging herself, Sestra’s gaze slanted at him over her shoulder, her profile pale against midnight trees. “Take it.”

The fur fell away. Round, creamy curves showed like smoothly carved ivory in darkness. Her bottom’s cleft was a slender black thread on white flesh. He itched to run his finger down the enticing line. How soft would her skin be there?

He grasped her shoulder. She was shaking.

“I’m cold.”

Her small voice shook him to the core. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “We sleep together, sharing the fur. For warmth.”

Pine needles crackled in the silence as she turned. Chin up, she faced him, one arm crossed over her breasts, the other shielding her most vulnerable feminine flesh. The saucy mouth he craved was set, a thin line of damning silence, but Sestra’s turbulent eyes pierced his heart sharper than any knife.

Years of having no say over herself reflected back to him.

Her brown eyes seared him. He had to look away. “I won’t…use you.”

Naked in the forest tired yet wanting, his body desired Sestra. His lusty cock bounced stiffly at the sight of her. For all his harsh history, he wanted this woman of all women to have a little faith in him; he was no rutting animal. He’d gone too far in pushing her away and now there was little he could do but live with the damage done.

Body wracked with tension, he stretched the long fur bag inside the shelter. He pulled open the flap and slipped inside the hudfat on his back, but he made the mistake of raising his head to call Sestra.

Head up, his tongue refused to work. Faint light touched the fiery tuft of hair between her legs. She stood in profile at the shelter’s entrance, her body visible from the waist down.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He fixed on the patch of red hair. “Yes.” The word strangled his throat.

Sestra dropped to the ground and crept toward him on hands and knees, white hips undulating, ripe breasts swaying creamy and large. He ogled her, devouring every inch of freckled skin. Her nipples peaked with tender points barely visible in the shadows. Imagination filled in what he couldn’t see.

Head flopping down, his erection tented the fur. Hot rigid need was taking over. How badly he craved easing the ache between her legs. A few strokes of her hand in the right place and he’d spend his seed. The image of Sestra’s alluring body burned itself on his ragged brain and wouldn’t let go.

Staring at rough wood overhead, he dredged up quelling memories.

Swimming in icy water. Hunting muskox. Fish guts. Falling in a swine’s pen. Rotten hen’s eggs.

Sestra tucked herself into the hudfat, her bare legs slipping along his. He froze, sucking in a sharp breath and shut his eyes. A foot lay flush to his calf. Sestra squirmed alongside him, and the curls between her legs skimmed his hip. The sweet fiery tuft of feminine hair…

Eyes shut didn’t help. His mind worked harder, picturing what he couldn’t see.

Palms driving into the ground, he exhaled raggedly and squinted at the shelter’s handiwork. Sestra nestled against him, adjusting the hudfat. She dragged the fur this way and that over his pulsing erection, the coarse fur giving bittersweet friction on sensitive places.

“Stop moving,” he ground out. Breasts squished him, the softest pillows on his chest and ribs.

“I’m getting comfortable. Trying to,” she mumbled, her breath fanning his nipple. “Your sleeping fur is too small.”

His nipple puckered. “Because it’s made for one.” The ragged words coming out his mouth hardly sounded like him.

Night wind roused the island’s trees. Stars winked at him between cracks where the branches leaned together. Surely Freyja watched from above, finding great delight in the Frankish thrall sprawling naked across his body. Denial already turned his balls into painful stones.

The need to feel, to give in to his body’s demands consumed him.

Swimming in icy water. Hunting muskox. Fish guts. Falling in a swine’s pen. Rotten hen’s eggs. Rancid milk. Putrid meat.

Sestra wriggled her cold body on his. “You never finished telling me what men do when they cheat death.”

“What?” His head lifted off the ground. “You know the answer.”

Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. The little shrug she gave was torture, rubbing her heavy breast along his rib. “I do, but I’d feel better if you talked to me.”

Her voice was intimate on his skin. He swallowed hard and willed his mind not to think about lush curves pressed close or fiery red feminine curls snug against his hip. Or the sweet freckle at the side of her mouth.

“Go to sleep.”

Wiggling, she made her little humming noise. “This won’t work. The opening here, it’s cold on my back.” Her leg swung across his thighs. “I want to sleep on the other side.”

He groaned and shut his eyes. “Just get comfortable.”

Darkness magnified every wriggle, smell, and sound. Sestra’s knees buffeted his thighs as she straddled his waist, the whisper of her skin caressing his new torture. The tendrils of her woman’s hair brushed him intimately. Was it possible he felt each strand feathering his aching cock? Cool, clean air carried scents of pine and pitch, filling his nose and biting his nipples.

Two hands rested on his chest. “Is this how you like sex when you cheat death?”

His eyes shot open. Sestra straddled him. The center of her palms pressed his nipples. Feminine legs folded against his hips and thighs. His hands curled easily around firm calves and wouldn’t let go.

Her hand trailed down his body’s midline, sending waves of bliss across his skin. “Never mind,” she said archly. “I decided this is how
I
like sex after I’ve cheated death.”

Sestra’s hand moved to the dark spot between her legs and his. She teased the black hair between his legs before her fingernails delicately scratching his abdomen and going lower.  Shivers danced across his thighs. A drop of his seed glistened on the tip of his cock.

Air hissed past his teeth. “Sestra…”

“Today was a first for me.” Her fingers found his dampness and swirled it over the crest of his manhood. “I learned a lot hanging onto that root.” She paused to squeeze his rigid length, her feminine laugh throaty.

His heels dug into the fur. Her hand was exquisite.

She started stroking him again. “It changed me.”

“You don’t…have to do this.” Hips jerking into her, his body sung a different tune.

“Oh, but I want to,” she purred.

He wanted badly to be gentle with her, but it wasn’t his nature. He liked sex the way he lived, fast and rough with no time for a lover’s gentle words. If Sestra only knew the beast caged within, she’d not want this. If she yielded to him, he’d ride her hard and slake this animal thirst.

Fingers gripping her calves dug deeper. She’d have bruises tomorrow because of him, marks on her soul because of what he’d said and marks on her body because of what he’d do. His heart twisted in his chest. She deserved better than this.

“If you don’t stop now, I can’t stop…” The words burst out of him with a curse when she seated herself on his cock’s rounded head.

“I don’t want to stop.”

Pleasure-pain centered on her hot, wet skin kissing the crown of his erection. Sestra sat tall over him as if he was conquered and she the victor. With the tiniest shift, she gave needful friction. Her legs were firmly muscled under his hands, the skin soft as silk. She drove him out of his mind, rolling her hips in slow, sensuous circles. Slick flesh teased no more than a single inch of him. All sensations centered on the tip of his cock.

“Sestra,” he growled.

Eyes innocent, her hips swirled wide. He almost slipped out. His head jerked up. Stomach muscles knotted. Sinews strained.

He
had
to stay inside her.

“You’ve never touched me,” she whispered, one hand on his chest, pushing him down. “Never even tried to.”

His body shook from fighting unquenched need with all his might. He. Had.
To. Push.

“Gaahhhh.” The roar ripped from him.

He grabbed her hips. Her thighs were the best of strong and soft in his hands. Grinding with all his might, he thrust into her like the beast he was. Her breasts jostled. Air skipped sharp and fast from her mouth. The artful hip circles stopped.

Flesh slapped flesh.

Quick. Desperate. Pressure built in him with each cry slipping from her lips.

“Ohhhh,” she cried long, her head lolling sideways.

He grabbed her breasts. She whimpered, arching her back. Erect nipples the size of rose hips squashed against his palms. He grunted and squeezed the supple breasts filling his hands, the down-soft skin pale against his claiming grasp. He wasn’t gentle.

 “Brandr.” His name was an exhale on her lips.

This was animal need. A hot race.