Page 61 of The Last Viking

“Come, Merry-Death, stand and let me dry you off. Then we’ll see about the business of…uh, discussing.”

She sank deeper into the tub, her chin skimming the water’s surface. The stubborn wench!

“Coward!” he taunted.

Her eyes flashed green fire for a moment before she stood with a whoosh, splashing water over the rim. He wanted to clap or give words of praise for her bravado, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his arms lay frozen at his sides.

She was magnificent.

Standing stone-still in knee-deep water, she stared boldly back at him, allowing him to study the lines of her trim body. Like a Byzantine marble statue she was, all sleek planes and enticing curves. With her wet hair combed back and her proud chin held high, she presented a face that was not beautiful but nicely formed. Flawless skin. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Thick arched brows over crystalline green eyes. Full, kissable lips. Nay, he amended, she was beautiful…to him.

Her breasts were round and firm, the size of pomegranates, the nipples and surrounding aureoles a lovely shade of dusty pink. He adored her breasts and would show her how much—later.

She was slender, but not overly so. A narrow waist tapered out to full hips that framed a flat stomach and indented navel. He promised himself an extended exploration of that territory with his hands and tongue, mayhap even his teeth. Yea, teeth would be interesting.

He forced his eyes to move on to long, clean-shaven legs that joined at the most enticing spot of all, a patch of dark brown curls glistening with wet drops from her bath. His own groin tightened as he looked at her there, wondering at all the hidden secrets she harbored and would ultimately reveal to him. ’Twas a heady, heady prospect.

“Well?” she demanded. The word came out brashly, but he could tell she needed affirmation of her appeal. Oh, foolish, foolish maid, that she did not know.

He paused, seeking the perfect compliment, but she misread his hesitation.

“You jerk,” she hissed and catapulted herself at him over the edge of the tub, reaching outstretched hands for his throat. She hit harder than he expected, prompting him to fall backward off the stool. They both landed on the floor, her on top of him, with a loud thud.

He held onto her affronted body with an armlock around her waist as she tried to squirm away. Then he began to laugh, but immediately bit his bottom lip, tucking her face into the curve of his neck, when he heard a sharp rap on the door.

“Mer, are you okay? Did you fall?”

Merry-Death raised her head, though he held the rest of her body, chest to legs, flattened against his. “I’m okay, Jillie. I just slipped on a loose…rug.”

I will show her just how slippery a “rug” I can be. “I was about to say that you are beautiful…magnificent,” he whispered into her ear, licking the shell-like lobe in the process. It tasted so good, he did it again.

She groaned.

“Did you just groan?” Jillian asked, apparently still standing in the hallway. “You are hurt. Let me in, Mer.”

He started to inform Merry-Death that her fingernails digging into his shoulders were piercing the skin, but she slapped one hand over his open mouth. And he soon forgot the insignificant pain as she turned slightly toward the door, lifting her breasts inadvertently closer to his face.

Holy Hel and Blessed Valhalla! What a sight!

“I was groaning because I’m tired and it’s an effort even to put my nightgown on, Jillie. Go to bed.”

In one expert move, Geirolf took her by the waist, shifted her slightly up his chest, then immediately clasped her flailing arms by the wrists in his one hand behind her back. He used his other hand to mold her bare buttocks, fitting her against his hardness. Then he wrapped his legs around her calves and spread them apart ever so slowly.

Her eyes nigh popped out, and the pulse in her neck jumped. With a motion of his head toward the door, he cautioned that they might not be alone yet. He couldn’t have spoken aloud if he’d wanted to, so light-headed had he become.

“Jillie? Are you still there?” she croaked out.

While her attention was diverted to her sister, he used the opportunity to pull on her wrists, still enclosed in his fist resting on her rump. The movement induced her shoulders to bow backward and her breasts to arch forward in invitation.

He was never one to deny himself such an invitation.

“I’m worried about you,” Jillian said through the door.

He leaned his head up slightly and flicked his tongue over one hardened peak, then another. Merry-Death made no sound, though her lips parted and her belly lurched against his.

“I told you I’m not hurt,” she told her sister. The whole time, their eyes were locked in a fiery exchange.

“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean about you and this Viking character. He’s strange.”