Page 62 of The Last Viking

This strange Viking character began to lave wet circles around her aureoles and taut nipples, first with the flat of his tongue, then the pointed tip.

Merry-Death’s breathing escalated to panting as she tried to twist out of his embrace.

“He could hurt you, Mer,” Jillian continued.

“I don’t see how.” Meredith snorted, though she gave him a meaningful glance that implied there were different kinds of “hurting.” To punish her for the silent reprimand, he took one nipple and aureole deep into his mouth and began to suckle with a rhythmic fervor. With each erotic pull, a delicious shiver passed from his tongue to his loins. He suspected there was pulling and shivering going on in her body, as well.

“Well, all right then. We’ll talk in the morning,” Jillian said. The shuffle of her departing feet faded down the hallway.

Merry-Death probably wasn’t aware her sister had left, so stunned did she appear. He had that effect on women ofttimes. Gasping, she closed her eyes and threw her head back, giving him even greater access to her breasts. At the same time, her hips began to undulate against him.

It would be over afore he began if he wasn’t careful. Twice now, the witch had seduced him into losing his seed in his braies. It would not happen again, he vowed.

Releasing her hands, he rolled over, causing her to land on her back with him on his side bending over her. Numb with passion, she gazed up in confusion. “Wh-what?”

He put a fingertip to her lips. “Shhh. The time isn’t right for our joining. There is much we need to settle first.” He gave her numerous little kisses in between his words.

She gaped at him blankly, and her breath still came out in gasps. He shared the turmoil.

Passing his palm over a heaving breast, he skimmed her stomach, resting the heel of his hand against her nether hair, the fingers delving into her woman dew. He nigh keened with male triumph that he’d brought her to this state so swiftly. “Before we talk, do you want me to bring you to your ecstasy?” His fingers moved against her slickness till they found the bud of her pleasure, swollen with need.

Her thighs trembled before she stammered, “A-alone?”

He puzzled over her question till he realized she was asking if they’d bring each other to mutual satisfaction. Or couple. “Yea. Alone. Just you.” For now.

“You idiot!” she exclaimed, shoving him aside and scrambling to her feet.

Now it was his turn to blink in confusion. He sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, watching with bafflement as Merry-Death grabbed a fleecy robe from a wall hook, sliced him a quelling glare, unlocked the door, and shot away from him, faster than an arrow from a crossbow.

He would never understand women. How could Merry-Death’s mood have altered in such a short time from happy tears over his avowal of undying love to scowling condemnation? Was it a woman quirk? A female tactic to drive men mad?

Or could he perchance have mishandled the situation?

Quickly, before Rolf could follow, Meredith extinguished the living room lights and crawled under the sheets of her makeshift bed on the sofa. She didn’t want him to see how shaken she was. She didn’t want him to see the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

She heard the shower running upstairs. The dolt! She boiled with frustration, and he was cool, calm, and collected enough to take another of his leisurely showers.

How could she have been such a dope…falling for that old line? I love you, Merry-Death. Hah! There was nothing of love in his working her up like a wind-up Barbie, then having the nerve to tell her they wouldn’t be making love…that he’d be pressing her buttons, but not participating himself. She felt pathetic and unfeminine.

It was probably some kind of power play. A form of Viking torture. Another example of her trying too hard to please, and falling short. Pathetic. She was pathetic. He had been interested in the beginning, she knew he had, but somewhere along the way he must have decided she wasn’t all that exciting. What else is new? The challenge for him had faded away with her surrender. But Rolf had pitied her in the end and he’d been willing to finish her off. Oh, the humiliation of it all!

Suddenly, one lamp light clicked on, then another. Rolf stood over her, water drizzling from his wet hair, which was raked back off his forehead and behind his ears. Water also drizzled down his body…a body that became alarmingly naked and menacing and fully aroused when the towel wrapped around his hips accidentally unknotted and slipped. He started to catch it, then shrugged and let it drop to the floor.

Aroused? But he didn’t want me.

Grinning when he caught her gawking at his…ah, midsection, he drawled, “Even a cold shower couldn’t bank my lust for you.”

Huh? “You said you didn’t want to make love with me.”

“I said no such thing,” he asserted, and then burst out laughing. Pointing downward, he chuckled, “Merry-Death, Merry-Death, tsk-tsk, how can a woman with your education be so naive? In truth, how could anyone with a lick of sense misinterpret this.” His laughter escalated to deep belly guffaws.

She began to blubber in earnest under the onslaught of his ridicule, causing him to notice her tears for the first time.

“Blód hel!” he cursed, and scooped her up in his arms—sheets and robe and all. Then he swiveled his body so he plopped down on the couch with her on his lap. She kicked and flailed and clawed, to no avail.

“Leave off,” he hissed, and maneuvered his torso so she was sandwiched between the back of the sofa and him. There really wasn’t room on the narrow cushions for two people, and certainly not when one of them was six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds, with an added rock-hard appendage poking her belly.

She stilled but continued to show her resistance by glaring at him…between sobs. A lot of good that did. He raised one of his hands, which had been imprisoning hers at her sides, and used a thumb to wipe the tears from her cheek. It was useless. No sooner did he erase one than another took its place.