Page 76 of The Bewitched Viking

She finished with the palate of skin from collarbone to groin, much too soon. But then she entered a different territory. Carefully raising his arms overhead, she began to lather the hair in his surprisingly sensitive armpits. He almost shot up off the bed at the intense pleasure her fingertips brought there. To be sure, he was going to make her play in that newly discovered erotic spot once they made love.

And there was no doubt in his mind that they would be making love sometime soon. She owed him.

Yea, he could picture the scene. He would be lying on the bed, naked, with his arms folded behind his head. She would be straddling his waist, naked. Or should she be lying on her side, naked? Regardless, he would have his arms upraised, and she would lower her head to kiss and suckle first one nipple, then another. He would have his eyes closed the whole time because he’d want to prolong the anticipation. That was another thing women loved about him…how he prolonged the anticipation. In any case, after she’d nigh melted his bones by suckling on his nipples, she, still naked, would trail soft kisses up to his armpits where she would…

Nay, nay, nay, he had a better idea. She could be wearing that little harem outfit he’d gifted her, and every time she moved, there would be a tiny jingling of bells.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

Uh-oh. Had his heart lurched against his chest walls with all these imaginings? Or had he inadvertently grinned? He didn’t think she’d noticed the tentpole in his breechclout. Otherwise, she would have no doubt slapped him with her damp washcloth. But wait till he got her naked. Then her goose was cooked…so to speak. Or was it her chicken that would be cooked? In all humility, she wouldn’t be able to resist him, naked…her naked, not him…well, actually, both of them.

“Are you awake?” she repeated softly.

He said nothing to her question, just moaned softly, as if in deep sleep. He planned to do a great deal more moaning sometime later, and she would be moaning, too. That was one of his greatest talents, making a woman moan. And prolonging anticipation. And…well, he misremembered all his bedsport talents now, but there were plenty of them. He could scarce wait to hear how a witch moaned. Or would a witch howl? He shrugged mentally. Moan, howl…either one would suffice. He planned to roar, himself. And moan and howl. And those other things he couldn’t remember.

But wait, there were interesting events taking place whilst his mind had been wandering. Alinor had flipped the bed furs up to cover his chest and stomach, exposing his legs. She was using the cloth to wash the furred skin from loins to toes. He called on every bit of self-control his battered body still held in store as she skimmed the tense muscles of his inner thighs. A good warrior, forced to ride unruly destriers into battle, soon honed those inner thigh muscles, and with honing came heightened sensitivity. The unbelievably intense pleasure her soapy caresses engendered caused him to clench his fists and grit his teeth, but he could not stop a certain part of his body from rising to the occasion. Never had his staff felt so hard and long. Never had it throbbed with such wonderful pain.

But then her fingers worked in the lather, rather than the cloth, and that was his undoing. Much more, and he would humiliate himself.

With a roar of protest, oblivious to the pain in his head, he sat upright and shoved her hands aside. “Are you trying to kill me, woman?”

She blinked at him with surprise. “You’re awake.”

“Yea, I’m awake. I would have to be a cadaver not to revive after all that prodding and poking.”

“Prodding and poking?” she exclaimed indignantly.

“Blessed Lord, Alinor, were you using a washup as an excuse for finding every blessed erotic spot on my body?”

“Erotic spot? What’s an erotic spot?”

He couldn’t help himself. He began to laugh. When he finally calmed down, he informed her, “Everyone—man and woman alike—has erotic spots on their bodies. Places that are especially susceptible to excitement. Some have more than others. Some have them in very…uh, different spots. The inner thighs are among my particular favorites, as you very well discovered. I thank you not to torture me so…leastways, not till I am well enough to follow through on your invitation.” He smiled at her to soften the blow of his criticism.

She frowned, and he could tell that she did not really understand his words. A widow three times over, and she was naive as a virgin farm girl.

“Why, you ungrateful cad! Where is your appreciation for all my ministrations these past three days? Where is your thanks for my taking on the odious task of bathing your body? Where is…”

Her words trailed off as her eyes latched onto his midsection. He cupped his hands over himself, but it was too late. She’d seen enough. She narrowed her eyes at him, then began whacking him all over with her wet washcloth…his shoulders, his arms, his legs, his “tentpole.” The whole time, she was berating him, “As if I would deliberately tempt you…or any other man! You lecherous lout! You odious oaf! You perverted puddinghead! You—”

She drew herself up suddenly, as if realizing the impropriety of beating a sick man.

He pushed his luck just a mite too far when he inquired with a grin, “Does that mean you’re not going to finish bathing me?” He looked pointedly down at a part of his body that would really, really like to be bathed by her soft woman hands.

She answered by storming out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Instantly, the door opened again, and she was the one grinning now, except the grin never reached her flashing green, evil eyes.

“I showed Rurik my tail today.”

“Really?” He grinned, never having believed that tail nonsense.

“If you’re not careful, Viking, I’m going to show you my tail—and a whole lot more.” Then she slammed the door again.

I’m counting on it, witchling. With all my being, I am counting on it.

Chapter Twelve

It was a cozy, familiar scene that met Tykir’s eyes as he made his way carefully to the great hall the next afternoon, to the warm greetings of his men.

The burly warriors and seamen, dressed in leather tunics and braies, huddled close to the three roaring hearths for warmth as wind whistled through the closed shutters of narrow, arrow-slit windows. Other heartier souls, covered with cloaks of wolf, sealskin, bear and fox, sat about the hall in small groups. Some of them were drinking mead and playing dice, while others polished swords and armor. Two men in the corner squinted and cursed as they painstakingly sewed a tear in one of the longship sails spread over a trestle table.