Page 43 of Viking Unchained

“Uh-uh. A friend.”

I do not know what is worse . . . that she considers me a friend, or nobody of any worth.

“Yes, I know you’ve never met him. He’s a new friend.”

Gor the Gruesome is my friend. Cnut the Courageous is my friend. You, m’lady, are not my friend.

“Will I bring him with me to Minnesota?” She turned to look at him.

He favored her with his best glower.

“Maybe.” She listened for awhile then. Even from here, he could hear the boy’s chatter, though not clearly enough to make out the words. He noticed one thing. Lydia’s face fair glowed when she talked to her son. “Why do you want me to bring your cowboy hat? Oh, right. Itchy has a cowboy hat; so, you have to have one, too. Listen, sweetie, I’ve got to go. I love you bunches, honey bear.” She grinned at something he said then.

She smiled whimsically at the phone as she clicked it off.

“Why are you smiling?”

“He called me honey bee.”

Well, that was a lackwit thing to smile about, in his opinion, but he said naught as she went back to preparing their meal. She had to be aware of the effect the boy had on him. Was she being sensitive to his feelings, or did she just not care because he was a nobody, as she had told her son?

He watched through narrowed eyes as Lydia bustled about the scullery, banging pots and pans together, slamming metal food containers on the cabinet tops, muttering under her breath. She was clearly annoyed with him, for some reason.

He cared not a whit for that. He was enjoying himself too much. In the black garment which hugged every nook and crevice of her body, she was temptation in its purest sense. With her hair piled in a loose knot atop her head, her neck and her shoulders were bare, showing evidence of his whisker burn and sex bites. Her breasts, which provided an endless feast when they made love, tempted him constantly. They were full, full enough to fill his big hands, and hard-tipped. A woman’s breasts.

Her legs were alluring, too. Extra long length with muscled thighs and calves from all her dancing, he supposed. Good for hugging his hips when the bedsport got vigorous.

What he liked most about Lydia was her zest for loveplay. She was unapologetic about her needs, and thus allowed herself to peak, repeatedly, sometimes loudly, sometimes with delicious moans or sweet keening. Other than strumpets, most women he knew endured bedsport as a marital duty.

Not that he was complaining.

Oddly, he had spent much effort in giving her pleasure, too. He could not recall it mattering much to him in the past whether his partner peaked or not. But with Lydia, her pleasure was his pleasure.

He watched now as she bent over, opening a lower door, searching for some item or other. Her buttocks were round and curved, like half moons, with enough flesh for a man to grab on to. He grinned to himself, imagining something he might try in that regard.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she glanced his way over her shoulder, then glanced again. “What? Why are you staring at me?”

Dost really want to know? He linked his hands behind his neck, his body relaxed, legs extended and partly spread. And continued to stare at her.

“No,” she said.

He arched his eyebrows.

“No more sex.”

Definitely more sex. “Dost think you are in a position to dictate to me, wench?”

“And stop calling me wench.”

“What wouldst thou prefer? Dearling? Sweetling? Heartling?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She was standing now, backed up against the cabinets.

“Do not get any romantic notions about the sex we have both enjoyed. ’Tis no more than animal hunger, easily sated.”

“What an ass! No wonder your wife left you.”

“Your tongue exceeds your good sense, Lydia. You know naught of what went on betwixt my wife and me.” And, believe you me, it was not much.