Page 51 of The Last Viking

“I’m going to have dozens of snags,” she choked out.

“Yea, you are good and truly snagged now, wench,” he misinterpreted and undulated against her once in demonstration. Bolts of white-hot arousal shot out from that point to all her extremities, and Meredith blinked with wonder. She hoped her eyes weren’t bugging out.

Then he pulled away for a second to allow space to hike the skirt up to her waist in front, too. He flipped up his tunic as well so there were only her pantyhose and the thin fabric of his loincloth separating them. Before she could slip down to the floor, his hips were back in place, locking her to the wall like a rag doll.

“Who is in charge now, Merry-Death?” he said huskily against her ear, reminding her of their ongoing battle.

Even his hot breath felt like a caress, but she refused to answer. It was so unfair of him to carry their differences over the longship project into this personal arena.

He laughed at her unspoken resistance to his question, and Meredith feared he would take it as a challenge.

He did.

Bending his knees slightly and canting his pelvis forward, he fitted his arousal with perfect accuracy into the vee of her legs. Her senses reeled and a soft whimper escaped her throat.

“Was that an order I just heard, Dr. Foster?” he asked, taking her hands, which had begun to push against his shoulders, and raising them above her head. Lacing her fingers with his, he placed them against the wall.

She shook her head. “Is this how Vikings go about raping and pillaging? Is this how you subdue your captive women?”

“Nay, this is how,” he replied silkily.

And Meredith comprehended even before his head began to descend that she’d stepped into his trap.

“Wet your lips,” he demanded.

She should have refused. Instead, she obeyed. Her only satisfaction was his quick intake of breath.

He nodded with approval, and then coaxed, “Part your lips.”

She obeyed.

His erection lurched against her. “Arch your neck and raise your mouth to meet mine.” His order this time was a barely discernible whisper.

He took her lips then with a savage intensity, catching her moan in his open mouth. Rapaciously, he forced her lips wider to take his thrusting tongue. To her shock, Meredith found herself welcoming his rough invasion, drawing on his tongue, kissing him back. Never breaking the kiss, Rolf molded her mouth with wet, clinging expertise. He directed her without words on how to make her lips pliant, how to please him most.

When the pulsing sensation between her legs began to throb and spiral outward with delicious agony, portending a too-hasty, too-violent climax, Meredith tried to tear her mouth away and tighten her thighs together. “No!” she cried out.

Understanding far too much, Rolf nipped her bottom lip with controlled aggression. “Shhh, sweetling, let me.” It wasn’t a request.

“But I don’t want…oh!” Somehow in her passion-induced state, she hadn’t realized that her hands were still raised above her head, voluntarily now, while his hands had been busy undoing the buttons on her jacket. His golden brown eyes glittered with erotic excitement as he gazed at her lace-covered breasts, then eased the fabric aside.

He didn’t have to order her to bow her back and thrust her aching breasts forward. She did so out of a primordial need for his male touch. And, oh…o-o-o-h!…it took a mere flick of his callused fingertips over the swollen nipples for her to whimper and spread her legs, wrapping them around his waist.

With a guttural growl, he put his hands on her nearly bare buttocks and rocked her, first gently, then hard, hard, hard till the agonizing pulse grew and grew and grew. They both exploded against each other in a wild rush of overwhelming ecstasy.

At some point, Rolf’s legs must have given way for she awakened from a brief swoon—the first of her life—to find herself on the floor, with her legs still clamped around his waist. He looked stunned.

She was pretty stunned herself. And mortified beyond belief.

Geirolf leaned against a tree and watched Merry-Death through slitted eyelids as she skittered amongst her students. She’d resisted Thea’s urging to change into an extra Viking gown, and instead donned a pair of jeans and a huge sweating shert emblazoned with, “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.” He smiled as he read the message. He already knew how she could “roar.”

He much preferred her in the garment she’d worn earlier—the one that exposed her long legs and a good portion of her bosom. Or the cat-fur sweat-her she’d worn to the shipping mall several days past.

He wouldn’t tell her of his preferences yet, though. At this moment, he was not pleased with the wench. Oh, she talked to the young people in a normal tone of voice about the project and other sundry matters. They sat about the fire nibbling at the meal he had provided for them on wooden trenchers: chunks of beef swimming in a thick gravy served over slices of unleavened manchet bread, which they called pita bread in this land. And she laughed gaily when admiring their attire, but he knew the gaiety was forced. The wench was as nervous as a cat on hot coals. And with good reason.

She’d escaped his clutches after their near coupling an hour past. But not for long. He knew it. And she knew it.

Geirolf couldn’t believe he’d spilled his seed in his breechcloat like an overeager youthling. For the second time. The wench with her wanton hose had seduced him into an overpowering loss of control. And his release, though not attained in the mode he would have preferred, had been gloriously exquisite. Whilst he misliked the woman’s ability to turn his brain to gruel and his bones to butter, he could scarce wait to see what their actual bedding would be like, if this foretaste was any indication.