Page 81 of The Last Viking

“Mayhap, slave, I will keep you naked till you bend to my will. Or wearing the scant garments I choose.” His eyes took note of the angora sweater she’d donned earlier at his request.

A mistake, she discerned now as he licked his lips slowly. With anticipation?

Did he suspect that she’d also put on the Victoria’s Secret panties he’d bought for her?

He did, she saw as his hot scrutiny briefly settled there. She was wearing loose linen trousers, but he knew. He knew.

“Put your hands over your head, thrall,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Do you question your master’s authority, slave?” he said with lethal calmness, taking a steak knife from the counter and pressing it against her throat. “A recalcitrant slave must be punished.”

She wasn’t really frightened, except perhaps of the thudding of her heart. She surprised herself by doing as he’d commanded, raising her hands to the top of the refrigerator, where she grasped the edges of a casserole dish. But, despite her compliant pose, she tossed her hair over her shoulder in a gesture of petulance.

“Ah, a defiant slave,” he cooed. “Are you wanting to be tamed, wench?”

She shook her head. Do I?

Before she realized his intent, he eased the small knife inside the neckline of her sweater, first to the left, then the right, slitting the straps of her bra. He did the same from under the hem in front, cutting the center band of her undergarment. With the flick of his fingers, he pulled the wispy lingerie out and dropped it to the floor.

“Nay, do not move,” he ordered when her hands began to lower.

Holding her eyes, he undid the button of her slacks. The rasp of the sliding zipper echoed loudly in the silent room. In an instant, the fabric slithered down and pooled at her ankles. She was bare from ankle to waist, except for the French-cut, flesh-colored silk briefs.

The slight hitch of his breath was his only sign of appreciation.

“A beautiful slave girl is a highly prized commodity,” he said in raw tones, dragging the hem of her sweater downward so the sensuous fibers abraded her bare breasts. The tautened material outlined her uplifted breasts, whose nipples blossomed into hardened peaks as he watched. He released the hem, and the elasticized material sprang back into its original shape. He repeated the procedure several times till her nipples ached for more. The touch of his calloused fingertips came to mind.

“Rolf,” she whimpered and lifted her arms higher, bowing her chest outward in invitation.

“A slave does not address her master,” he reprimanded, running the backs of his knuckles over the tips in a too-quick motion. She wanted more.

“Spread your legs,” he said, “as far as you can.”

Restricted by the pantlegs at her ankles, she could only separate her feet so far. But it was enough. Her feminine folds parted, exposed against the silk crotch of her panties.

“Good.” Rolf stepped back.

Meredith couldn’t believe her eyes. Instead of taking her in his arms, as she’d expected, he walked away from her and sat in a chair on the other side of the table. “Do not think of moving, slave, or it will not go well for you,” he informed her in a thick rasp. Then he leaned back in the chair, arms lying loosely in his lap, legs sprawled forward, and he studied her like…like a possession.

The kitchen clock ticked the seconds away. Thea’s rock-’n-roll beat created a rhythm that was echoed in the throbbing of her nipples and the heated place between her legs. It was a vulnerable, seductive position he’d placed her in, but oddly, she didn’t feel demeaned. She felt extremely excited.

Whatever label she took on—wife, lover, friend, slave—she was Rolf’s. Well, that wasn’t quite true. They were still at a stalemate concerning his plans for their future. He was leaving in a few short weeks, and she was going to be devastated. Better the small pain now than the agonizing pain later.

“I will not marry you,” she cried. And she meant it.

“Whate’er you say, dearling.” He grinned. And he didn’t mean it.

“What I say is that I want you to touch me,” she snarled with frustration.

“Where?” he asked with amusement, though she noticed his knuckles were white where they now clasped his knees.

“Everywhere.”

“Greedy wench.” He laughed.

“So, do the Vikings have male captives, too?”