Page 78 of Truly, Madly Viking

She saw then that his chest was indeed heaving with some great stress. And what a great chest it was, too. And broad shoulders, a washboard abdomen, well-delineated muscles everywhere, all leading down to narrow hips and waist and a deliciously flat stomach. There were blond hairs covering his chest and arms, a darker shade of blond than on his head, but straight and fine as gold silk. How would it feel to the touch?

And, oh, it was humbling to admit, but the man was in much better physical shape than she was.

She was a slug compared to him... all soft and squishy in places he was hard as steel. He was narrow and trim, while she was all curves—way too many curves, she thought, as all her insecurities came back.

She should have jogged more lately. She should have spent every spare moment on the StairMaster. She should have done crunches till the cows came home... or at least till the Viking came home.

He was the exact picture of a Norse god. Better, even.

She, on the other hand, was no Norse goddess... not by any stretch of the imagination.

"You came to the door like a siren, prepared to lure me into your game," he accused.

"I did not," she protested, knowing full well it was a lie, or at least a half-truth. Subconsciously she had recognized the significance of her daughters' absence, but her skimpy attire hadn't been a deliberate attempt to lead him... to control their lovemaking. Had it?

"Ne'er once did you think of calling me at the gym and informing me of these events, I warrant. Ne'er once did you contemplate that I might like to be the man in this process. Tell me true: were you or were you not trying to seduce me?"

"You are really beginning to sound like a male chauvinist." Her chin shot up defensively. "Do women never seduce men in your time? Is it so wrong for a woman to take the first step?"

"You know it is not. That is not the issue here."

"And what would that issue be?"

"Me. The man you know me to be. I am Jorund the Warrior. The first time we make love must be on my terms. We will make love—of that there is no doubt but it will be my way."

"Viking kind of love?" She was attempting to inject some humor into their conversation, but there was no masking her nervousness.

"Precisely."

Precisely? Precisely? What does that mean?

Do Vikings make love differently from other men?

Oh, boy.

I mean, oh, man... oh, man, oh, nan!

"The only question in my mind is whether, this first time, I should woo you or conquer you."

What an arrogant, sexist thing to say. But both possibilities sounded good to Maggie. In fact, his hoarsely rasped-out words caused her knees to go weak. She backed up a pace and grabbed for the upstairs banister with one hand, for support.

"You have made me wait too long for wooing, Mag-he," Joe told her, as if they were discussing the weather and not some erotic activity that would no doubt blow her mind. He was bent over, untying the laces on his athletic shoes. "What think you on the matter?"

Maggie thought she was already too aroused to think, let alone speak.

Joe stood and in one sleek movement pushed off his sweatpants and Jockey underwear, together.

Stepping out of them one foot at a time, he then gave her his full attention.

"Mercy!" was the only thing she could think of to say.

His stomach muscles lurched, as did another part of him.

She repeated, "Mercy!" Obviously Joe did want her, as he'd said. A lot. Mercy, mercy, mercy!

Joe Rand... or Jorund—was a big man. All over. And while Maggie had never been one to yearn for great size in that department, she wasn't about to deny its merits, either.

"I have made my decision," he announced, stepping slowly and purposefully toward her.