Page 79 of Truly, Madly Viking

A decision? About what? Did I miss something here? Oh, he must mean his question about the fomnat off our first lovemaking.

His next words confirmed her conclusion.

"Methinks a conquering is in order."

Jorund was almost embarrassed by the hugeness of his erection. Almost. Really, he could not remember a time in his life when he'd ever wanted a woman so much. Had she ensorcelled him? He knew that he was treating her unfairly, accusing her of trying to be a leader in the sexplay.

But—blessed Odin, he had to do something to slow down his catapulting excitement.

He glanced down at his excitement and snorted with disgust. For the love of Freyja! Instead of lessening, his engorged member had become even more painfully erect.

Rita waddled in, probably figuring it was time to bedevil him again. Instead she took one look at his excitement, then appeared to do a feline double lock before raising her fat head with disdain and ambling off. Obviously she was not impressed.

But Mag-he was. Truly, did she not have the least bit of sense to be staring at him so, gape mouthed with wonder? Did she not know that a maiden's eyes on a man's most prized instrument caused it to react on its own? As his brother Magnus always said, "A man's cock can be his best friend, or his worst enemy."

And his other brother, Rolf, always said, "A manroot has no brain." He agreed with both sentiments.

"Are all Vikings like you?" She was still ogling his staff.

"I'm the only one," he lied.

She giggled. She actually giggled. He considered crossing his legs and covering himself with his hands, but that was so out of character for him, who was usually proud of his endowments... except that his endowments had never been quite this endowed. In truth, he wished the slate floor would open up and swallow him whole. Instead his other brain—the one between his legs—decided to take over.

"Take it off." His statement came out more like a growled order than a sweet request.

"Take what off?" The wench was holding on to the stair post, white-knuckled, as if she might fold bonelessly to the floor without its support. He was of the same mind.

She should know perfectly well what he'd meant, but then her eyes did seem dazed. Perhaps she was a bit disoriented. So he told her, "The siren robe." If he was going to be standing naked as a plucked chicken with a bull-size erection, he was bloody well going to have company.

"Oh." Her skin was flaming, from her face right down to the edge of the deep neckline.

He liked her blush ever so much. Usually Jorund sought out women well experienced in bedplay... ones who could teach him new tricks. But he had to admit he was anticipating the joys of teaching Mag-he a thing or two... or twenty.

She untied the cloth belt at her waist, then stopped. "Joe, I'm not as beautiful as you are, or in nearly as good shape as you are." Shyly she parted the sides over her shoulders and let the fabric slither to the floor in a crimson pool.

His heart stopped beating for a second, then exploded inside his chest into a thundering beat. "Oh, Mag-he, you are beautiful to me. And your form is shapely, just the way I like."

Actually her form was more than fine to him: it was perfect. She was taller than the average female, more like the statuesque women of his race, though there was naught Nordic about her appearance. Her hair was raven black, cut far too short to be feminine, but attractive nonetheless. Her lips were full and red and kissable beyond all bounds of sensuality. Her eyes gazed at him through misty blue pools of passion.

But it was her body that drew him now... a body that was curvaceous... made for love. Her breasts were large and full and rose-nippled. They were not excessively large, except in relation to her small-boned frame, and they were uplifted, not sagging with their heaviness. He intended to pay great homage to those breasts; that was a promise he made himself.

He knew that Mag-he thought she carried too much weight, but she was wrong. Men did not like skin-and-bone females, as was the fashion of her time. That was one thing he knew had not changed through the centuries. On that issue, men were men.

He let his eyes roam lower. Her creamy torso tapered in at the waist, but then flared out at the hips...

hips perfect for bearing a man's babe, or a man's lustful body. The navel ring sparkled in its place, midbelly. He could not wait to taste it with his tongue. Was it cool? Or hot?

The thatch of dark hair below was curly and already glistening with woman-dew, he would wager. Her legs were long and comely, and her feet high-arched and narrow. He intended to investigate every part of her thoroughly before morning.

Bloody hell, it would be before midnight, he amended in his head, if he kept going at this rate.

"So beautiful," he repeated in a voice raw with passion. Then he reached for her.

Maggie did feel beautiful at that moment. Under Joe's appreciative scrutiny, her womanliness was suddenly something to glory in, instead of repress. She wanted him to find her sexy, and he apparently did.

When he opened his arms to her, reaching as he strode toward her, Maggie was filled with such joy that she hurled herself into his embrace. He caught her with a surprised laugh and lifted her high. But when she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders, she must have startled him, because he gasped and exclaimed, "Mag-he!" just before his knees gave way. He lurched forward, landing on his knees on the first rung of the carpeted stairs. Then, still pitching forward, he pressed Maggie backward, and she found herself sprawled on the steps, legs wide, and Joe on top of her.

He blinked at her, wide-eyed with shock. Maggie wasn't sure if he was about to laugh or cry. Despite the carpet that had broken his fall, Joe's knees must pain him dreadfully. "Are you hurt?"