Page 25 of The Outlaw Viking

As if sensing that she could not take much more, Selik skimmed the smooth planes from her breasts to the vee between her thighs. Placing the heel of his palm against the silk brief, with his long fingers between her legs, he pressed once, then again, and again, in rhythm, until her body exploded in a million shattering explosions of the purest, most intense climax she had ever experienced.

When her breathing finally calmed, Rain confessed in a whisper of awe to the man whose face no longer shifted but was Selik, only Selik, “I have been waiting for you all my life. Now I know why I was sent here.”

Selik’s eyes suddenly filled with a fierce longing. “I never expected to see you again, Astrid.”

At first, Rain’s mind refused to register the significance of Selik’s words. But then, through the roaring in her ears, she heard one single word, repeated over and over, echoing through her passion-sluggish brain, “Astrid! Astrid! Astrid!”

His wife.

Selik stood and dropped his loin cloth, supremely confident of his masculinity. He was preparing to join her in the bed furs, to make love to her. No, not her, Rain realized—his wife.

The shimmering glaze in his cloudy gray eyes caught her attention, and she recognized the disorientation, almost like yesterday when she had seen him in the battlefield after his berserk bout of violence.

Oh, no! Rain came instantly awake and quickly realized that this was no dream.

Her eyes skimmed the tent area and saw the reason for his strange behavior. His bloody tunic and sword lay where he had dropped them on the ground, still wet with the life fluid of those he had undoubtedly killed that day. It was bloodlust that drove him to her, not lust for her body. And certainly not love. That was apparently reserved for the wife who held his heart.

She had surrendered completely to Selik’s masterful seduction, yielding all her defenses as she never had before, but he didn’t want her. He had thought she was his wife. Her throat ached with defeat, and she could not speak over her acute sense of loss.

Abruptly, Rain stood and backed away from Selik. Her face flamed hotly with shame over her easy capitulation. Humiliatingly aware of Selik’s scrutiny, she knew the instant that violence and rage replaced his smoldering arousal.

“Is this the kind of game you played with those other men you mentioned yestereve—those of the bad ruttings? Do you turn hot, then cold, with all your men? Or just me? Are you one of those women who enjoy teasing men?”

“No,” she denied, finally finding her voice. “I was sleeping…dreaming. You took advantage of me.”

He snorted rudely, pulling on a pair of loose leggings, and raised an eyebrow mockingly. “Lady, your woman heat practically singed the fine hairs all over my body.”

Rain raised her chin defiantly, never one to fabricate or hide behind false modesty. “You’re right. I did want you. For one moment of insanity. Until I remembered.”

“Remembered what?”

“That you’re married, you cheating bastard,” she snapped, having reached her breaking point. “That you have a wife, Astrid, who’s probably sitting at home somewhere surrounded by a bunch of kids. That you didn’t want to make love with me. You thought I was your wife.”

Rain swiped at the tears that smarted her eyes and turned away, not wanting Selik to witness her further humiliation. “Go away. Just leave me alone.”

A long silence followed, during which Rain heard no rustling of cloth which would indicate that Selik had left the tent. Finally, she turned slightly to see what he was doing.

He stood in the same spot as before, just staring at her in horror. “How do you know about Astrid?”

Selik was confused and disoriented. He had been gone all day. So much blood. And killing. Captives. Screaming. His brain buzzed with the horror of it all, the violence with which he was still not comfortable, even after all these years.

He tunneled the fingers of both hands through his hair and pulled, hard, to clear his head.

The tall blond woman stood before him like a majestic goddess, her golden hair in wild disarray, flowing down her back, over her shoulders, caressing the mounds of her flesh-colored undergarment. And the matching wisp of material that barely concealed her womanhood clearly delineated the gentle curve of her narrow waist and hips and drew the eye to legs that were exceedingly long and comely.

This was not Astrid, his petite wife with her fine bones and dainty, shy ways. No, Astrid had died, and this woman, this messenger from the gods, or so she said, was statuesque, hard-muscled, willful—a woman to stand at a man’s side, not behind his shield. She was magnificent.

“Nay, you are not Astrid,” he said, realizing too late that he had spoken the words aloud.

The hurt which had clouded her beautiful honey eyes turned instantly to outrage. Angrily, she reached down for a tunic of his which lay near her feet, giving him a better view of her enticing breasts as they hung suspended in their lacy cups for a brief moment before she straightened. And he felt his manhood grow harder.

“Don’t look at me like that, you horny toad.”

His mouth snapped shut, and she jerkily pulled the tunic over her head. Without a belt, the short-sleeved wool garment hung to her elbows and down to midcalf. For some odd reason, he liked the idea of her wearing his tunic. Could she smell his scent in the fabric? Did she like the notion of wearing something which had touched his skin as well?

Thor’s Blood! Where do these notions come from? I care naught for this strange wench, or any other.

“I see you’ve been out raping and pillaging again,” she snarled, pointing to his bloody sword and garments on the ground near the tent entrance.