Page 36 of Viking Unchained

He was allowing himself to be all twisted up inside over a woman. His comrades-in-arms back in the Norselands would laugh their bloody heads off. And his brother Steven would never let him forget this happenstance.

On top of all that, he was bored. After his walk on the beach, which was like any other beach in the world, Thorfinn attempted unsuccessfully to start the TV. Then he visited the bathing chamber, where he thoroughly examined the showering stall, the running water, the toilet, and all the objects in a mirrored cabinet above the sink. What is lavender douche anyway? He’d pulled out every drawer and opened every closet, including a room which must be his son’s sleep bower, decorated as it was with stuffed animals and stars on the ceiling.

The witch was still below stairs. Dancing, no doubt, if the music he heard was any indication. Barmy as a bell tower!

Well, she would be doing a different type of dance soon. He’d given her privacy long enough.

He walked slowly down the stairs, letting the loud music lead his way. Son of a troll! The music was so loud and raucous, the closer he got, it was a wonder her ears did not bleed. His for certain were starting to ache. Some wailing about boogie woogie woogie, whatever that was.

Then he saw her.

Oh. My. Gods!

After being ambushed by Arab villains, riding a bird in the sky, time-traveling to the future with all its unbelievable inventions, being made captive by a woman, he’d thought he could no longer be shocked.

He was wrong.

Lydia was dancing. With a pole. A floor-to-ceiling pole that was surely a phallic symbol. Mirrors covered an entire wall. Holy bloody hell! Mayhap he had died and gone to Valhalla after all, and Lydia was a Valkyrie, whose sole purpose was to appease the hungers of dead warriors. Of course they were supposed to be virgins, but that was of no matter to him, especially after the far-from-virginal performance this lady had put on for him thus far.

With hair piled atop her head, she wore a one-piece black garment that hugged her body like a second skin. There were stirrups at her bare feet. Her arms, neck, and shoulders were exposed. The curve of her breasts was clearly delineated. For the love of Frigg, he could probably see the dimples in her buttocks if he looked close enough.

And she was sweating. Who knew a woman’s sweat could be erotic? Certainly, not him, and the evidence was standing out from his body like a bloody banner. In truth, he was not certain he had ever seen a woman sweat before lest she were a peasant doing hard labor in the fields or scullery. And being aromatic then had definitely not been lust-producing.

He watched from the doorway as she danced, not knowing she was being observed. She strutted around the pole. She climbed it, then arched backwards, arms dangling, held only by the strength of her thighs straddling the pole. She lunged up to grab the pole at a height above her head, climbed even higher, using hands and thighs, then spun downwards in a spiral fashion.

If one viewed the pole as a representation of a penis . . . and he did . . . her dance moves could only be construed as sexual foreplay. And he was construing, for a certainty.

Another thing was certain. She would be entertaining him later by dancing with the pole. Naked.

Without missing a move, the song changed to lyrics about not being able to get any satisfaction. Well, he was going to give her satisfaction; that was another for-certainty.

“Greetings, Lydia,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the music.

Startled, she lost her grip on the pole and fell to the floor, no doubt bruising her buttocks. She stood and began to back away.

Big mistake.

She was soon trapped against the mirror wall, betwixt his two extended arms, braced on either side of her head. “I thought you might have left.”

“Obviously, I have not.” Has there ever been a woman with lips so rosy red . . . and kiss-some?

“What are you going to do?”

Guess. “Suffice it to say . . . never drop your sword to hug a wild boar.”

“That makes no sense. Besides, I was just going to come up.”

“So you say! Methinks you hoped I would leave if you malingered long enough.”

“True enough. Actually, I was going to call your cousin Kirstin.”

He arched his eyebrows. Her nipples are hard, I cansee. Is it because I excite, or is it due to my earlier fondling?

“I recalled, belatedly, her telling me that you were her cousin when we first saw you in the Wet and Wild, and I thought maybe she’d have some idea how I could . . .” She let her words trail off, realizing she was doing herself no good.

“So, you knew I was kin to Kirstin and Torolf when you brought me here.” That hole you are digging gets deeper and deeper, wench.

“You have to understand. Something about you reminds me of my husband—”