Page 49 of The Bewitched Viking

“There are a goodly number of thinks in there,” he quipped. “I’d best think about that for a while.”

She slapped at his chest in remonstrance. “You are thinking that I may be mud ugly in the daylight with my brash hair and freckles and other uncomely attributes, but in the dark, one female is the same as any other.”

“You have me all figured out, do you?”

“Yea, I do. ’Tis just as Egbert and Hebert used to say when they came home late, after a night of wenching. It matters not the beauty of the sky when you are plowing a field.”

“We Vikings have a similar saying,” he said. “Imøer all katter.” He paused for only a moment before translating with a laugh, “All cats are gray in the dark.”

She punched him.

Which was a mistake, because he laughed even harder.

Then she made the biggest mistake of all. She shifted abruptly to confront him, thus causing her breasts and upper legs to abrade his forearm and thighs, but, most alarming, putting her lips within kissing distance of his. And if there was one thing he relished in the lovesport more than any other, it was kissing. Long and deep, short and soft, demanding and persuasive, wet and dry. Good kissing was almost equal to good sex. Not quite, but almost.

So, without considering the consequences, he put a hand to her nape and drew her to him. Her lips parted with surprise, and he took advantage by slanting his mouth over hers in a perfect fit, with her lips forced to remain open.

Then he proceeded to show her, well and true, that all men were not alike.

Chapter Eight

A kiss.

So this is a kiss.

Hmmm.

Ummmmm.

Tykir had caught her unawares, lips parted, about to protest, when first he pulled her to him. Now the gentle pressure of his lips forced hers to remain open for his plundering. Shifting and shaping, he plied an age-old expertise till he won her pliancy.

Then he started over again.

It should have been embarrassing, but it was not.

It should have been an assault, but it was not.

It should have been repulsive, but—oh, sweet Mary!—it was not.

By the time she realized that she lay quiescent, surrendering to the seduction of his kiss, it was too late. Her curiosity was aroused, her senses enflamed.

A kiss is like an exploration, she marveled. Man of woman. Woman of man. And of oneself.

And it is a dance. She smiled inwardly at such uncharacteristic whimsy on her part. But truly it was a dance—a lyrical movement of the body set to the music of the senses. An erotic play of slow rhythms and subtle nuances.

She wanted to know more.

There was a clean, musky fragrance to his skin, contrasting with the lingering scent of the animal furs and the wood fire. His breath tasted of honeyed mead.

But, nay, it was madness to continue on this path. She should push him away now. Stop this insanity before the lout deemed her smitten with him…which she was not. It was the kiss that held her in thrall, of course, not the man. Instead of resisting, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and lay back to give him easier access.

His body stilled. Then he murmured one word and one word only against her lips: “Alinor.” There was wonder in his voice, and surprise, and raw, frightening promise.

Blessed St. Jude, patron of hopeless cases, come to my aid. I fear I am becoming the most hopeless case of all.

Leaning over her, he placed one hand to her throat to hold her in place, with his wide thumb resting on the pulse spot on her neck. Could he feel the thundering of her heart? The roaring of her blood?

His kiss changed then, reclaiming hers with a shocking hunger. Before Alinor had a chance to register the significance of this switch and realize that now might be the time to call a halt to this risky game, Tykir forced her lips wider with his own, and his tongue pushed slowly and deeply into her mouth. Stunned, she allowed him this invasion. His tongue withdrew, then plunged again.