Page 112 of A Tale of Two Vikings

With a roar of frustration, Toste flipped her over on her back and thrust himself into her, up to the hilt. She winced at the pinching sensation, but he made soothing sounds in her ear and did not move. Only when her body relaxed did he pull out slowly, almost all the way, then go in again, very slowly.

She sighed.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head. “Am I hurting you?”

He laughed. “Only in the best possible way.”

No more talking after that. He took her ankles and pressed them up against her buttocks, then spread her knees wider. For a long, long time then, he stroked her, long and slow. Then he got faster and faster and shorter and shorter, till she was wailing and peaking almost continuously. Was it possible to die of too much pleasure? She loved the friction of his plunging on her inner walls. She loved the way the base of his manpart hit her woman-bud every time he came home. She loved the fullness of him imbedded in her.

When it seemed she could take no more pleasure, and Toste was gasping for breath, he raised himself on straightened arms, his neck thrown back. Like a Norse god he looked. Blond and glorious. Then he thrust himself into her one last time and roared out his triumph. She rippled around him in yet another peaking.

After that, he slumped over her body, completely sated. In truth, he might have fallen asleep for a moment.

When he raised his head finally, he gazed at her in wonder, leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips, and murmured, “That was good.” Then he grinned and remarked, “One down and ten more to go.”

Esme glowered up at him, as if he’d given her a painful reminder of their punishment pact, but in truth she did not mind at all. Sometimes, “punishment” was not such a bad thing.

It’s hard work, but someone’s gotta do it…

Toste awakened after midnight with a smile on his face. And not just because he smelled like a bloody rose.

He should get up and put more wood on the fire. The room was cool because the fire had burned down to embers. He did not get up immediately, though. He was too comfortable with Esme curled up on him like honey on a hot rock. He chuckled to himself at that apt description. She made honey like a busy little bee, and he was definitely hot and rock-hard.

Already Esme had chipped three days off her confinement. And though she would never admit it, she had enjoyed the process immensely, as much as he had…or more. Holy Thor, his almost-nun had taken to lovemaking like a harem houri. The second time she’d made love to him, she’d ridden him like a horse. And a fine rider she was, too. The third time she’d licked him till he was the one to surrender, even though she’d avoided that most important place of all.

His nose was starting to get cold. So finally he eased himself off the bed and went to the far side of the room, where he relieved himself in a chamber pot. Hunkering down before the fire, he quietly laid several logs on the grate and blew the embers aflame. Soon he had a roaring fire once again.

He dusted off his hands and turned to go back to the bed. Only then did he notice Esme lying on her side, watching him.

“You are awake,” he said unnecessarily.

She nodded, and from the way she stared at him he knew what she had in mind. A part of his body knew, too, and reacted accordingly.

Esme grinned with satisfaction.

He shook his head at her as he slid back under the fur pelts. “You are not going to wipe out your entire punishment in one night, Esme. So forget about it.”

“What? You could not rise to the occasion eleven times in one night?”

Rise to the occasion? She certainly had a way with words. He looked at her to see if she was serious.

She was.

I am good, but I am not that good. “Nay, I cannot do it eleven times in one night.”

“I could.”

“I doubt it.” What kind of wanton have I created here?

“What is this mark here?” she asked, tracing the cloverleaf imprint on his inner thigh, up high.

“A birthmark.”

She continued to trace the outline with her forefinger. He could even feel her breath there, which he liked immensely. His staff liked that tracing and breathing business, too, and began to thicken.

She giggled. “Does…did…your twin brother have the same mark?”