Death Blow Page 8

  Nyssa flinched when he brushed a slice of apple over her lips. She glanced up and found him watching her like a hawk about to snatch a tasty morsel. The thumping of her heart roared in her ears.

  “Prefer you pears to apples?”

  She shook her head and opened her mouth to take the slice, but he whisked the fruit away. Frowning, she said, “I like apples.”

  “Good. Take the slice then.” With that he slipped the apple between his lips and waggled an eyebrow.

  “You are daft.” She smacked his shoulder.

  He cocked his head and his hand slipped between her thighs.

  She gasped.

  ’Twas as if he had been waiting for her to do so, for he dipped his head and thrust the apple into her open mouth. Her eyes crossed. She closed them and sucked on the slice. His tongue brushed hers and the tantalizing touch made her female parts spasm and dew. She nibbled on the apple, caught the tip of his tongue between her teeth, and froze.

  His hand cupped the back of her head, and he opened his mouth over hers, surging inside. ’Twas hungry and heated and delicious, the way he stroked, this way and that. She leaned to one side to deepen his sweet penetration and jerked free when he splayed his fingers over her mound. The heel of his palm ground against that part of her woman’s flesh that ached and pulsed and had become the center of her world. She lifted into his hand and cried out his name when his finger invaded her sheath.

  “Aye, mìlseachd, come for me. Say my name and find your pleasure.” He sucked on her lower lip and kissed her again. His tongue thrust in cadence with his finger, in and out, up and down. Her walls fisted and released.

  She gripped his shoulders and tangled her fingers in his hair. A wildness took ahold of her, she met him stroke for stroke, licking his tongue, driving against his palm, reaching for something, but what, she knew not. Just that it was there tantalizingly out of reach. All at once, he tweaked her nipple, and she shattered into explosive convulsions.

  He moved swiftly, his mouth never leaving hers, and then he was above her. His knees nudged hers apart, and he came down between her legs. She felt his cock at her entrance, the head probing her core, and then he pushed forward.

  Her inner walls shuddered at the exquisite pressure when his engorged shaft stretched her sheath. She kneaded his scalp and wrapped her legs around his waist. The action jolted him deeper, and she was cert he filled her to the hilt.

  A gnawing frustration ate at her. She wanted, needed, him to move, but he had stilled. She tangled her tongue with his and bit the tip. He groaned into her mouth and grasped her hips. He started to withdraw, and she broke the kiss and fisted her hands in his hair. “Nay. Do not leave now.”

  The command came out as a wail.

  “Never.” He nipped her jaw and plunged back in, the thrust powerful and fierce and the most wonderful invasion in any kingdom. And then he repeated the motion—retreat, advance—each plundering faster and harder. Every time he shoved into her channel, he hit the nub at the apex of her womanhood. That spot vibrated and burned, and Nyssa knew she would burst on his next impalement.

  “Now!” he barked, his voice gruff and abrasive.

  It took all her strength to lift lids so heavy they could have been anchors. What she saw took her breath away. His face was contorted, lips drawn back tightly over bared teeth. No blue showed in his eyes, they were black with desire. He reached between them and pinched her nub.

  She fractured and tightened her legs on his back.

  Her muscles contracted and released feverishly.

  He pounded into her, threw back his head, and shouted, “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

  * * *

  Konáll’s arms shook with the effort to keep his weight off Nyssa. He shuddered when the last jet of seed erupted from his throbbing cock. A sated languor stole over him, and the scarlet haze of lust drifted away in slow increments. After a while he became aware of a nightingale’s song, the snap and crackle of the low fire, and the slight whistling of the wind beyond the tent.

  Nyssa made a small sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. He crooked one eye open and grinned. She wore a lopsided smile, and her gray eyes held glints of a sultry smokiness. Her lithe fingers toyed with his chest hair. The flame on one of the tallow candles on the table next to the pallet died and cast a shadow o’er her face.

  The heady fragrance of their coupling mingled with the smoky leftovers of the snuffed wax. He inhaled and closed his eyes to savor and memorize the aroma of her climax. Ne’er had he felt so gorged, so complete, so cert of his focus. Aye. She was his. Had been since he took her maidenhead.

  Nyssa had not the beauty of the women of the courts, nor that of the lusty country maids Dráddør favored, but she had bewitched him from the start. Though he was not one to believe in fate, ’twas as if some force had driven them together. And all he had learned from Mús and Nyssa served only to confirm that fact.

  Her puss quivered around his still-erect cock. Her eyes opened and their stares met, hers glazed and unfocused. She arched a tad and whimpered when the contractions finally slowed.

  He brushed his lips over her temple and smoothed a damp lock of hair from her cheek. “’Tis Freya’s greatest gift to mortal women.”

  She studied him through a half-lidded gaze. “What gift?”

  “The gift of multiple pinnacles without pause.”

  “The sirens spoke oft on carnal pleasure, but I thought ’twas all lies. Ne’er did I…” A tiny frown marred her forehead. She tapped his nipple, squinted to some spot above his shoulder, and stated, “You did that to me on the night afore Thrimilici? Nay. ’Tis not possible. I could ne’er have forgotten that.”

  He blew out a long sigh. ’Twas time for the reckoning. He had known it could not be avoided and had planned their first coupling as a long, mind-stealing event slated to last the entire night. But the lust he’d contained since first laying eyes on her had exploded.

  “Glad I am to know you would ne’er forget my cock in your puss. You have the right of it. My cock did not breech your sheath on Thrimilici. I used the aphrodisiac oil I spoke of earlier and an ivory dildo, another one of the tools Dráddør and I purchased from harem masters in the east.” He cupped her cheek. “Forgive me, Nyssa. ’Twas the only way to break the curse and save my manhood.”

  Her focus on him never wavered. She tilted her head and gave him a slight nod. “The sirens have a collection of dildos in their pleasure chambers. I had ne’er seen such afore.” Color suffused her cheeks and the tips of her ears. She rolled her eyes. “The sirens laughed so hard they cried, when I plucked one from a pile and informed them that all their hammers were bent.”

  Konáll chuckled. “We must tell Dráddør of your bent hammers. ’Twill irk him to no end.”

  Her forehead creased. “I understand this not. Do not shame me by telling your brother of my ignorance.”

  “Ah, wife, not ignorance—innocence. The Jomsvikings call Dráddør, Hefnd Hamarr. ’Tis Norse for Vengeance Hammer. Dráddør is famed for wielding only a hammer in battle.”

  A wide grin spread across her face. “He will be most chagrined, methinks. Though I only spoke with him briefly and have not spent much time in his company, I am convinced your brother has much conceit of both his hammers.”

  “Once again, wife, you have the right of it.” He twirled one of her short tresses around his forefinger. “Odin has indeed favored me. I have taken to wife a woman of not only beauty but one with a quick wit.”

  “Handfast wife,” she whispered, dropped her focus to the middle of his throat, and tried to wriggle out from under him.

  Loathe to leave the heat of her puss, he caught her chin and forced eye contact. “Why does the handfast wife gain naught?”

  She averted her gaze. “Because she is no longer a maid and can be cast aside.”

  “You are mine. I will not cast you aside.” He flexed inside her, and she glanced to him.

  Her lips trembled, and she shook her head. “I will not ho
ld you to those words.”

  Why did she hold herself in such low esteem? She was a puzzle, his wife. In one moment a proud warrior princess, in another ashamed and uncert. He would woo her, court her, let her see he valued more than her lands. For when she had cried like a babe in his arms, something had moved in his heart, and he had known then, she was his.

  But ’twas not the time for pondering, this eve he intended to cleave her to him, to form a bond to tie them together forever more. This eve he would put a babe inside her.

  Konáll lowered to his elbows, kissed her full on the mouth, and licked the seam of her lips. “You wrung me dry, mìlseachd. And now, I, too, am famished.”

  Repressing a sigh, he withdrew from her warmth, rolled over, and stood. “Move not a muscle.”

  Her hands once again covered her breasts. Konáll stifled the urge to worship her pretty tits and suckle the pouty nipples until she begged mercy. He walked over to the fire, retrieved a basin half-filled with warm water from the stone put there for such a purpose, and picked up two cloths. Grelod had assured him earlier that he would find all at ready for after the consummation. He needs thank her in the morn.

  Turning around, he found Nyssa staring at him, eyes wide, one lip tugged between two teeth, and head angled to one side. She had drawn the linen over her torso. Rosy color suffused the skin left exposed. Lashes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, she ducked her chin.

  What a strange mixture of shyness and boldness. She had not hesitated in exploring his cock, but his nudity now bothered her. Konáll’s lips twitched. In time she would lose her insecurity and strut for him wearing not a stitch of clothing.

  He knelt at the pallet and plucked the linen from her body. Her brows gathered, and she hissed. “I am cold.”

  “And sticky with my seed.” He wrung the cloth he’d dipped in the water and draped the smooth linen over her pubes. Working quickly he cleansed her pale curls and soft, swollen folds. “Your puss is beauty incarnate. Ne’er have I seen such lemon-kissed curls and rosy lips.”

  “I have heard traders speak of lemons, but they say they are golden like the sun.” A deep blush stole o’er every inch of her flesh, including her belly and thighs. “My hair there… ’Tis not gold.”

  Her sweet shyness and deep curiosity clutched at his heart. “Lemons are prevalent in the east and along the coasts where we Vikings trade. They are egg-shaped but twice as large and have a color akin to pale daffodil. When my friend and ally, the trader Ali H’malik, visits us later in the year, I will bid him bring us the fruit and a small tree for us to plant.”

  “You have seen so many lands and have such a wealth of knowledge. Pray tell, what do lemons taste like?” The expression of yearning in her wide eyes hitched his breathing. He vowed to take his wife a-Viking, to shower her with lemons, oranges, and all the exotic fruits he had tasted.

  “Sour and tart.” He pursed his lips and trailed a finger through her pubic curls. “Whilst your woman’s fleece is the same hue as a lemon, your taste is of clover honey and spice.”

  Nyssa’s loud gasp made him peek at her.

  “Taste?” Eyes wider than an owl’s, brows scraping her hair, mouth turned down, she looked horrified.

  “Aye. Has Mús told you of the coming war ’tween the Vanir and Æsir?”

  She shook her head. “What has that to do with my taste?”

  Konáll could not help it, he chortled.

  Her color deepened. “Nay. I did not say that aloud.”

  “You did, mìlseachd—”

  “Why call you me, mìlseachd?” She had forgotten about her lack of clothing, Konáll realized.

  “’Twas the first thing I thought when I saw you. That you were a delicate light in the dark of the cave.” He handed her the linen square and sidled onto the pallet.

  She glanced at the damp cloth and then to him.

  “Your turn.” He waved at his flaccid, sticky cock.

  Her lips thinned, but she dabbed at his sex. Ignoring his thickening organ, he reiterated Mús’s tale of the threatening war between the two sets of gods.

  “Will you stop jerking? I cannot clean it if it twitches and changes size constantly.” She pursed her mouth and glared at him.

  Konáll laughed until his sides ached. “My cock is well pleased at your compliments.”

  “Complimen—”

  He hauled her into his embrace and kissed her lustily. She stiffened, but when he lapped at her pressed lips, she sighed and opened for him. E’en her mouth tasted of clover honey and spice. The heat of her, the sweetness, went to his head. What started as a quick kiss lengthened into a thorough exploration. He discovered she melted into his chest when he tickled the roof of her mouth, that she mewled when he tangled their tongues, and that her nails dug into his ribs if he nipped her bottom lip.

  “Lord Konáll.” The deep male voice came from the far end of the tent.

  She dragged her mouth from his and looked over her shoulder. “Who calls?”

  He flicked her chin. “’Tis the platter from the feast.”

  “Oh.” She reached for the sheet.

  He stayed her hand and called out, “Leave it there and depart. My thanks.”

  Konáll rose, made his way to the tent’s entrance, and opened the flap enough to gather the tray. The wrapped platter was still warm and mouth-watering aromas wafted to his nose. He turned around to find her sitting up and sniffing.

  “Venison.” Nyssa’s eyes lit up, and she licked her lips. “I have had naught but cockles and seaweed since escaping from the sirens. How I have longed for meat.”

  “Would that you reacted to my cock the way you do to venison,” Konáll declared as his ever hopeful pecker engorged. He carried the platter to the pallet and sat. “However, though I am starved for more of your sweet puss, the food is warm, and my stomach, empty. Come, handfast wife, sit on my lap, and let us both feast.”

  She rolled her eyes. “’Tis not necessary for me to be in your lap to eat.”

  “’Tis an absolute necessity if you want a morsel of this hot and tasty venison.”

  For a long moment their stares met. Then she said, “I vow you are e’en more of a trial than Mús.”

  When he had her arranged sideways across his thighs, the sheet draped to warm her back, Konáll relaxed against the tent pole. “Feed us, while I tell you more of Mús’s tale.”

  “I did not believe any other than me could speak with Mús. Have the others seen him?”

  “Nay. He wants none to know of his presence or his relationship to you. He bid me refer to him only as Mús or cat. And though he told me much on our journey here, he would not answer all my questions.”

  She shrugged. “Mús has always been one to guard his secrets. He was fostered with Da’s brother and we saw him little over the years. When I sent a messenger to tell him Da and Mama had vanished, he came with Godspeed to Castle Caerleah. But Ánáton had already claimed Da’s high seat.”

  “Mús arrived without escort?”

  She unwrapped the towels covering the food and picked up one of the eating knives next to two large plates. “Aye. He said his men would follow. But on the same day he arrived, so did King Kenneth’s messenger with orders for me to set out immediately to the sirens. We left the following morn. What did Mús tell you?”

  “Four seasons ago, Aegir learned of Rán’s tryst with your Da and of your birth.”

  She popped a chunk of venison into his mouth and studied him while he chewed. “A little o’er two seasons ago, my Da and Mama vanished on their way home from King Kenneth’s court.”

  “Four seasons ago, the birthmark you inherited from Rán appeared on your breast.” Konáll pushed the fabric away and traced the tiny serpent on the underside of her mound.

  She flinched. “’Tis not part of the curse?”

  “Nay. One who fostered at your keep knew of the mark.”

  “I do not understand, Konáll. How could any know of it, if I had ne’er seen it afore four seasons ago?”
She stabbed a piece of meat and offered it to him.

  “Nay. Your turn.” He guided the knife to her mouth. “All females born of Rán bear the mark. Rán knew Aegir would be enraged and vengeful if he knew of you, so she cast a spell to make the mark invisible to all mortals. Eldar the Learned, who fostered with your Da, was born of an elfish mother. He saw the mark.”

  “None of this makes sense.” She carved another slice and wiggled it in a puddle of thick gravy. “But I do recall Eldar. Albeit he was called Eldar the Eager when he fostered here. He taught me how to swim.”

  “He spoke of you being more fish than girl in the water.” He flashed her a grin. “Did you not wonder how I knew of the mark?”

  “All know of it now. After Da and Mama vanished, King Kenneth made Ánáton and Maura, my aunt and uncle, my new guardians. Maura discovered the serpent. She told Ánáton of it, and he and the new priest decided ’twas the mark of Satan.” Her voice wavered.

  He covered her hand with his. “Look to me, wife. ’Tis enticing, your erotic snake. And proves your half-immortal lineage. I am proud of it. And so should you be.”

  She shook her head. “I want only to be like other females. Instead I am tall and ungainly and bear a serpent on my breast.”

  “Nay. You are slender and delicate and mine. I would have no other. Will have no other.” He brushed his lips to her temple. “Tell me of your uncle and aunt.”

  “They would have allowed the priest to burn me at the stake. Instead they waved a joyful farewell when Mús and I left for the sirens.” She sliced a chunk of meat, cupped her hand under the dripping venison, and brought the morsel to his mouth.

  He slurped the succulent chunk, chewed, and examined her strained expression. “Eldar the Learned’s holding is located in the same fjord as my brother’s. Four seasons ago, when King Harald and King Kenneth arranged our marriage, I spoke with him about you. ’Twas when he told me of the mark.”