My Fair Viking

  A Viking soldier by the name of Gunter, reputed to be the best swordsman in all Norway, was tugging on one of her war braids, teasing her about some saucy remark she'd made earlier. The maids all swooned when Gunter walked by, but he was too pretty by half for a man, if you asked Adam… which nobody did of course

  Egil Iversson, another noted warrior, was asking her if she'd like to take a stroll with him about the ramparts. Egil's braies were so tight you could see his prodigious maleparts. He was wearing an enlarged codpiece, no doubt. Beware of men in tight braies, that was Adam's philosophy, which he would pass on to his daughters someday, if he ever had any daughters. Or mayhap he would pass it on to Tyra... once he was within ducking distance. Adam decided to follow Tyra's suit and downed a horn of ale in one long swallow. He felt it all the way to his toes.

  "Really, Tyra, you should come for a stroll with me," Egil was saying. "There is something interesting I would like to show you."

  I'll bet there is. What kind of stroll does the filthy fornicator have in mind? 'Tis dark outside. And cold I hope he freezes off his... codpiece.

  "Nay, Tyra cannot go strolling with you. She promised to dance with me later." 'Twas Gunter the Peacock speaking now.

  "I did?" Tyra appeared a bit disoriented, whether from the ale or the male attentions he could not tell.

  Both men's eyes kept straying to Tyra's exposed bosom.

  Adam tightened his fingers on the wooden arms of his chair to prevent himself from drawing his sword, which he'd unfortunately left back in his bedchamber… or perhaps fortunately.

  "What kind of saucy remark did you make, Tyra?" he asked casually.

  "She asked if I wanted to couple with her," Gunter revealed in a gloating fashion.

  "Also, she made an astute observation about the size of a woman's breasts compared to the size of her brain," Egil added.

  Both men were still staring at her chest.

  I have heard enough!

  Apparently, not enough, for Bolthor came up just then and gave Tyra an adoring look from his one good eye. The giant skald looking adoring was a sight to behold… rather like a one-eyed randy bear.

  "I have a gift for you, my lady."

  "For me?" Even Tyra appeared startled by Bolthor's interest.

  The poet nodded his head vigorously. "A praise-poem, written just for you. Wouldst like to hear it?"

  Nay, nay, nay!

  "Well, of course, Bolthor."

  He would have liked to shake Tyra thoroughly, but her breasts would undoubtedly pop out.

  "This saga is called 'Lady in the Red Gown.' "

  Uh-oh!

  "There once was a lady fair

  Whose love no man could snare.

  All her beauty she did hide

  Under male garb of leather dried.

  A sword she did carry,

  In battle she did tarry.

  Methinks the lady knew not her worth

  Till the day a crimson gown came forth.

  Then the lady did bloom,

  Like the finest peacock plume.

  Now the lady gets her pick

  Of all the men lovesick.

  But she best not too quickly stir

  Or she will have a spillover,

  And more suitors than she would prefer.

  Praise be to Tyra, Warrior Princess

  And her crimson dress."

  "That was truly awful," Tyra murmured under her breath. But to Bolthor she said, "That was wonderful."

  "Would you like another?" He was gazing at her like a moonstruck calf.

  "Perhaps later," she said graciously. "Right now, methinks Ingrith is in need of a good saga. She is in the scullery, I believe, overtired from preparing this fine meal. Dost think you could cheer her up?"

  Bolthor's one eye lit up as if he'd just been handed a great treasure. "I know just the one. 'Praise Be to Pork.' "

  Well, Bolthor's saga-saying had accomplished one thing, to Adam's mind. Gunter and Egil were nowhere to be seen… for now, leastways. Adam had feared having to challenge them to a duel, or some such gruesome feat of challenge.

  "You certainly handled Bolthor well," Adam congratulated Tyra, trying for a pleasant tone.

  "Go away," she replied.

  That rules out pleasantries. Apparently, she was still upset with him, and he couldn't even remember why. Oh, now he recalled. She thought he was flirting with her sisters.

  "Tyra, dearling, I have no interest in your sisters."

  "Do I look as if I care? And do not call me dearling."

  "Yea, you do… dearling."

  "Well, I don't. And stop, stop, stop with the endearments. It makes me feel as if I am just one of your women."

  "Women! For pity's sake, Tyra, you already know, thanks to Rashid's flapping tongue, that I have been chaste for two years. So, no women!"

  "You can still have women without tupping them," she persisted.

  "I would like to bloody well know how," he muttered. Best to change the subject. "It would be nice if you would reciprocate now, and say that you have no real interest in Gunter or Egil… or Bolthor."

  "I do have an interest in them. A huge interest."

  His shoulders sagged. "Why must you always be at cross-wills with me, wench? Can't you be biddable just this once?"

  "In fact, I have decided to share my bed furs with them."

  "All at one time?" he asked, barely stifling a laugh at her ludicrous lies.

  Her eyes went wide. Obviously, she had no idea what she might do with three men in her bed furs at one time.

  So, of course, he told her.

  Her jaw dropped.

  "Can we start over? Why don't you say something saucy to me like you did to Gunter and Egil? 'Tis unfair for you to say saucy things to other men and not me."

  She said something so vulgar and outrageous that he was speechless for a moment. It took saucy to a new level. He was spared having to react because of the shuffle of chairs and tables. Thank God! An entertainment had been planned for that evening. An open space was being created in front of the dais by moving the trestle tables and benches to the outer edges of the hall.

  A number of people moved up to the dais—all the sisters, Rafn, Bolthor, Tykir, Alinor, and their oldest son, Thork. It was a better vantage point for watching, but there were not enough chairs. Tykir lifted Alinor onto his lap, resulting in a little shriek from her before she nestled sweetly into his embrace, and he motioned for Thork to sit at their feet, thus emptying a chair. Thork was being punished for his wild shenanigans that day. Rafn sank into the empty chair and pulled Vana onto his lap. Vana just sighed, not even bothering to protest.

  Do I dare? Adam wondered, casting a sideways glance at Tyra.

  Bloody hell, do I dare not? he countered to himself, even as he stood, picked up Tyra by the waist, then sat back down with her straddling his lap, her back to his chest. Breanne immediately took the vacated seat, with Drifa and Ingrith sitting on either arm. The three of them smiled their thanks at him.

  "You brute!" Tyra tried to squirm away, to no avail. He had both arms wrapped firmly around her waist, and the table blocked her from the front.

  "Keep squirming, wench. It gives me a good view of your nipples," he said into her ear.

  She immediately stilled and looked downward… then groaned. "Did everyone else see, too?" she asked in a mortified whisper.

  "Nay, just me. And very nice nipples they are, too."

  She tried to pry his hands off her waist, but he held tight, like a vise.

  "I ought to cut off your fingers with my dagger."

  "If you did that, I would be unable to finger-pleasure you."

  That certainly caught her attention. He could practically hear her brain pondering what he'd just said. "What… what is finger-pleasuring?" she finally choked out.

  He had no idea, that word being a sudden inspiration of his. Well, actually, he could imagine what it might be. But words would do it no justice. That kind of erotic wisdom deserved a demonst
ration. So, while he still held on tightly to her with his left hand, he deftly slipped his right hand under the hem of her gown onto the bare skin of her leg.

  "Oh." That was her only response. He was fairly certain she liked it if her soft sigh of delight was any indication… and the fact that she didn't chop off his fingers.

  Because of the table, the dim light, and the fact that all eyes were on Agnis, the young maid singing and playing the lute, no one noticed what Adam was about.

  His hand was only on her calf, but she went stiff as a pike.

  Deliberately he spread his knees, which caused her knees to spread as well. He had her exactly where he wanted her… on his lap, and exposed.

  "You cannot," she said as his hand moved in a slow caress from her calf to her knee, then up, up, up to her thigh.

  "I can," he countered, and moved his hand from her outer thigh to her inner thigh. With just his fingertips, he lightly caressed her inner thighs in slow circles, from knees almost to her woman's fleece. Up one thigh, down the other, up one thigh, down the other.

  Not only was she stiff as a pike now, but she was holding her breath.

  "When I caress you here, do your breasts begin to ache?"

  She nodded, to his surprise. He had not-expected such honesty.

  "Do you feel a throbbing here… as I do?" He put the heel of his hand against that lowest portion of her belly, just above the pubic bone.

  She released her pent-up breath and tried to hold his hand there, through the cloth of her gown, which still covered her discreetly. But he was already back to finger-brushing her thighs.

  "Adam, I heard about the babe you lost today," Alinor said in the short break between entertainments. The lutist was done, and now Rashid was preparing to tell one of his long Arab tales… something about a young man and a magic tapestry. "I am so sorry you were unable to save the wee one."

  Not now, Alinor. Oh, please, God, not now. He hoped his silent nod, accepting her sympathies, would be enough.

  But already Tyra was turning in his lap, looking at him over her shoulder. "I forgot to ask you about Dagma. Oh, nay, don't tell me…"

  "Dagma will be fine," he was quick to assure her. "She lost much blood, and is very weak after a full day and a half of labor, but the babe died in the womb."

  "Oh, Adam," Tyra and Alinor said at the same time.

  "It could not be helped; the cord was wrapped around the infant's neck. It must have been dead for days now."

  "Oh, Adam," they repeated.

  "Sometimes things, even bad things, happen for a reason," Alinor said then. "She is very young. She can have other children, can't she?"

  "Probably."

  "I should go see her," Tyra suggested.

  "Not now!" He immediately realized how shrill his voice sounded. More calmly, he informed her, "I gave her some healing herbs that will make her sleep deeply through the night."

  I cannot believe I am sitting here with my hand up my lady's gown, about to part her most intimate folds, with an arousal that could scorch the hair off a hog, and I am discussing medical affairs. Can this conversation not wait till the morrow? If Drifa overhears and starts asking me which herbs I used, I think I might just weep.

  "Adam, you look as if you are about to weep," Tykir commented. Adam saw the twinkle in Tykir's eyes. He was looking from him to Tyra and back to him, his head cocked in question. He might not know exactly what was going on, but his suspicions had been aroused.

  "This is the story of Ala Din and his amazing adventures with a magic tapestry."

  Never in all his life had Adam thought he would be relieved to hear Rashid begin one of his never-ending stories. It would probably involve harems in one way or another. The hall went silent as everyone leaned forward and listened intently, not wanting to miss a word of the tale. Vikings ever did love a good story. Adam did, too, but not now. For God's sake, not now!

  Alinor turned forward.

  And Adam said a silent prayer of thanks.

  "Thank you for staying with Dagma," Tyra whispered over her shoulder at him, then turned to stare at Rashid, who sat on a high stool, surrounded by candles and torches, which gave an eerie cast to his Eastern features. Then, for the first time since he'd pulled her onto his lap, she relaxed and let her head loll back onto his shoulder.

  Well, hell, if I'd known a little sympathy or a little thankfulness would gain me this result, I could have told her about the old crone with the pus-oozing eyes I helped today. Or the little, boy's broken leg I set. Or the burn I soothed with ointment on Alrek's palm from picking up hot kindling.

  Tyra squirmed on his lap to get more comfortable, and Adam saw stars before him, so intense was the pleasure-pain in his groin. Good thing she could not feel him pressing against her buttocks! He did not want to shock her.

  "You may resume now," Tyra said.

  "Huh? Are you speaking to me?" he asked. She must be addressing me, because Alinor is not even looking in our direction, and there has been no break in Rashid's talking. The only thing she could be referring to is … oh, my God!

  "Of course I'm speaking to you, lackwit," she said with as much cordiality as a captain addressing a thick-headed soldier. "You may continue the finger-pleasuring game now."

  Game? She views this as a game? So much for her being shocked!

  "Have I shocked you?" she asked, apparently having second thoughts.

  Nay, no second thoughts permitted. "Yea, you shocked me," he said, "in the nicest possible way."

  "Shhhh!" Ingrith, Breanne, and Drifa all hissed at the same time. They were engrossed in Rashid's tale and wanted no chatter to distract their hearing.

  And so, while Rashid told his tales of magic in an Eastern land, Adam began to weave his own form of magic.

  He teased the hairs of her woman's nest with fluttering fingers, then palmed her, rotating the heel of his hand against her. She arched her back and whimpered softly. He would have liked to touch her breasts, but that would be too open a demonstration in front of an audience. Instead, he whispered into her ear, "Open more," and when she did, he dipped his fingers into the honey of her arousal and spread it up and down over her slick folds till he came to that bud which was the essence of a woman's pleasure. When he touched her there, she jerked and moaned aloud.

  "Is something wrong?" Alinor inquired.

  He was strumming Tyra there now, and at first she was unable to speak.

  "Nay, just a little indigestion," Tyra said.

  Tykir snorted his disbelief.

  "You should chew on mint leaves," Drifa offered. "That is the best thing for cramps in the abdomen."

  "I told you the pig's liver in dill sauce was not for you," Ingrith said huffily. She must have come back to the hall to escape Bolthor's sagas in the scullery.

  "Shhh!" someone down below protested.

  Meanwhile, Adam was doing his best to contribute to her "indigestion." Strumming, and strumming, and strumming, till the bud became bigger and harder, and the folds furled open like the petals of a flower, and the dew was hot and thick.

  He was feeling rather hot and thick himself.

  Sensing that she was about to reach her peak, he eased a long middle finger up inside of her, and was rewarded by the rhythmic spasm of her inner muscles welcoming him to her world. Her hands grasped his forearms in an iron grip, trying to fight the overwhelming ripples that passed through her. He would have bruises tomorrow, for a certainty… bruises that he would relish as a reminder of her sweet surrender. In the end, just before she crashed through that barrier that separates a woman from ecstasy, her knees gripped his and she put a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle her cries, but he heard, "Oh… oh… oh… for the love of Freyja!… oh!"

  Then she sank into a relaxed heap of satiety.

  Adam got great satisfaction out of Tyra's pleasure… not as much as if he'd climaxed himself, but close. Her open sensuality was a delight. He never knew what to expect next from her… as was proven in the following seconds.


  When her soft panting died down and she was able to speak, Tyra turned slightly to face him and asked, "When can I finger-pleasure you?"

  Chapter Thirteen

  "So, exactly how many kinds of pleasuring are there?" Tyra was asking Adam a short time later.

  He groaned and put his forehead on the table. "What kind of monster have I created?" he murmured, but he was smiling as he spoke; Tyra was fairly certain he did not consider her a monster at all. In fact, the hot looks he kept giving her would indicate just the opposite.

  Rashid had finished his tale, none of which Tyra could remember, and several village boys did some acrobatics, none of which Tyra could remember, and most everyone had left the dais to engage in other pursuits, including dancing, which was taking place at the other end of the hall to the accompaniment of several fiddle players. But Tyra could not think of that. The only thing on her mind was the incredible experience Adam had just introduced her to.

  "I mean, you have shown me mouth-pleasuring and tongue-pleasuring and now finger-pleasuring… none of which I would have expected. So exactly how many types of pleasuring are there?"

  "Tyra, must you analyze everything?" Adam asked, raising his head to look at her. Almost immediately, he added, "If you do not raise that bodice, I very well might jump into your lap."

  She hitched her neckline upward. "Yea, I do analyze everything. How else can I understand things?"

  "This is not a battle where each and every strategy and method of fighting must be studied. The best kind of lovemaking is spontaneous."

  She tapped a forefinger against her lips. "Nay, I think you are wrong. Not that I have engaged in actual love-making, precisely. This did not count as lovemaking, did it?"

  "Not precisely," he said, mimicking her playfully.

  "But methinks there must be delights in all kinds of lovemaking… planned or unplanned."

  Adam shook his head hopelessly at her. "No doubt you are right."

  "So what other kinds are there?"

  "Kinds of what?"

  "Aaarrgh! Pleasuring, you lackwit. Do you deliberately misread me?"

  He grinned. Then he put up his hands in surrender when she made a growling sound. "There is mouth-pleasuring and tongue-pleasuring and finger-pleasuring, as you have said. Then there is eye-pleasuring, and talk-pleasuring, and swive-pleasuring. But best of all is a combination of these."