Santa Viking

  She began to keen with the beginning of another climax, but he wanted to slow her down. “Look at us,” he urged her. Her half-lidded eyes moved in the direction he pointed and widened with the same wonder he felt. Highlighted by the winter sunshine streaking through the single window in the pantry, fine red curls blended with his crisp, blond pubic hairs where they were joined, creating an erotic picture, like silken threads in a tapestry.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “We’re beautiful together,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he agreed thickly, and allowed himself to succumb to the overpowering need he had for her. This time when he withdrew and plunged into her, she rippled around him. And each time he stroked, and stroked, and stroked, he repeated, “I love you.”

  She no longer protested his love words. Maybe she believed him now. Then again, maybe she was as swept away as he was by the most explosive orgasm of his life. With blood roaring in his ears, and bells ringing, he reared his head back and cried out his release, pummeling into her one last time.

  Jessie shuddered from head to toe and hung onto him fiercely, crying out, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh . . . ”

  Even when the racking shudders no longer shook them both, Erik still heard bells ringing. He had to give himself a mental pat on the back. When he’d planned wild sex, he’d never imagined that it would happen so soon or that it would be as spectacular as what he’d just experienced . . . bell-ringing and all that. He must be even better than he’d always thought.

  “Oh, my God! It’s Aunt Clara,” Jessie said with horror.

  “What about Aunt Clara?” he said, bemused, giving her luscious lips a quick kiss as he eased himself out of her body.

  His first clue that he was in big trouble came when she punched him in the stomach, just before she slid to the floor and jerked on her panties and jeans.

  “Ooomph!” he said in delayed reaction to her punch, although it didn’t really hurt. “Why’d you do that?” He decided to pull up his own pants, as well. Odds were against a repeat performance anytime soon.

  “Because you seduced me, you creep. Because you made love to me in Aunt Clara’s pantry, for heaven’s sake. Because Aunt Clara’s bell has been ringing forever, and I’ve been down here engaging in a world-class wall-banger.”

  Well, at least she has the good taste to recognize world class when it hits her like a ton of testosterone. Then, so that’s what the bell ringing was? But he didn’t voice his thoughts. Instead, he remarked, “I wasn’t the one who dragged you into the pantry by the hair looking for wild sex. You seduced me, babe, not the other way around. Not that I wasn’t willing.”

  He reached for her, and she slapped his hands away.

  “Wild sex! That’s what you mentioned when we came in here. Yes, you did, you said something about wild sex just before you kissed me. I heard you. Don’t deny it. You deliberately seduced me.”

  “Whatever.” He was in too good a mood to argue. “When can we get married? I mean, will you marry me?” Oh, boy, I’m getting this love stuff all out of order. Probably because I’m horny again. Just looking at all that wild red hair makes me hot. I wonder what she’d think if I suggested . . . oh, boy. Slow down. “Jessie, honey,” he started over, “I love you. Will you marry me? Tomorrow. Or the day after that?” And can we go have wild sex again? Now? Maybe in that antique bathtub on the third floor.

  “Love? Love?” she sputtered. “You are driving with two bricks short of a full load. And stop leering at me. You’re not touching me again.”

  Wanna bet? “Leering? I don’t leer, babe. That look you see in my eye is a promise.” He jiggled his eyebrows at her and reached around to unlock the door. Aunt Clara’s bell was jingling to beat the band.

  No sooner did he open the door than he saw Willie, openly eavesdropping. Willie took in the appearance of both of them, then did a little victory dance, karate style, around the kitchen.

  “Oh, Lord!” Jessie said and scooted away, down the hall and toward Aunt Clara’s incessant bell-ringing.

  He looked at the freckle-faced twit and knew that Jessie had deliberately abandoned him to the adolescent Bruce Lee. Probably her idea of just punishment.

  “So, did you boink Aunt Jessie in the pantry?” the kid asked unabashedly.

  Erik looked down to make sure he hadn’t left his zipper undone. Everything was in order. He sliced a glare at the curious boy, warning, “Willie, that’s enough.”

  He started down the hall, following in Jessie’s tracks, but Willie bird-dogged right after him, throwing in a few side kicks and an occasional grunt of “Uut” along the way.

  “I need a bong pole. How big is yours?”

  Erik’s step faltered.

  “Will you help me make one out of Aunt Clara’s broom? A bong pole’s supposed to equal your height, but I think a broom handle will do for me. Don’t you? Huh? Willya help me? Huh?”

  “No.” Erik was already climbing the stairs, and Willie padded after him doggedly. No, that padding sound was Fred. Somehow they’d picked up Fred along the way.

  “No?” There was a long silence following his disappointed question, and Erik walked down the second floor hall toward a bedroom where he heard voices. He’d thought he lost the kid until Willie asked, “How old were you the first time you did it to a girl?”

  Erik stopped suddenly, and Willie and the dog ran into him with a yelp and a bark.

  “Listen, Willie,” he said, hunkering down. “You can’t ask those kinds of questions of complete strangers.”

  Willie’s face and big ears flushed bright red, and his eyes filled with tears. “I don’t feel like you’re a stranger.”

  And Erik felt like a rat. Hell, the kid was asking a normal question for a boy his age. But usually it was addressed to a parent . . . a dad. Which Willie didn’t have.

  “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath and wondering how he’d gotten himself into this predicament. “I was fourteen the first time.”

  “Fourteen! Fourteen!”

  Erik stood, laughing, and rumpled the boy’s hair as he continued toward Aunt Clara’s bedroom. He heard Willie mutter as he skipped back down the stairs, “Did you hear that, Fred? Fourteen! Uncle Erik musta been retarded or somethin’. Guess lookin’ like a Viking doesn’t mean everything.”

  He’d never been the answer to anyone’s prayers before . . .

  Aunt Clara took one look at him when he entered the bedroom and exclaimed, “Thank the Lord! He sent me a miracle.”

  Erik cast Jessie a knowing smirk that said clearly, “See, I am so a Christmas Miracle.”

  Jessie was sitting on a straight-backed chair next to the bed, talking to a sixtyish gray-haired woman with one leg encased in a white cast from toe to thigh.

  “Aunt Clara, this is Erik Thorsson, the man I told you about who helped me last night when the van got stuck in the snow.”

  Erik arched a brow at Jessie as he moved around to the other side of the bed. Lying to a nun now, are you, Jessie? Tsk-tsk! He leaned down and ignored the hand Aunt Clara extended to him, giving her parchment cheek a light kiss.

  It was the right thing to do, he could tell immediately. She literally glowed as she took his right hand in both of hers and drew him down to sit on her bed.

  “I’m so pleased to meet you, Aunt Clara . . . I hope you don’t mind my calling you Aunt Clara . . . I feel as if I know you already.”

  “Of course not, my boy.” Still holding his hand, she studied him intently before nodding, as if answering one of her own silent questions. “So, Darlene tells me that you plan on marrying my sweet girl, Jessie.”

  Jessie gasped and turned greenish. Probably all that fruitcake she’d consumed.

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” he said firmly before Jessie could say different. “Jessie doesn’t think I’m serious, but I am.”

  “I am not going to marry him,” Jessie told Aunt Clara when she finally regained her voice. “We hardly know each other.” With that, she shot Erik a glare, daring him to contradict h
er. At the same time, her face turned from green to a pretty shade of pink—a nice contrast to all those unruly red ringlets—as she remembered just how well they did know each other.

  “Well, I don’t know if the length of time two people know each other is a true indicator of feelings,” Aunt Clara opined.

  I love this old bird. “Right,” Erik intervened quickly. “Look how long she knew Burp, and they were a mismatch from the get-go. Why, he even played”—he made an exaggerated shiver of distaste—“golf.”

  “His name is Burt,” Jessie stormed.

  Aunt Clara snickered behind her fingers.

  “And you and I are the mismatch,” Jessica railed. “Geez, Thor the Viking and Little Orphan Annie!”

  “Erik the Viking,” he corrected. “I’d like to get married real soon,” Erik went on, ignoring Jessie’s hiss of warning. “How soon do you think it will be before you’re out of that cast, Aunt Clara?”

  “Well, the doctor said I could have a soft cast next week,” she said tentatively.

  “Gol-ly,” he said contemplatively, tapping his chin. “I don’t know if I can wait that long.” He turned to an outraged Jessie. “What do you think, honey? Can you wait for a whole week?”

  “Erik, I just knew when I saw you walk through that door that you were the answer to my prayers,” Aunt Clara said, smiling at him.

  He’d like to be the answer to someone’s prayers, although not a nun’s. But Jessie didn’t look much like she was in the mood for praying. In fact, her eyes were crossed. Someone ought to tell her about faces freezing and stuff. Perhaps he should call Willie.

  “You are the worst Christmas Curse I’ve ever had,” Jessie gritted out at him.

  Aunt Clara gasped at her harsh words, and Erik felt a little twinge of hurt, as well.

  “Jessica Jones, what an awful thing to say! I brought you up better than that.” Then Aunt Clara’s frown melted away as she confided in a softer voice, “I was praying this morning for a Christmas Miracle. Who are we to question the answer God gives us? A miracle is a miracle.”

  Aunt Clara and Jessie looked at him then—him, the miracle.

  Aunt Clara beamed.

  Jessie’s honey eyes threw sparks of disbelief.

  Erik wondered how soon till he could have wild sex again.

  Chapter Five

  Everyone was impressed, except the woman he loved . . .

  Later that afternoon, they were all in the living room, decorating a huge blue spruce tree that Erik and the kids had dragged in from the woods behind the house. Christmas carols played on the radio in the background, interrupted repeatedly by storm warnings.

  Aunt Clara was reclining on the sofa in front of the fireplace where Erik had carried her two hours ago. She gave them gentle instructions as to which ornament went where while her knitting needles clicked away at one of her perpetual afghans.

  “Are you still mad at me, honey?” Erik said close to Jessica’s ear, causing her to jump about two feet.

  “Criminey, do you have to sneak up on me all the time?” she snapped.

  She’d been avoiding the rascal all day, along with his knowing looks, his disarming smiles, and “accidental” touches. Erik had laughed and stalked her just the same.

  She couldn’t believe she’d actually made love with a man she’d met the night before. She hadn’t been thinking. It had happened too soon. It shouldn’t have happened at all.

  She had to get rid of the tempting hunk soon or lose her sanity. Or something worse. Her heart.

  “What do you call a nun with one leg?” Erik asked with a glimmer of humor in his flashing eyes, slanting a glance at Aunt Clara to make sure she didn’t overhear.

  A joke? She tried to look at him disapprovingly.

  “Hopalong Chastity.”

  She giggled reluctantly, and Erik used that opportunity to put an arm around her shoulder and squeeze her close.

  Despite the trill of excitement engendered by that slight embrace, she ducked and escaped, putting several feet between them.

  He chuckled.

  “Maybe you can still leave tonight . . . if the roads get cleared,” she suggested.

  Why did her heart constrict at the possibility? He’d have to leave sometime. If not tonight, then tomorrow. Everyone she’d ever loved left eventually. He would, too.

  Not that I love him.

  And there he went again, looking at her with such hurt and longing in his beautiful blue Viking eyes. He did it every time she rebuffed him.

  It’s not as if he really loves me.

  But what if he did?

  “No way!” Willie protested. “Uncle Erik can’t leave tonight. He’s makin’ Philadelphia cheese steaks for dinner.”

  That was another thing that made Jessie mad. No one would eat her peanut butter sandwiches. They were scarfing down all the junk food Erik had bought, including minute steaks and rolls for a Christmas Eve dinner. He must have spent two hundred dollars in that Uni-Mart.

  And Aunt Clara wasn’t even protesting that they would miss Vilia, the traditional Slovak Christmas Eve dinner she always prepared, where everyone must taste at least twelve of the many dishes assembled, presumably in honor of the twelve apostles. The merry meal always included, at the least, the core items of oplatky, the Christmas communion wafers dipped in honey; bobalky, braided homemade bread; red wine; pierogies, the little cheese-stuffed pies; several kinds of fish; mushroom soup; poppyseed rolls; sauerkraut; nuts; and fresh fruit.

  Well, she had to give Erik credit. In the spirit of improvisation, he was putting together a new-age Villa supper, complete with Philadelphia cheese steaks, Frosted Flakes, Froot Loops, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Hawaiian Punch, and fruitcake, of course. And everyone—all the kids and Aunt Clara—acted as if everything was hunky-dory.

  Was she the only one worried to death about the Christmas Curse and the kind of holiday disaster that loomed this year?

  “You can’t make Uncle Erik leave. He’s gonna show me how to dance the Philadelphia Stomp later tonight,” Kajeeta said, interrupting Jessica’s dismal thoughts. Kajeeta peered up shyly at Erik for confirmation.

  “Yep,” he told Kajeeta, and then caught Jessica’s skeptical frown. “And if you’re real good, sugar, I’ll do the two-step with you.” He winked suggestively and whispered sotto voce, “Re-e-eal slow. After the kids have gone to sleep.”

  “In your dreams!” she said haughtily. But already he’d planted some tantalizing pictures in her mind. The Christmas tree lights flickering in the darkened room, fireplace roaring, soft music . . . Get a grip, girl.

  “And Erik said he would French braid my hair,” Darlene added, having just condescended to join the group.

  Everyone gawked at Erik, astounded.

  He shrugged with a sheepish grin. “Hey, my sister Ellie made me do her hair when we were kids. She was bigger than me then and considered me her personal slave.”

  Everyone laughed at the image of Erik being forced by his sister to be her slave.

  “Aunt Jessie, you oughta hang onto this guy,” Henry added in the end. “He’s a lot better than that Burp fellow you brought here last year.”

  She started to tell Henry that his name was not Burp, but all the kids were having such a good time. And besides, the name Burp suited the jerk much better than Burt, anyhow. So she joined in the good-natured ribbing.

  “Tell us about your work,” Aunt Clara urged Erik, her nimble fingers moving the knitting needles in an intricate pattern as she spoke.

  Erik was on a ladder putting a star atop the tall tree.

  “Yeah, did you ever bodyguard anyone famous?” Henry asked as he helped to brace the shaky ladder.

  “Sure. All the time,” Erik answered, tilting his head this way and that until he positioned the star just right. “Even Bill Gates one time,” he told a flabbergasted Henry as he descended the ladder and folded it, preparing to take it out to the kitchen. “He hired me and four other guys to accompany him to Japan. It was a tim
e when there was a lot of anti-American sentiment there.”

  Henry was gazing at Erik as if he were God.

  “And I just came back yesterday afternoon from working a Fancy Nancy concert at the Wells Fargo Center in Philly,” he told a very impressed Kajeeta as he passed en route to the kitchen.

  When he reentered the living room, all the kids jumped on him with eager questions.

  “Do you really know Fancy Nancy?” Kajeeta wanted to know.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say we’re friends. But, yes, I’ve met her and worked for her.”

  “How about movie stars?” Darlene asked.

  “Yep. Lots of movie stars, like Robert Pattinson, Natalie Portman, Brad Pitt, Cameron Diaz. And rock stars. Once I guarded Lady Gaga . . . now, that was a trip,” he recalled with amusement. “Even Michael Jackson before he died, though he usually had his own private security team.”

  “Did you ever bodyguard Chuck Norris?” Willie wanted to know.

  Erik shook his head negatively. “Mostly I work for politicians—those who aren’t high up enough to qualify for Secret Service protection, and corporate bigwigs traveling in third world countries.”

  “Wow!” the kids sighed.

  Erik addressed Aunt Clara then, seeming to give her a special silent message. “Once I even guarded Pope John Paul.”

  “O-o-oh, Erik,” Aunt Clara breathed. Her simple words said loud and clear that she thought Erik was the answer to her Christmas prayers . . . sent special delivery by God, via John Paul.

  Jessie felt the happiness and Christmas spirit swell around her, filling the room, but it was a sham. Because these kids still believed . . . perhaps not in Santa Claus . . . but in miracles. And there was going to be no miracle when they came downstairs tomorrow and found no gifts.

  “Stop worrying, Jessica,” Aunt Clara said softly with uncanny perception, sensing her distress. “For once in your life, trust. Especially at Christmas time, let yourself believe that good things can just happen.”

  “Hah! The only thing that ever happens to me at Christmas time is my Christmas Curse,” Jessie grumbled.