Santa Viking

  “Why would I?”

  “Mayhap you are jealous of Finn.”

  “Why would I be jealous of Finn?”

  She shrugged. “His mustache?”

  He frowned. “Why would I envy his ridiculous mustache?”

  She repeated what Finn had told her about mustaches and pleasuring a woman’s nether parts.

  Bolthor’s one eye about bugged out.

  “Or you may be jealous because Finn and I are practically betrothed.”

  He bit his bottom lip to prevent himself from saying something rash . . . or more rash than he already had. “Practically? Why have you not announced your betrothal already? Just so you know, a Viking man does not consider himself wed-locked until the vows are spoken and the maidenhead breached.”

  Oooh, the coarseness of the brute! “I want to test his skills in the bed furs first.” I cannot believe I said that. Truly, this man is irksome beyond belief. He makes me say the most outrageous things. But she was not about to back down.

  “Finn is not for you.”

  “That is not for you to say.” Especially when you are standing there with your dangly part undangly and pointing at me.

  “I am only trying to be helpful.”

  “Pffff!” Hide that . . . that . . . thing. That would be helpful.

  “If you would listen to logic—”

  “Can you not cover yourself?”

  “With what?”

  “I do not care. Your hands.”

  A slow grin crept over his lips, a grin she refused to succumb to. “They are too small.”

  At first she did not understand. When she did, she said, “You are demented!”

  “Move over,” he said then, approaching the side of the bed.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I am going to be locked in here, at least I can get some sleep.”

  “You are not sleeping in this bed with me.”

  “Wouldst care to make a wager on that, milady? There is nowhere else to sleep.”

  “Sleep on the floor.”

  “I have an idea. You sleep on the floor, and I will sleep in the bed.”

  “You are not being chivalrous.”

  “Chivalry is for foolish Saxon knights. Vikings prefer action. Like this.” In a blink, he had the top fur flipped off of her, shoved her roughly to the other side, slipped his giant body in, then covered them both. He faced away from her sputtering self.

  When he remained silent for a long time, she asked in a small voice, “Why are you being so hateful?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “I mean, I had naught to do with this nonsense.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Where did you get that big scar?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Do you have a home?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “What have I done to merit such ill-favor?”

  With a snarl of disgust, he rolled over and glared at her. “What have you done? I will tell you what you have done. You have turned my life upside down. First, you set your sights on me for husband, against my will. Then you sic your children on me so I will feel guilty about abandoning them. Then you seduce me on the floor of the supply room. Then you attempt to lure me with jealousy.”

  With each of his charges, her “Oh” of outrage rose louder and louder. Finally, she sat up, oblivious to the slipping bed fur, and shoved him hard, almost knocking him off the bed. “You blowhard! I ne’er seduced you. You seduced me. And a poor performance it was, too.”

  “Hah! Those screams of yours were of pleasure, not outrage. You begged me for it, milady.” He stopped cold, gaping at her. “By the runes! You have pretty breasts. And a good size they are, too, especially when they are ripening for bedplay.”

  “Good size? Ripening?” she sputtered, then looked down, saw her nipples hard and pointy with arousal. She had not realized she was getting aroused. With a cry of distress, she pulled the bed fur up again, plopped down, then turned away from the beast.

  “What? Now you are angry because I give you a compliment.”

  What strange land does he come from that he thinks “good size” and “ripening” breasts are words a lady wants to hear? “Do not speak to me ever again.”

  “Mayhap I should write a poem about them. Yea, that is a good idea,” he said, completely ignoring her order not to speak. “Hear one and all, this is the ‘Ode to Katherine’s Breasts.’”

  Once was a lady from Britain

  With whom all the men were smitten.

  She thought it was her land they coveted

  But ’twas more like her body they wanted.

  In truth, her nipples were tasty budlings

  Red as a rose and hard for sucklings.

  With breasts so pretty, like swollen peaches,

  The lady had no trouble attracting male leeches.

  “That was not funny.”

  “It was not meant to be. Your breasts would tempt a priest to sin.”

  A tingle of pleasure rippled through Katherine that he liked her breasts. “Speaking of priests, didst know that one is arriving within days from a nearby estate, once it stops snowing. Mayhap Finn and I will be married then.”

  That shut up the irksome oaf.

  But he had gotten the last word in, so to speak, because her nipples were indeed hard and aching for a good suckling.

  The best kind of wake-up call . . .

  Bolthor awakened in the middle of the night, refreshed from several hours of undisturbed sleep.

  He should get up and put another log on the fire afore it died out, but it felt so warm and cozy under the bed furs. And a certain part of his body was liking Katherine’s body spooned up against his, one arm over his hip, her breath feathering against his back. Thank the gods he was on his own side of the bed, lest she awaken and accuse him of accosting her.

  Carefully, he eased himself out of the bed and covered Katherine again, but not before taking a good long look at her naked body. A man would have to be half-dead not to want her, and he was nowhere near half-dead.

  He placed another log on the fire, trying not to make noise and awaken the sleeping beauty. Then he went behind the screen and relieved himself in the chamber pot, hoping that would tamp down his thickening. It didn’t. Swishing some water about his mouth, he spat it out, then climbed into the far side of the bed, Katherine’s side, away from her tempting body which was hogging his side of the rush-filled mattress.

  He slept, and this time awakened as dawn approached. His new predicament had him alternately smiling and grimacing. This time he was on his back, his arms thrown over his head. Katherine was snuggled up against him, with her face resting on his chest. But the worst thing . . . or best thing, depending on one’s perspective . . . was that her little hand was wrapped around his big cock . . . big, as in a very large thickening.

  She was going to kill him if he did not wake her soon.

  “Katherine,” he said softly.

  “Hmmm.” She snuggled closer and her hand tightened.

  His thickening thickened.

  “Katherine, wake up, dearling.”

  “Hmmm. What?” she murmured.

  Her breath against his chest hairs also caused more thickening. Holy Thor! Did she just lick his nipple? He was going to explode soon with all this thickening and licking. ’Twould make a good poem, “Ode to a Norseman’s Thickening,” he thought with morbid, self-mocking humor.

  He sensed the moment she awakened. It was a slow process. First, her eyelashes fluttered against his chest. Then, there was a small gasp. Then, her hand loosened on his cock. But, before she could leap away in shock, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up and over him so that she lay, breasts against chest, belly against belly, and her legs straddling his legs.

  “I am so embarrassed,” she said, hiding her face.

  He kissed the top of her head. “Do not be embarrassed, sweetling. It was my pleasure.”

  She raised her head to stare at him. She had to
be aware of his cockstand as it pressed insistently against her belly.

  “This is a mistake,” she said.

  “Or not.”

  “You tempt me sorely, Bolthor, but if I do this thing again, I will be cutting my chances with Finn.”

  He nodded.

  “That is all? You nod, you say nothing?”

  “My nod says it all.”

  “In other words, so be it? I cut my ties with Finn, then hang in the wind, waiting for the remote chance that another good man will come along. If it were only me, I would have no qualms . . . leastways, no insurmountable qualms. But I have children to consider.”

  “You missay me, Katherine. My nod did not mean what you said. It meant . . . um, surrender.”

  She frowned and tried to shove away from him.

  He held tight, kissing her cheek, her hair, her shoulder, even her fingertips, wherever he could reach and escape her slaps.

  “Surrender to what, you fool?”

  “To you.”

  She stilled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I give up. You win. I am yours.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered by that non-proposal?”

  “’Tis just a statement of fact. Every soldier knows when to pick his battles and when to recognize defeat.”

  “I do not want to defeat you, Bolthor.”

  “I know, but I am just a simple, confused man who is finally seeing the light, thanks to you.”

  Hope sprang into her beautiful blue eyes. She was beginning to understand. “Say the words,” she demanded.

  “I love you, Katherine of Wickshire. Will you be my wife?”

  She gulped and blinked rapidly to stem her tears. “I love you, too, Bolthor, and yea, I will gladly be your wife.”

  They kissed and kissed, before Bolthor rolled them over so that she was flat on her back gazing up at him. With a twinkle in his one eye, Bolthor asked in a sex-husky voice, “It’s about that mustache claim of Finn’s.”

  She tilted her head to the side in question.

  “Wouldst like to see what a true Viking can do . . . without the mustache?”

  “Hmmm. I am not sure.”

  He pinched her bottom.

  “Oh, well, I guess I would.”

  “And whilst I am there exploring, wouldst like to see if I can find the famous Viking S-spot?”

  Her answer, when it came, was a gurgle of shock and pleasure.

  Another Viking bites the dust . . .

  Bolthor the Skald and Katherine of Wickshire were married by Father Ignatius on New Year’s Eve before the hearth at Dragonstead. Actually, it was a ceremony that combined both Christian and Viking rituals.

  Tykir and Alinor stood as witnesses for Bolthor. Eirik and Eadyth were witnesses for Katherine. The bride was given away by her four sons, who had been smiling for days at the prospect of Bolthor for a father.

  Katherine wore a magnificent white wool gunna covered with a scarlet surcoat, both embroidered with green acanthus leaves. The garment was lent to her by Alinor, who was noted for the fine wool she wove from her many sheep. She wore no jewelry except for a thin gold chain from which dangled a heart-shaped amber pendant, a bride-gift from her husband-to-be. Also as part of her bride gift, Bolthor had surprised both her and all attending by his wealth and generosity: Odin’s Lair, a small estate in Vestfold, a dozen chests of gold and amber from the days of amber hunting with Tykir, many ells of Samite silk, casks of wine, and pledges of fealty from two dozen hersirs.

  Bolthor looked handsome in the brown tunic and braies that had recently been gifted to him by Tykir and Alinor. At his side was scabbarded his second-best, pattern-welded sword, “Blood Friend.”

  For her groom gift to Bolthor, Katherine offered three estates in Northumbria, including Wickshire, all the meager furnishings, and two hundred chickens. She refused to explain the latter, except to Bolthor, who howled with laughter.

  With one hand each on the hilt of his sword, Bolthor and Katherine linked their other hands. Tykir and Eirik recited together: “We declare ourselves witnesses that Katherine of Wickshire and Bolthor of Odin’s Lair, do bond themselves in lawful marriage. Do you both promise love, honor and fidelity as long as blood flows through your veins?”

  They both said, “Yea.”

  Then began the brudh hlaup or bride-running, which was difficult being indoors. Still, Katherine lifted her gown up to her knees and raced for the stairs leading to the bridal chamber, chased by her new husband who beat her by a mere few steps. Grinning, he laid his sword across the bottom of the doorframe. Once she stepped over it, they would be officially wed.

  In true Viking style, he then whacked her across her buttocks with the broad side of the sword . . . just to show who would be the master in this marriage. It was a traditional Viking jest, trollish to be sure, but not really serious.

  Tykir surprised everyone by composing a poem in honor of his good friend Bolthor. “Hear one and all, this is the story of ‘Bolthor the Thick-headed Warrior.’”

  This is the story of the far-famed Bolthor.

  Over the years did he sample many a whore.

  A great berserker he was in battle,

  But good women he could not break to saddle.

  A shield he placed afore his heart.

  But then, no one said that he was smart.

  Lo and behold, along came Katherine.

  Bolthor was old, but it was not too late.

  She pulled, she pushed, she was a great tease.

  But ne’er would she let him touch her woman’s fleece.

  But then a wise man known as Tie-keer

  Locked up the two lackbrains with a leer.

  They swived, they fought, then swived some more.

  This is the stuff of Viking folklore.

  The moral of this saga is: Tup more, talk less.

  Everyone thought Tykir would make a great skald. To which he said something that could not be repeated, not even in the midst of rowdy Vikings.

  At the end of the evening, when the bride and groom had retired to their “honey moon” chamber, and the other guests were high on mead and good cheer, Tykir and Eirik sat with their wives, discussing this and that.

  “Who do you think will be next?” Alinor inquired.

  “Your twins?” Tykir said to Eirik and Alinor.

  “Sigrud and Sarah,” Alinor agreed.

  “Nay, they are too young,” Eirik protested fiercely of his twin daughters, the only children he and Eadyth had together.

  Eadyth smiled, knowing they were eighteen, more than a marriageable age. Still, it would be more likely that Emma, Eirik’s daughter by another woman, at twenty-five, would be the more likely bride. However, Emma, who ran an orphanage in Jorvik, had a mind of her own and claimed to have no interest in men. That would change when the right man came along.

  “Your son John,” Alinor said softly, taking one of Eadyth’s hands in both of hers. John was Eadyth’s illegitimate child. He was a handsome, brooding man of twenty-six who resided at Hawks’ Lair, almost a recluse. Everyone in the family worried about him. “Yea, we must make John our next project.”

  Eadyth remained silent, but her eyes affirmed how much that would mean to her.

  Eirik and Tykir just groaned.

  Women! Viking men had found through the ages that they could not live with them, as evidenced by their long months a-Viking, but they for a certainty could not live without them.

  Someone should warn John.

  THE END

  (Please continue reading for A Viking for Christmas)

  A Viking for Christmas

  When my son Rob was a little boy, he asked, “Mommy, are Santa Claus and God the same person?”

  “I like to think they are,” I said.

  So, this book’s dedicated to Rob—my rebel—who tries so hard to be a “bad boy,” but will always be a Santa at heart.

  Chapter One

  Desperation makes for strange bedfellows . . .

  Onl
y winos and weirdos shopped at the Piggly Jiggly Supermarket after midnight. But tonight there was also a thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus.

  Correction. A thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus, packing a forty-five in her pocket.

  As she waited her turn at the service desk, Jessica Jones grimaced at the ludicrous situation she found herself in. It was the “Christmas Curse,” of course. For as long as she could remember, something really awful happened to her during the Christmas season.

  She’d thought she was over the bad luck for this year when her fiancé, Burton Richards, dumped her two weeks ago, but uh-uh, the fix she found herself in now was even worse. A definite ten on the Christmas Curse Richter scale.

  Jessica hitched up the wide belt beneath her sagging Santa stomach with determination. Like the old song goes, I’m not gonna take it anymore.

  A very tall, broad-shouldered woman walked by, swishing her hips in a red nylon mini-dress—not a good choice for a cold Philadelphia winter. Clearly a male, the cross-dresser was probably a prostitute. She . . . he . . . smiled at Jessica and made a kissy sound through thickly painted lips. Criminey, Santa was being propositioned.

  Jessica shook her head vehemently.

  The hooker shrugged as if to say it was Santa’s loss and walked over to the cigarette rack.

  Good grief!

  An old man standing in front of her, waiting to have his welfare check cashed, turned and slurred out, “Wha’dja say?”

  His boozy breath almost knocked Jessica over. Her knees were knocking together as it was, and her hands were shaking so badly she had to stuff them in her wide pockets. She shifted the pillow higher and felt with her right hand for the pistol nestled against her thigh. Help! This is not happening. “Nothing. Just get moving, okay?”