Viking Unchained

  “You think I don’t want you? I am a dunderhead if that is the impression I gave you.” That notion was so far from his raging enthusiasm that he could hardly fathom her misreading him. “Well, that does it,” he said, and began to unbutton his shirt.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She was backing away from him.

  “Straightening out your misconception.” His shirt was gone, tossed over his shoulder, and he was toeing off his shoes. “Much as I am enjoying that wanton scrap of lace, take it off.”

  “No,” she said, but her cheeks were now flushed with color and her eyes glued to his hands as they undid his braies and he shrugged out of them and his briefs at one time. Looking down, he saw a raging erection which impressed even him.

  But Lydia stood frozen, still clothed.

  Without preamble, he walked over, took the shoulder straps in each hand, then yanked them downward, pulling the entire garment to the floor, ripping it in places. She didn’t seem to mind.

  In fact, she seemed stunned and unsure of what was happening.

  Well, he would have to show her. Picking her up by the waist, he tossed her onto the bed, followed after and over her. Rolling onto his back, he arranged her atop him, her breasts nigh riding his shoulders. He had to close his eyes for a moment, just to savor all the delicious sensations rippling through him.

  She sighed.

  His eyes opened, and he saw that she was already aroused. He reached a hand up to caress her cheek.

  She turned her face into his palm and kissed it. “Where’s your arm bracelet?” she asked, avoiding his direct gaze.

  “I sold one of the arm rings.”

  “But you kept the star one?”

  “For now. I have discovered that such jewelry is considered portable wealth. The one ring brought half a million of your American paper.”

  She was shocked. “Dollars?”

  “Yea, dollars. Torolf helped me place it in a bank for safekeeping, though I would have much preferred keeping it on my body.”

  “Not that much money, honey.”

  “I like it when you call me honey. Even more, I like it when you move and your breasts caress my chest.”

  She raised herself slightly, arms now braced on either side of his head like a push-me-up, then swayed her breasts back and forth across his chest. She did it to tease him, but he could see that she was the one most excited by the friction. Her nipples were engorged already, and every sweep across the coarse chest hairs caused straight-to-the groin erotic flames in his manpart. She moved her nether hair against his belly, and he could feel the warm wetness pooling there already.

  “I should not be doing this.”

  “Yea, you should, my sweet.”

  “I don’t understand. Just a short time ago you—”

  “Nay, not now. The time for words will come later.”

  She nodded.

  He watched her every reaction now. In a raw male voice, he urged, “Bring your breasts up to my mouth, sweetling.”

  She did. First one breast and then the other he paid homage with wet licks, hot breaths, flicks of his tongue, then deep suckling, which caused her back to arch and him to take more of her. She was keening her pleasure and reflexively undulating her hips against him. Not surprisingly, she shattered into a climax.

  But he wanted to be inside her.

  But wait. I’m getting ahead of my plan. “Move up farther. Methinks you are in need of laving. Bring your woman parts where I can minister to them.”

  “Did you say loving?”

  “Nay. Laving.”

  She was disappointed, he could tell. “No.”

  “Dost say me nay? You get my longboat ready for voyage, then expect me to pull in the oars at the last second?”

  “I want to know what the hell is going on here.”

  “We are making love.”

  “You know what I mean. Talk, buster. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “Talk? Do not be daft. You wet my belly with your woman dew, nigh scalding me, then expect me to lie still and talk?”

  “Yes.”

  He groaned.

  She sat up on his waist and he tried to ignore the thrumming between his legs.

  “Why do you torture yourself, sweetling?”

  “You’re the one torturing me with your roller-coaster moods. First you want me. Then you don’t.”

  “Wrong, wrong, wrong. I have never stopped wanting you. Lydia! Please, for the love of all the gods, stop talking. Just sit on my cock and end this madness.” He bucked his body, trying to move her downward.

  She held herself in place, squeezing her knees tighter. “Not ’til we’re done talking.”

  He groaned. “The lust sap is nigh dripping out my ears and every orifice of my body. I could not put two thoughts together if I tried.”

  She smiled.

  “Either tup me, or get up,” he demanded. When she hesitated, he took matters into his own hands. Flipping her over, he spread her legs and entered her in one long thrust that about made his eyes roll back in his head, so good did it feel.

  Lydia looked equally flummoxed.

  He was past the point of finesse. “Forgive me, heartling, but I cannot wait.”

  “Neither can I,” she whispered.

  Unable to hold back, he pounded into her tight sheath. With long, slow thrusts, then short and hard, he tried to show his feelings for her. Over and over he brought her to the edge of peaking, then stopped. He leaned back and flicked her woman petals with their center bud. He plunged some more. He was as out of control as she was. In fact . . . he would not admit this to anyone . . . but his knees gave out, and it was Lydia who rode him to the end when she tossed back her head and screamed. The blood drained from his scalp. His arms and hands, even his feet, tingled. His heart thundered against his chest wall. And then . . . and then he lifted his buttocks high, taking Lydia with him to a peaking that went on nigh forever. Afterward, her slick inner channels rippled around him in aftershock.

  She lay splatted over him, her face buried in his neck. He was unable to move, at first. At last, he raised his head, saw that she was equally dazed, and raised his mouth to give her a quick kiss.

  “This was not the way I planned this evening,” he told her.

  “You planned . . . ? I was the one with a plan. I mean, I don’t understand.”

  He rolled her over onto her back and stared down at her.

  “Lydia, I spent the entire day preparing. I had my hair cut, my face shaved, and I let the barber put some of this flowery water on me. All for your benefit. I even bought new clothes . . . and other things.”

  “I am totally confused,” she replied. “I thought you left. I heard the front door slam.”

  “I just went outside to get something I left when I arrived earlier. Why did you flee from me, dearling?”

  “Why? Why do you think, you jerk?” She shoved his chest and got up off the bed.

  He laughed; he could not help himself. And stood also.

  She growled and launched herself at him.

  He picked her up off the ground, his arms around her waist, and hugged her tight to avoid her pounding fists.

  “Lydia, I came here tonight with a purpose.”

  “To tell me off about the video.” She was still trying to attack him with her hands and feet.

  Despite their just having engaged in bedsport, he could feel his enthusiasm rising as she moved against him.

  She stilled when she noticed.

  “Sweetling, I came here tonight to tell you . . .” He gulped. “To tell you that I love you.”

  She leaned her head back to stare at him. “Liar.”

  He cupped her face with his hands. In a voice husky with emotion, he said, “I love you.”

  “What?” Her eyes blinked at him in shock.

  “That is what I would have told you if you had not fled.” Or I had gathered my courage.

  “I gave you plenty of time to say . . . it.”

  ??
?A man must needs pick the exact right time. I wanted to be holding you, like this, when I said the words I have ne’er said before in my life.” Who knew I had a talent for love words?

  “Say it again,” she whispered.

  “I love you, heartling.” It gets easier with each saying. Remarkable!

  “Oh. My.”

  “Is that all you can say?” He smiled against her lips. “I love you, Lydia. You have my heart.”

  “I love you, too, Finn. Forever.”

  You never know what a Viking will do . . .

  Lydia was still stunned when Finn ordered her to put on a robe, and he drew on his jeans. Then he led her by the hand into the living room.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  All the candles had been lit and moved to the coffee table, where his sword lay, along with a shoe and a velvet box. “Good Lord. Are you planning some ritual sacrifice? Do Vikings do that? Well, if you’re expecting a virgin, you’re in the wrong place, as you well know. What is this?”

  “A Viking’s attempt to make amends. Come.” He tugged her closer, then pushed her down on the sofa.

  He sat on the chair next to her.

  Now, if only I can get it right. “Give me your hand, Lydia,” he said. Before she could guess what he was going to do, he took the sword and ran the razor-sharp edge lightly over her wrist.

  “Are you crazy?” she murmured, watching the drops of blood pool on her wrist.

  You have seen nothing yet. “Of a certainty,” he said.

  “I know you didn’t like being tied to a bed, but—”

  Women can be such fools. “Who said I did not like it?”

  She blinked at him. “What I meant was, there is no need for violence, just because you’re irritated with me.”

  “Silly girling!” He chucked her under the chin.

  She watched with horror as Finn made a shallow slit on his own wrist and laid the sword back down. Then he pressed his massive hand across hers so the blood mingled and their pulses merged. Looking her directly in the eye, he stated firmly, “Blood of my blood, I pledge thee my troth.”

  Lydia was in shock.

  Oh. My. God! Heart hammering, Lydia sat frozen with shock. He really was a Viking barbarian. Then she smiled. My Viking barbarian.

  Adjusting his hand so that their fingers twined together and folded, wrist to wrist, her wound seemed to tingle and throb with an erotic rhythm.

  Oh, my!

  “Now you repeat the words,” he demanded raspily.

  In stunned silence, her eyes locked with his. She could not speak.

  “Say the words, Lydia,” Thorfinn coaxed rawly.

  “Blood of my blood, I pledge thee my troth,” she repeated softly.

  Something new and beautiful—and frightening—took root inside Lydia’s chest and unfurled with exquisite intensity. She had thought she loved him before, but this was so much more. It took their love to a higher plane.

  Still holding her arm fast, Finn flicked open the velvet box, one-handed, then took out a heavy, ornate gold ring in a writhing dragon motif. He slipped it on the third finger of her right hand. “’Tis the first of my arrha gifts for you. At our wedding, you move it to your left hand, promising obedience to me.” He chuckled. “Well, mayhap we could substitute fidelity for obedience.”

  Lydia admired his gift, closing her fingers to keep the huge gold band from slipping off. Looking closer, she saw that the dragon had a tiny ruby star in its mouth. “Where did you get this? It’s so unusual.”

  “The Super Highway. And fast delivery from the FedEx man. Geek helped me. Really, Lydia, someday we must travel there. They have products from ’round the world.”

  She smiled. “Tell me again why you got this . . . what did you call it . . . arrha?”

  “It means earnest gift. Vikings give three bridal gifts. The ring was the first.” Then he handed her a pink satin ballet-type slipper. “Normally, I would have brought one of my mother’s.” He shrugged at the impossibility of that. “So, Wal-Mart had to suffice.”

  “Only one?” she asked with a laugh, pleased, despite herself, that Finn had taken the time for all these ritual items.

  He grinned. “The husband swats the wife on the head with it during the marriage ceremony.”

  “Marriage?” she squeaked out.

  “Yea, marriage. What did you think we were pledging here? Lust? Well, that, too. In the Norselands, the bride’s father hands the shoe to the groom, transferring authority over his daughter. Dost think your father would do that?”

  “Hah! Since I left home, my father has had no control over me. Actually, he likes you so much, he’d probably do anything if it meant bringing you into the family.”

  Thorfinn continued to grin. “On the wedding night, I will place the other shoe under my pillow on the marriage bed to show who is in charge.”

  Lydia shoved the slipper back into his hands. “Keep your slipper, but I’ll keep the ring, thank you very much. Well, if that’s all—”

  “Nay, you forget. I mentioned there were three earnest gifts.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “The traditional betrothal kiss.” Before she could demur, he leaned forward. And he kissed her with such warmth that tears formed behind her eyelids.

  He laughed then. “I give you four weeks to arrange a wedding, but know this: my interfering family will probably insist on a Viking ceremony.”

  “We can do both.”

  He nodded. “We will be happy together. That, I promise. ”

  “I know we will be.”

  He flashed her a wicked grin then. “Now, time for one more gift. I propose to reciprocate with the bed gift you gave me.”

  She frowned in confusion, then laughed. “Ah, the infamous intimate kiss.”

  “With a Viking slant to it.”

  “Hmmmm. Sounds . . . interesting.”

  That night she and Finn explored a new erotic spot, not the Viking S-Spot, or the modern G-Spot. No, this was the I-spot, thus named because all she could gasp out was, "I ... I ... I...”

  It was a Viking feast fit for a king . . . uh, farmer . . .

  Thorfinn Haraldsson and Lydia Denton were set to be married four weeks later under a tent at Mill Pond Farm.

  Torolf Magnusson was his best man, and Kirstin Magnusson was the maid of honor, a modern designation that did not exist in his time. There were so many Vikings and SEALs in attendance that someone said they could form two football teams. So, they did, and a pickup game was held in the middle of the reception later that day.

  But before that, they were married by a clergyman and then in the Norse tradition. Lydia’s father led her over a white carpet . . . not an easy task on a farm. Later, people remarked that they had never heard a wedding march with a mooing backbeat. The bride walked under a canopy of swords. Viking and military dress swords. The SEALs wore white dress uniforms, often referred to as ice-cream-man attire, whatever that meant. The Viking men wore traditional garb befitting high Norse nobles, embroidered velvet and fine wool tunics over slim braies, belted with silver chains or tooled leather. Some wore fur-lined surcoats with shoulder mantles held together with ancient penannular-style brooches. Those with long hair had thin war braids framing their handsome faces. Thorfinn himself was dressed all in blue . . . a blue so dark it appeared black, from leather half-boots to braies to tunic, the darkness broken only by the gold-linked belt at his waist, and gold-embroidered stars along the edges.

  Those women of Norse descent also dressed in the age-old attire of upper-class Viking women. Exquisite silk or linen gunnas with gold- or silver-threaded hems. Open-sided full-length aprons. And jewelry befitting a queen.

  Thorfinn stood, smitten, waiting for his betrothed under the bridal canopy. He had not gone to so much fuss for his first wedding. In truth, he had married Luta by proxy. For Lydia, he wanted to do everything both new and according to the old ways.

  And there she was . . . his Lydia, being led by her father and her son, both of whom
wore dark suits with white sherts and ties. Lydia was dressed in the Norse bridal gown, which had been worn by others in his family, starting with Meredith, Geirolf’s wife.

  The undergown was a long-sleeved, collarless chemise of softest linen gauze, ankle-length in front, pleated and slightly longer in back. The wrists and circular neckline were embroidered with metallic green, gold, and white roses against a red background. The silk overgown, open-sided in the Viking style, was a deep crimson with matching bands of embroidery but with the colors reversed on a white background. A gold-linked belt matching his hung loose on her hips.

  Torolf squeezed his arm, and they exchanged a look. ’Twas an unspoken understanding about the effect women . . . the right women . . . had on their lives.

  After the Christian ceremony, Uncle Magnus, acting as loudspeaker, called out, “Hear ye, family and friends. Hear ye, Odin and all the gods. Come witness today the marriage of Thorfinn Haraldsson and Lydia Hartley Denton.”

  On a small table were placed a goblet of wine—Blue Dragon, of course—a KA-BAR knife which had belonged to Dave, a hammer, a polished stone, and a bowl of wheat seeds.

  Taking the goblet in hand, Thorfinn raised it high and said, “Odin, we thank you for this nectar of the gods . . . and the Blue Dragon Vineyard. May you bring us wisdom to deal well with each other in this marriage journey. Especially give Lydia the wisdom of submission so she will bow to her husband’s greater knowledge.”

  “Hah!” she said.

  He took a sip of the wine, then pressed the goblet to her lips. After she’d sipped the ruby liquid, he lifted the hammer. “Thor, god of thunder, I take in hand your mighty hammer, Mjollnir, which I just purchased at Home Depot. This I pledge: I will protect my wife from all peril. I will use the fighting skills learned at your feet to crush her enemies. Let it be known forevermore. Her foes are now my foes. My tangos are her tangos. The shield of the Yngling clan is now our shield.” Raising the hammer, he crushed the stone with one sharp tap.

  Next, Thorfinn scooped up a handful of seeds. “Frey, god of fertility and prosperity”—he sprinkled some of the seeds over her head, and then his own—“we implore fertility and the richness of love . . . and an abundance of passion.” He grinned at her with those last worlds.