Page 85 of Her Viking Master

The sensation was overwhelming. The device responded instantly to the increased pressure, the vibrations intensifying, patterns shifting to target my clit with merciless precision. The central ridge of the saddle parted my labia, pressing directly against the entrance to my aching sheath, while the forward portion buzzed against my swollen bud.

“Oh, God,” I moaned, my hips jerking involuntarily over the saddle. I couldn’t stop myself. The vibrations consumed every rational thought, reducing me to pure sensation, pure need. My hips began to move of their own accord, grinding down against the humming leather, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of the diabolical pleasure that made my mind fragment like shattered glass.

“No, no, no,” I chanted, the words dissolving into incoherent moans as the saddle’s vibrations found a new rhythm, pulsing against my clit in perfect counterpoint to the throbbing of my inner walls.

The leather grew slick beneath me, coated with my shameful arousal. Each shift of my weight, each involuntary rock of my hips changed the pattern of stimulation, as if the saddle were learning my body’s responses, adapting to maximize my pleasure whether I wanted it or not. The central ridge pressed insistently against my entrance, not penetrating but teasing, promising a fullness it withheld.

I tried to focus on something—anything—beyond the mounting tension in my core. The rough texture of the stone. The cool air against my sweat-dampened skin. The distant hum of ventilation systems. But the saddle’s vibrations seemed to travel through my entire body, making concentration impossible, fragmenting my thoughts before they could fully form.

“I won’t,” I gasped, even as my hips circled faster, pressing harder against the leather. “I won’t give in.”

But I was already giving in, had been from the moment I’d collapsed onto the saddle. My body knew what it wanted, what it needed, even as my mind rebelled against the forced pleasure. The first orgasm was building inexorably, a tsunami I could neither stop nor control.

When it crashed over me, I screamed, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the cell. My entire body convulsed, my vagina clenching rhythmically around emptiness as surge after surge of pleasure radiated outward from my belly. I pulled desperately at the restraints that held my wrists, my back arching, toes curling as the climax seemed to go on forever.

In that moment of release, I felt it—the familiar rushing quasi-sound that preceded a journey to Yggdrasil. My consciousness began to expand, to rise up and out of my trembling body. For a heartbeat, I glimpsed the cosmic branches, the vast expanse of the world tree stretching through dimensions I could barely comprehend.

But before I could fully enter that state, before I could receive whatever vision awaited me there, the saddle changed its rhythm again. The vibrations intensified, focusing with laser precision on my oversensitive clit. The pleasure was so acute it bordered on pain, yanking me brutally back into my physical form.

“No!” I cried out, genuine tears of frustration streaming down my face. “Please, just let me see!”

CHAPTER43

Sven

The jet way stretched before us like the gullet of some great beast, disgorging passengers into the terminal beyond. Erik walked at my side, his posture relaxed, but his eyes constantly scanning, a hunter’s awareness beneath his businessman’s veneer. We had spent the flight reviewing what little we knew of the Pretorian Guard’s New York Mithraeum—its probable location beneath a Fifth Avenue skyscraper, its security protocols, the hierarchical structure that seemed to mirror ancient Roman military organization, as mixed with some vestige of the cult of Mithras.

“We need to get to the safehouse,” I murmured to Erik as we approached the end of the jet way. “Once we have access to the surveillance network?—”

The words died in my throat. Four men stood waiting at the terminal entrance, their bodies arranged in the unmistakable formation of professionals securing a perimeter. Three wore the sleek, dark uniforms of Selecta’s corporate police—charcoal tactical pants and fitted jackets emblazoned with the company’s stylized red ‘S’ emblem, the subtle bulges beneath their clothing betraying concealed weapons. But it was the fourth man who made my blood run cold.

I recognized him instantly from the surveillance footage I’d watched in Paris—the man with classical features and calculating dark eyes who had interrogated Mary, who had forced responses from her body that made my fists clench at the memory.LeoMarmareus, as the Guard seemed to call him. He stood slightly apart from the others, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit rather than a uniform, his posture relaxed yet alert, a predator at rest.

“Fuck,” Erik breathed beside me, so softly only I could hear. His right hand twitched slightly toward his jacket pocket, where I knew he carried a device that could incapacitate everyone within a twenty-foot radius—one of the Sons of Odin’s more useful technological advances. “Orders, Sven?”

I shook my head minutely, my mind racing through scenarios, calculating risks and probabilities. The device would work, certainly—would give us perhaps ninety seconds to disappear into the crowded terminal. And we had our supersonic nano-drones already in the vicinity, ready to ensure a good deal of destruction if necessary.

But at what cost? The disruption would alert every security system in the airport. Innocent bystanders would probably be injured. And most crucially, what would happen to Mary and Camille once the Guard realized their trap had failed?

“Gentlemen,” the dark-haired man said as we approached, his voice cultured, with just a hint of a Mediterranean accent. “Welcome to New York. My name is Matthew Apollis, though I believe you know me better asLeoMarmareus.”

His small smile didn’t reach his eyes, which remained cool and assessing as they moved from me to Erik and back. The casual admission of his dual identity was deliberate—a message that he knew exactly who we were, that secrecy was already compromised.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied evenly, keeping my expression neutral, the rage building inside me notwithstanding.

Matthew’s smile widened fractionally, but his eyes remained cold and calculating, like those of a chess master who had already mapped out every possible move I might make.

“Professor Hallstrom,” he said, his voice pitched low enough that only our small group could hear, “let’s not waste time with these tiresome denials. We know who you are, though we may not know precisely why you’re here, or who sent you. On the other hand…” he paused, meeting my gaze directly, then continued with slightly narrowed eyes, “we know exactly why you’ve come.”

The rage that had been simmering within me threatened to boil over. On an intellectual level, the idea of sharing Mary with the men who would use her on her mission made sense—above all because Mary needed that sort of submission. But the primal instincts of the alpha male couldn’t be put away so easily. This man had touched Mary, had forced pleasure from her body against her will. I pictured his hands on her pale skin, heard again her gasps and moans from the surveillance footage. My fingers twitched at my sides, the ancient berserker blood of my ancestors urging me to violence, to tear this man apart with my bare hands.

But the cold, rational part of my mind—the strategist, the scholar, the leader of men—knew better. I forced myself to breathe evenly, to maintain the outward appearance of calm even as my heart hammered against my ribs.

“My newColumbaeare quite remarkable,” Matthew continued, his use of the Latin term—doves, apparently the Guard’s name for their female agents—obviously deliberate and provocative. “Especially the redhead. Such… responsiveness. Such depth of submission. You’ve trained her well.”

One of the uniformed men shifted his weight slightly, his hand moving subtly toward what I assumed was a concealed weapon. Erik tensed beside me, ready to act the moment I gave the signal. The tension in the air thickened, the mundane bustle of the airport terminal seeming to recede as our small group stood locked in this moment of dangerous possibility.

I studied Matthew’s face, searching for any hint of weakness, any opening I could exploit. There was none. His expression remained impassive, confident, the look of a man who held all the cards and knew it. Behind that mask of calm professionalism, I sensed something else—a quality I recognized because I possessed it myself. This man had accustomed himself to dominance, to control, to the wielding of power over others. He understood the complex dance of authority and submission that had shaped human civilization since its earliest days.

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