Page 62 of Her Rogue Viking

She obeyed, her irises darkening as he plunged that oiled finger back and forth. Her arse loosened as he worked her, opening despite any efforts she might make to expel him. He quirked his lip when she squeezed, unsure if she did it on purpose of if her body was already taking over, her response unbidden and beyond her control.

“Please, not so hard.”

“You are uncomfortable?” He had been gentle, he was certain of it, but felt compelled to ask.

“Yes. No… it is too much. Too intense.”

“Ah. Good.” He withdrew his finger and drove it deep again, this time with a second digit alongside it.

Fiona lifted her hips, rolled them against the blanket beneath her. He knew what she sought, and she would have it. But not yet. He would get to her engorged clit soon enough, but for now…

He swirled his fingers within her, and rubbed them against each other. She contracted around him, her sensitive walls starting to convulse as he brought his other hand into play. He inserted three fingers into her eager pussy then pressed his hands together. Only the thin inner skin separated his fingers as he stroked her.

Fiona was going wild within her bonds, thrashing, groaning, pleading with him to stop, or to never stop. He narrowed his eyes, his concentration unwavering as he brought her to the very edge of reason. He judged the moment to perfection, relented, slowed his demanding thrusts. His fingers were still now as she quivered around him.

He looked at her, met and held her gaze. Her eyes were glazed, she had little fight left and he knew he could send her soaring as and when he chose. Should he be disappointed as she had suggested? Would he have expected a more determined fight, relished more effective resistance from her?

No, he thought. Her responses were exquisite, her sensuality quite dazzling. He would have her no other way.

“Halt.”

The word was more a prayer than a command, he reflected. But her need was clear enough. He withdrew his questing fingers, left both her channels empty as he stood upright and regarded her flushed face.

“How much longer? The lamp…?” Her tone was breathy, her throat working as she sought to gather her wits. He wished her every success with that, the effects would be short-lived.

Ulfric strolled over to check, and was interested to note that over half the oil had burned away. He did a rough calculation in his head and concluded that he would have this climax from her, this release that hovered on the margins of her control, and perhaps one more by the time the light finally guttered. Even then, though he would release her and carry her to their bed, it would not be over. She might earn no more strokes of the switch, but he would have more from her.

“How…? How much?”

He turned his head. Fiona watched from her position on the table top, her expression verging on desperation. He was surprised. She did not fear the switch so much, he was sure ofit. He returned to stroke her cheek, then on impulse bent to kiss her.

Fiona parted her lips and he drove his tongue into her mouth, tangling, dancing with hers.

She made a little sound in her throat, one he recognised. It was desire, always there, always hot, ever ready to flare and consume. He twisted strands of her hair around his fingers to hold her head still as he deepened the kiss, demanding, tasting, hungry for her. Her flavours were heady, spicy, enticing. He would never—could never—have enough of her.

He released her mouth but continued to kiss her. He left a hot, damp trail across her neck, her shoulder, then down to her breast, neglected since he had devoted his sole attention to the delights to be discovered between her thighs. She arched when he sucked on her nipple, let out a small cry when he bit her.

Her lips were open, wet and shining from his kiss. She rolled back her head and thrust her breasts higher as though inviting him to hurt her, to make her scream.

Ulfric would be delighted to oblige. Later. He abandoned her taut peak and descended lower. Her belly shivered as he traced patterns there with his tongue, she shook when he reached the damp, ebony-coloured curls at the apex of her thighs. He nuzzled there, inhaling the sharp, musky tang of a woman aroused beyond coherent thought.

Had she had her ten minutes? He suspected not, and they did have an agreement. In good conscience he could not add strokes to her tally if he had played their game unfairly. He kissed her abdomen, and stepped away.

“Ulfric…” Her groan was animalistic.

“You called halt. I will honour it. A drink?”

“No, no… I want…” She chewed on her lower lip again, her features contorted in a grimace. Pleasure? Pain? He was not sure, perhaps a blend of both since unsated lust had a way ofturning to utter torment. He knew this from his own experience when he first captured his little Celt and she had not yet agreed to yield her virginity to him. That unhappy state passed quickly enough, but he recalled it now with vivid clarity.

“You need to drink,” he asserted and refilled the cup.

When he brought it to her he had to insist that she took a few drops, then he set it aside. Now, as he combed his fingers through her damp hair, he resisted the urge to kiss, to taste, to tease. He simply caressed her, and smiled when she turned her face to place her lips against his palm.

“I do not care about the switch. I want you. I want you to fuck me and I shall die of pleasure.”

“I will fuck you, little Celt, but you will not expire from it, I promise you.”

“I am dying now. I cannot get my breath…”

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