Page 64 of Her Rogue Viking
“Yes, but…”
“But you love it?”
“Yes,” she whimpered. “I love it.”
He increased the pressure, tightened his grip. She opened her eyes, her gaze pleading as she met his. He tugged as he pinched her clitty. She trembled, but still did not succumb. He had the sense she was not fighting him, had relinquished such efforts, but still her body held out. It would not take much, the merest increase, just the slightest touch more…
He shifted around to position himself at her side, and bent over the table. Her nipple was there, ripe and turgid and his for the biting.
So, he bit.
And Fiona screamed her release as her arousal peaked again. She shivered, bucked, wriggled, and eventually lay still. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing even. Ulfric drank in the sight of her sated, utterly conquered body.
The lamp guttered and finally died.
He might have takenthe time to loosen the knots but impatience won out. Ulfric drew his dagger and sliced the ropes, then lifted her from the table. Three strides took him from themain hall into his private chamber where he set Fiona on the bed. He would have left her there for a few moments while he undressed, but she reared up to wind her arms around his neck and would not let go. He eased alongside her and covered her mouth with his.
His little Celt was both yielding and demanding, giving and insatiable at once. It was she who slipped her tongue between his lips, she who explored, tasted, angled her head to deepen the kiss. It was she who rolled him onto his back and clambered up to drape herself over his body.
“I need you. Inside me.”
“That is my plan.”
“Now.” She grappled with the fastenings of his trousers, her fingers clumsy still from having been bound. He chuckled as he set her hands aside and completed the task, then he pushed her back onto the mattress and covered her. She spread her thighs wide, her fingers sinking into the muscle on his uninjured shoulder. “Hurry,” she pleaded. “I cannot wait…”
Neither could Ulfric. He drove his cock balls deep into her welcoming heat and held still, savouring the moment. Her cunt contracted around him, her inner muscles rippling to send intense sensations the length of his erection. She shifted beneath him, rolling her hips as she sought to increase the friction between them.
Ulfric withdrew then thrust again, the stroke long and deep and silky smooth from her juices. She cried out, arching under him. Would she find her release again, so quickly?
He hoped so, for he could not hold his own back very much longer. Abandoning restraint, he pounded her with his cock, each stroke deep and hard, driving his own arousal as well as hers. Her tightness, her wetness, her small, breathy cries all served to stoke his fire and Ulfric approached his peak with thunderous speed, hurtling toward the point of no return. Heoffered up a curse, then a plea, then gave up any semblance of control as Fiona lurched under him and her cunt tightened around his throbbing cock. She climaxed hard, gripping him like a hot and greedy fist, and he swore his aching balls twisted in their sack.
His semen surged up and out to fill her snug channel. A second spurt followed, and a third. At last he was spent and he collapsed onto her. Only at the very final moment did he scrape together sufficient wit to shift his bodyweight to the side and avoid squeezing the breath from her heaving lungs.
He lay motionless, face down, his heart thumping. Gradually it slowed, his breathing quieted, his world steadied. Ulfric turned his head.
Fiona’s profile showed a woman at peace. A faint smile played on her lips, her cheeks were flushed but prettily so. She appeared content, but he should check.
“Celt…?” He had been rough with her, unusually so.
“Viking…?” she murmured.
“You are… well?”
She seemed to consider this question for a while, then turned to regard him, her expression unreadable. “No, I am not well.”
He shoved himself up onto one elbow to peer at her anxiously. “I hurt you? It was not my intent. By Odin, I would not have?—”
“I am better than well,” she interrupted. “I do not yet have a word for it, at least not in my clumsy rendition of your Norse tongue, but ‘well’ does not suffice. ‘Perfect’ is perhaps not quite the appropriate word…”
“Perfect is just right,” he affirmed. “I can attest to that. Absolutely fucking perfect.”
16
Fiona inhaled deeply. The crisp cool of the spring air was a balm to her senses. She had always loved this time of year, and even though the Norse lands lacked the soft, tentative warmth of her native Scotland she still relished the promise of the season. The newness, the burgeoning life, the sprouting of hope, of possibility, of a love she had never dreamed would be hers.
She sought him out, and found him, his elbows propped on a rough fence at the outer edge of the settlement. He leaned on the barrier, his forearms resting on the top as he gazed out over the choppy waves. Was he even now planning new raiding expeditions? His brother was already out there on the seas, no doubt balancing on the prow of his longship as he stalked foreign coasts ready to swoop and seize. She well knew how ingrained in the Viking culture was this behaviour; it was a need for them, a compulsion they could not shake.
Ulfric could not help himself. Her lover would surely be contemplating setting to sea.
