Chapter 9 #3
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured.
“I am not beautiful, and save your slick words. They gain you naught with me. Do what you will with me and be done.”
“Britta, Britta, Britta, there’s no rush here. We have all night for this sexual adventure.”
“There may be no hurry for you, but there is for me. This journey progresses too slow for my taste. Like pouring thick honey syrup, when what I crave is thin honeyed mead.”
He laughed. “Food again!” She must have frowned her opinion because he added, “The best meal is savored slowly, bit by bit. And I intend to savor you for a long, long time.”
“How long?”
“Hours and hours.”
“What? I expect to be asleep shortly and up afore dawn to return to the base.”
“All night long. I’ve been dreaming about this forever, and no one is going to rush me.”
“Oh, for Thor’s sake! What can a man and women do for so many hours? Nay, do not answer that. You will no doubt say something coarse.”
And he did. In explicit, crude detail. He told her a dozen and more things he planned to do to her, things she had ne’er heard of and some she guessed might be physically impossible. Then he told her a dozen things he would like her to do to him.
He’d stunned her speechless, as he had intended.
Then whilst she was still gaping at him, he leaned down, brushing his lips back and forth over hers till she became pliant.
But did he then stick his tongue in her mouth like he did afore?
Nay! Not even when she opened her mouth for him.
Instead, he chuckled and moved on, nibbling at her chin and jaw and moving up to her ear.
Her ear, for the love of Odin! There he did some engaging things with the wet tip of his tongue, tracing her whorls, plunging into the canal.
The sensations he created in her ear ricocheted down to her nether parts where warm liquid pooled.
Hmmm, mayhap the ear is not such a bad place to start.
Still, this was syrup, and whilst syrup was fine and good, her appetite had been whetted for ale.
“Do you have any idea how much I want you?”
“Nay, how much?”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Well, you have dawdled so much I no longer want you.”
“Liar.”
“I am just curious.”
“Liar. Do you want to know how I can tell?”
“Nay.”
But he told her, again in explicit detail. Something about erect nipples, slick folds, flushed face, panting breath and swelling clit. She did not ask what he meant, not about folds, not about clits, suspecting she would learn more than she wanted to know about those signs her body revealed.
“Plus, you haven’t smacked me upside the head yet. If you really didn’t want me, you would have let me know, in spades.”
“There is that.”
He released her hands, and lowered himself to his elbows. Now he was nuzzling her neck. Her neck!
Frigg’s Foot! Enough! She grabbed his face, raised it, then kissed him hard, thrusting her tongue inside of his mouth with the finesse of a rusty plow in a cotter’s field. He did not resist, exactly, but he choked and lifted his head, evading another kiss.
“You move too slow,” she complained.
“Slow is good.”
“Slow is good for fermenting ale, not for fermenting the female juices.”
He chuckled. “Give me some credit for knowing a little bit about lovemaking, Britta.”
“And give me some credit for knowing what I want.” In one deft motion, she hooked a leg around his calf, pressed against his chest and rolled him over so that she lay atop him. “Now do it,” she ordered. “I would do it myself if I knew exactly how.”
He was laughing so hard he could scarce breathe, let alone “do it.”
Now she was embarrassed at her daring. He must think her a wanton. She tried to roll off of him, but only succeeded in landing at his side and almost knocking them both off the bed.
With much more deftness than she’d employed, he took her by the waist, tossed her back to the middle of the bed, and himself atop her again. “Now, behave yourself, Britta. I welcome you jumping my bones, but not this first time. Understood?”
“Nay, it is not understood,” she grumbled, turning her face to the side, still embarrassed, not just at her attempt to control the bedsport, but at having failed.
“Look at me, sweetheart.” When she refused, he slid down her body a bit and kissed first one breast, then the other, right on the tips.
She squealed and arched her body upward. She was looking now, all right. Good and plenty.
He put a hand at her chest and pushed her back down, roughly. She would no doubt have finger bruises on her chest come morn.
It had been a bare whisper of a kiss, but her nipples rose to attention, wanting more. Then he went to work in earnest, kneading her entire breast, raising it high from underneath, licking all around, but never quite in the center where she most wanted...nay, needed...his mouth to be.
She continued to try to arch her chest upward, offering her breasts to him.
He continued to hold her down. “Tell me what you want, Britta,” he asked in a voice which was deliciously husky.
“How do I know what I want? I do not know. Yea, I do. I want your mouth on me.”
“Oh? Here?” He pressed his mouth against hers in a fleeting kiss.
She shook her head.
“Or here?” He raised one hand and kissed the wrist where her pulse no doubt beat like a battle drum.
She shook her head.
“Ah, I know.” He nipped her shoulder with his teeth, then kissed it better.
“Nay, nay, nay, aaaaahhhhh!”
He had taken her nipple into his mouth and was flicking it with his tongue. Over and over and over. And whilst he ministered to the other breast with playful fingers, he began to suckle her, soft, then hard, soft, then hard, in a rhythm that had no end.
She succeeded in arching her body off the bed, taking him with her.
And still he suckled.
She was keening a never-ending response to his breast play, not understanding how his touch in one place could be felt by her in another place.
Ripples of the most incredible tension were building there.
She feared she was about to have another orgasm, except this felt different than the one in the bathing chamber.
And what did the lout do. He bloody hell stopped. And knelt betwixt her legs. And just sat back on his heels, studying her there.
“Look at you, Britta. Curly blonde hairs glistening with honey. I want to taste you, but that’ll have to wait. This time when you come, I want to be there for the party.”
He made no sense at all, but then Britta was nigh senseless with need.
Zachary reached to a table beside the bed and picked up a silver placket that sat next to his weapon...a piss-tol. Tearing the placket with his teeth, he then sheathed himself.
“To prevent pregnancy,” he explained, seeing her confusion. “Are you ready, sweetheart?”
“Ready? I have been ready for nigh on...oh!”
He’d raised her hips and slowly entered her. Bit by excruciating bit till he was firmly embedded in her woman channel which shifted and clutched at him in welcome. Then he did something, twisting his hips, and she took even more of him.
He stopped and looked down at her face. His lips were parted. His eyes were a hazy blue. Perspiration dotted his forehead. And Britta knew that he was as aroused as she was.
Then he smiled. He just bloody hell smiled at her. “I’ve been dreaming about this moment for two years. You’ve been the star of more of my wet dreams than I care to mention. And now you’re here.”
She smiled back at him.
His manpart jerked inside of her, obviously liking her smile.
Leaning upward, she kissed his mouth...a shy, inexperienced moving of her parted lips against his parted lips.
He moaned, which pleased her ever so much.
Slowly, he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, and for the first time she understood the significance of his thrusting tongue emulating his manpart which was beginning to thrust, as well.
Long, slow strokes in both places, at first.
Britta soon learned the rhythm and met him stroke for stroke, especially when he took her hips and showed her how to move. “Like that. Yes. No, no, no, I’ll slip out. Oh, sweetheart! Put your legs here. Do you like that? How about this? Sweet mother! I knew you would be magnificent.”
Britta kept trying to take over control of this bed play, but he would not allow it, even slapping away her hand at one point when she tried to touch the place where his manpart joined with her female folds. She was unaccustomed to being a follower, whether in battle or bed.
But what a wondrous thing this mating was! Truly, it was as if she and Zachary were one being. The joining was more than physical. Only he and she could fit together so well. The only key to fit a lock. A fanciful notion, that.
When his strokes became shorter and harder, she wrapped her legs around his waist, trapping him, or so she thought.
She met him thrust for thrust, a rhythm that must be intrinsic to men and women under the lust frenzy, she mused.
He grunted; she groaned. Still, they could not reach that peak which spelled orgasm.
But then it happened, to both of them at once.
Britta knew what it felt like to fall off a cliff.
This was the same but different. Whereas her real life fall off the cliff had been terrifying and deadly, this was an incredible blossoming of the senses.
Like flying, soaring high till it was almost unbearable, exploding in a blast of sunlight, then floating downward in the fall.
In a haze, she watched Zachary rise from the bed and remove his sheath, wiping himself with a cloth. Then he returned to the bed and drew her close, her face resting on his still wildly beating chest. Kissing the top of her head, he murmured, “You are all I dreamed you would be.”
She thought about replying with some flowery words; most smitten maids would. But this was Zachary, the man of a thousand swivings. They were just words for him.
So, what she said was, “I did not scream.”
“You moaned a lot.”
“A moan is not a scream.”
“Are you daring me again, sweetheart?”
“And if I am?”
He lifted his head, stared down at her with mirthful eyes, and said, “Hoo-yah!”