Chapter 5 #2
She bit her lip to keep from thrusting her breasts toward him. She ached to feel his touch directly on her skin, but she couldn’t order him to do it. Not and remain in control.
He let the towel curl down to bare her breasts. The naked hunger on his face made a throb start between her legs. Her breath shuddered over her teeth.
Brandr dropped to one knee before her, drying her ribs. She suppressed a giggle when he brushed over the last one. She’d always been ticklish on her left side. Osvald had avoided that spot because he couldn’t abide laughter in bed.
But Osvald wasn’t here. So when Brandr raked the tender place with the linen again, she allowed an unrestrained laugh to slip out.
He smiled up at her. “I like that. You should do it more often.”
He circled her navel and inserted a cloth-covered fingertip into the indentation. He gently patted down her hips. His warm breath coursed over her belly. The small hairs covering her sex swayed with each exhalation.
Her womb clenched. His lips were so near. She could order him to pleasure her, to use his mouth on her to relieve the ache, but then her dream rushed back into her.
The servicing of a slave was no substitute for a lovingly offered act.
“Spread your feet.” His voice was rough with longing.
Teeth clenched to keep from crying out with need, she did as he asked. He cupped her sex with his whole hand, and she throbbed into it.
His fingers alone would probably do, she thought as her head lolled back.
He teased the cloth between her legs, into her sensitive folds. She was wetter when he moved on down to her thighs than when he first began to gently blot her dry.
This is foolishness, Katla told herself. She was playing a dangerous game with a man who was the son of her enemy. She ought not be seeping moist warmth over his touch.
Or wondering if his cock or fingers or tongue would best end her torment.
When he bent to dry her ankles and lifted one of her feet, she caught a whiff of her own arousal, sweet and musky. He’d used a slave’s task to make her respond to him with a deep, throbbing ache.
“You smell wonderful.” Brandr stood and dropped the cloth, just staring at her for a moment. He leaned toward her slightly, and she thought he was about to kiss her, but he caught himself and straightened.
“Order me to kiss you,” he said.
“What?”
“I promised I wouldn’t do it unless you ordered me, and I want to kiss you.”
Brandr slid a hand along her neck and around to cradle the back of her head. Then he stepped closer so their bodies were touching, grazing each other at sensitive points, her nipples raking his chest, his erection rubbing against her belly.
“I burn to kiss you,” he whispered. “Everywhere.”
She sucked in a quick breath. He threatened to set her ablaze. Her whole body sizzled when he pulled her closer, lifting her with an arm around her waist so their parts meshed more fully.
Skin on skin. Heart to heart and groin to groin.
He pressed his cheek against hers. The stubble of his regrowing beard scraped her skin. Then he drew his open mouth over her sensitized flesh. He stopped shy of her lips, nostrils flared, a wild light in his eyes.
Katla swayed on her feet.
“You want my kiss,” he said, his voice liquid seduction, a low purring sound that went straight to her womb and made her throb in time with the slow rock of his hips against her pelvis. “Admit it. You want my touch on your skin. You want my cock between your legs.”
He was right, damn the man to the ninth circle of Hel. She was nearly incoherent with need. If she told him to kiss her, it wouldn’t stop there. Brandr Ulfson was ready to mount her. And she was ready to let him.
Almost.
If she did, it would mean he’d won. He’d seduced his mistress into letting him take her. She’d lose all control over this man if that happened.
That was no way to avenge her husband’s death.
She tamped down her longing and straightened her spine. She would be strong. She always had to be strong. A woman without a man had to be.
“You forget yourself, thrall. Step away from me.”
He didn’t move for the space of several heartbeats. Then a cold light burned in his eyes, and he released her. Anger and lust warred on his features, but he said nothing as he stepped back.
“Your tunic is still in the other room. It should be dry enough by now,” she said, trying to keep her tone even and failing miserably. “Go put it on.”
“Ja, princess. As you will.” He stomped toward the door to the main bath but stopped before putting his hand to the latch.
His thick cock was still engorged, and the muscles beneath his skin twitched, ready for action; however the expression on his face was anything but a lover’s summons.
The oil lamps seemed to flare brighter for a moment, but Katla dismissed it as a trick of light. “This is not over, you know.”
She lifted her chin. “It is if I say it is. Step lively, thrall. You will attend me at table this night.”
Brandr made a low growling noise in the back of his throat and left, slamming the door behind him. The lamps flickered hotly and then dimmed.
Must have been the blast of air from when he opened the door, she reasoned, though she didn’t remember ever seeing them vary so wildly before.
Katla sank onto the bench near the cooling barrels, afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her up any longer. She crossed her arms over her breasts, her body throbbing for the release Brandr would’ve given her.
But she couldn’t have done otherwise.
She would control him. Not the other way around. She still had to avenge Osvald.
She drew a ragged breath and tried to clear her head of the heart-stopping things he’d done to her. The things he’d made her wish he’d do. Her belly turned a slow backflip at the thought of his mouth on her.
His kiss. Everywhere.
No, Katla told herself sternly. She had no time for such dallying. Her brothers had brought another suitor for her to consider. Albrikt Gormson of Stord Island was no doubt waiting in her longhouse that very moment, wondering what was keeping her.
She didn’t need a lover. She might well have a husband before long. A man who wouldn’t play games, who wouldn’t have to be ordered to kiss her, and who most especially wouldn’t be the son of her enemy.
Katla stood and dressed in the tunic and overdress old Gerte had delivered to the bath house for her. She fastened her best brooches at her shoulders. After plaiting her hair, she twined the braid around her head and fitted the elaborate headdress over her wet hair.
Dressed in her best ensemble, she was the perfect picture of a high-ranking Norse matron. She had to be. If she was to give Gormson’s suit a fair hearing, she must present herself in a way that brought credit to her house.
Her body still craved Brandr, but the worst of the madness was passing.
She sniffed the air, hoping she no longer smelled like a wanton.
The stiff brocade overdress had been laid by with cedar chips, so the fresh scent of wood followed her out the bath house door.
But before she reached the longhouse, she had to admit Brandr was right.
This was not over.