Page 35

He suspected more than ten minutes elapsed as he soothed and steadied her but he was not concerned with that.

This had never been about punishment, not really.

It was a game, one of their sensual, even slightly perverted games, and he needed her to relish it as he did.

Too little, and it would lose that edge they both craved; too much and she would be genuinely afraid of what he might do to her in an unguarded moment.

Ulfric knew the importance of getting this right.

The power was his, as was the responsibility.

He would bring her right to her limit, and back again, and she would be forever bound to him.

He had freed her, but he would never let her go.

“Finish it.”

“Little Celt?”

“Finish it, Please. Just… do it. Anything. Everything. I want you to fuck me, and kiss me, and make me lose control. I will not call a halt again.”

“Will you not? Why?”

“Because…” She hesitated. He might have pressed her but sensed it would be better to wait, to let her articulate what she felt. He was rewarded when she turned to look at him. “Because I love you, Viking. I want you, and I want all that you can do for me, to me.”

“You shall have it, little Celt. You shall have all of it.” He smiled as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. “I love you, too.”

“I know. I always knew that you would. Eventually.”

He shook his head, quite mesmerised. She might be the one bound to the table, but he was as much a captive as she was.

Ulfric started again on his quest to cover her body with kisses.

He traversed her neck, shoulders, breasts, stomach, the intriguing little mound topped by dark curls, the hollows where thigh met the very edges of her soft pussy.

There he paused to tease and to explore, loving the way her breath hitched, her hips jerked as she sought to draw his tongue to her greedy clit.

He had enticed her to the very edge of her sensual endurance, and had yet to touch her there.

He paused to slick his fingers with oil again, then drove two into her arse.

She sighed, circled her hips, lifted her bottom up in silent entreaty.

He added a third, and knew he tested her limits.

Fiona gasped, her body tensed, then slackened again as she accepted what he did to her.

He brought her back to her previous level of abandonment with just a couple of deft thrusts, then he waited until she opened her eyes.

“Ulfric? Viking…?”

“You shall be my wife.”

“I… yes. I shall.” She offered him her shy, tentative smile. It was enough. He lowered his face to her plump clit and took the quivering nub between his lips. He caught it between his teeth, flicked with his tongue, and he sucked.

Fiona screamed. Her body convulsed, writhing and jerking against her bonds.

Her inner muscles clamped around his digits as he rammed them hard into her arse.

She ground out his name, then another word in her native Gaelic.

He considered it expressive enough and resolved to ask her about that… later.

Her release seemed endless. Wave after wave of pleasure gripped his fingers, caressed his tongue. Fiona bucked and twisted on the table, eventually slowing though aftershocks continued to rack her slender form. Only when she went utterly still did he withdraw his fingers and release her clit.

“Four strokes, little Celt. And there is oil left, though the flame gutters now. I shall make it six, I believe, before we lose the light entirely.”

“I want you to fuck me.”

He lifted one eyebrow though he knew she could not see. “Do I detect a note of belligerence?”

“I want… Please, I meant no insult, but I need you. Now.”

“I know what you want, what you need, but I would have you surrender one final release to me first.”

“Yes, anything.”

He pondered briefly, but the rapid flickering of the dying lamp urged him into action.

He might have teased, might have nudged her more gradually toward this final precipice but there was not sufficient time for such luxuries.

He trailed the backs of his fingers down her stomach, combed them through the triangle of curls, then drew a lazy circle around her clit.

“Will this do it, do you imagine?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “You know that it will.”

“What do you prefer? Shall I stroke, like this…?” He rubbed the pad of his finger over the very crest of the swollen nub and was gratified when she let out a long, low moan. “Or this?” He squeezed now, and she winced. “Does that hurt you, little Celt?”

“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 taken the 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 the main 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.

He offered 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.”