Page 46 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

“ Y ou are leaving tomorrow.” The smallest fracture broke in Ilsa’s voice.

“You heard Magnus.” His voice was ragged. “My brothers are ready to go home.”

“Are you anxious to leave?” She stretched her legs in rumpled linens.

He stared at their silken length. “No.”

Though defeat still badgered him, his pulse quickened.

Her bare skin was smooth until she tucked a bed cloth over her calf.

The room was peaceful. Beyond the walls, drunk men roared with laughter.

Victory was an elixir. But, in this season, the gods denied him and his brothers that pleasure which had flowed without end.

Until today. He would return to Rouen and lick his wounds and miss Ilsa.

Being with her soothed him. She was like fine mead easing his cares. Rich. Heady. Sparkling and golden.

“You could go with me to Rouen,” he ventured.

Her smile was tender and her hair was loose. He felt like a youth with his first maid.

“You know I cannot do that,” she said.

“Because impoverished Vellefold needs you more than I do?” How dry and rueful he sounded.

“Oh, Bjorn…” Ilsa reached out yet didn’t touch him. “Don’t say that. You’re breaking my heart.”

She was crushing his heart, one gentle look at a time.

He rested both forearms on his thighs, winded. Since the day he was left alone on Birka’s beach, he’d boxed weakness and need in the tightest, darkest corner. No one was allowed to touch it. Of the fair sex, only two had ever seen him vulnerable. His mother and Ilsa. Women he loved…

Cracks spread under his breast bone. He rubbed the ache there. Chin to chest, he closed his eyes. On a scale, he saw two weights measured. Ilsa on one side. His brothers on the other.

His heart would never mend from this.

Something would shatter.

“Bjorn…” she whispered his name.

He looked up. Gentle concern graced her eyes. Ilsa was leaning toward him, her hair a silky curtain. Lust jolted like an unwanted guest. He couldn’t help it.

“You know, I’m in the one place I used to dream about the fair sex,” he said, grinning. “Now a beautiful woman sits on my old bed.”

She laughed, then wince, touching the wound on her head. “Oh…” she huffed. “You can’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

Her laugh was sweet music. And he’d not hear it again until next trading season in Rouen. If she came…

Why did the cracks under his breast bone multiply when he thought that?

“If I could, Ilsa, I’d make you laugh every day for the rest of your life.”

He was far too serious, but the astonishment in her sea-green eyes was worth it.

“But I am…older.”

He snorted softly. “You’re better than a hundred maids. You’re beautiful. Fascinating. Brave beyond measure. And your kindness…” He hissed as if that alone stabbed his heart. “Life would never be dull for the man who loves you.”

Her fingers curled around the sheets. Slowly, she repeated, “’The man who loves me,” as if savoring the idea.

“You are a prize for any man.” His voice thickened.

The bed creaked when she shifted. “I was a prize once. It made me miserable. My future will be different.”

At her fearless declaration, dull light flickered at the back of her eyes.

Was she worried about the thralls? Vellefold’s future? Or him?

Ilsa had her pick of problems. It was wrong of him to ask her to choose. He wanted to soothe her in the same way she comforted him. Feeling her nearness, he wanted to do much more.

Rising from the chair, he was restless, striving not to touch her. “You’re the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure a way out of this mess.”

“I hoped I could do that with you.”

He flinched. Her words were arrows dipped in guilt. They landed well.

“My men. I must take them home.” His voice scraped low.

Staring at her rumpled bed sheets, he was lost on a sea of white linen. He had no sense of home. Need yawned inside him. A void wanted filling. He wanted Ilsa. Warm and welcoming. Fierce and determined. The only woman he ever called friend …and he wanted her in a very unfriendly way.

He scrubbed both hands over his face. The cut on his head. He barely noticed it. She pushed up on her knees. Light filtered through fragile linen. Her body was the sweetest slopes and curves.

“You should send me away.” His stare was burning holes in her under dress.

She nearly drove him to his knees with want.

“I can’t send you away.” How light her fingertips were on his arm.

How had he come to stand this close to the bed? Ilsa was looking up at him, a little lost.

“Home,” she said reverently. “It binds you and it binds me.”

He shuddered when her long fingers splayed on his chest. The light pressure, her hand was a lifeline. She was rubbing the wolf head carved in leather.

“I tire of hearing what cannot be, Bjorn. Don’t you?”

Her whispers were Freya-sent seduction. He covered her hand with his, needing to feel her. Eyes the color of the Aegean Sea stared deeply into his. Tears wet them.

“I want to hear what can be.”

His breath caught. “Ilsa…”

“We have tonight. Let’s not waste it.” She tried to look cheerful, yet tears began to fall. One. Then, another. And another.

He kissed their salt on her cheek. She guided his hands over her hips as if to bind them together forever. She was firm under his hand. Taut and round. Her smooth curves fitting his hands. Her under dress was bunching higher and higher. He was kissing her, getting lost in pleasure.

A rude, but distant, laugh broke them apart. “I’ll bar the door,” he said.

She was confident. “We won’t be disturbed tonight.”

If he didn’t have his hand on her warm, soft, perfect backside, he’d ask why she was certain. But Ilsa’s pine-scented skin aroused him. He was a slave to her exploring touch. Skimming his nape. His ears, His arms. The effect was like landing on an endlessly soft eiderdown bed.

Lust poured through his limbs. It muddled his mind. His palms caressed her bare skin, feeling her. knowing her. He savored Ilsa.

Velvet-smooth skin pebbled wherever he touched.

The dip of her lower back.

The slight crease where her thigh and bottom met.

Ilsa was breathing faster. Her under dress was riding her waist. Nearly face to face, they pressed against each other. Body to body. Excitement ravaged him. He was fully dressed. She was nearly naked.

“You’re not worried about the thralls? Or Elswith walking in?” he asked.

She touched a finger to his lips. “The less you know, the better.”

He was in a trance when she slowly, slowly dropped the blanket from her shoulders.

Words vanished. He was lost.

Soapstone lamps cast her in golden light. He was glad she didn’t call for them to be extinguished. He wanted to see all of Ilsa. Her curves and angles, her velvet smooth skin.

She smiled, light and playful.

The linen under dress was a cloud around her body. She was patient, letting him explore her waist, her ribs. He caressed Ilsa everywhere, hungry for her. Skin pebbled wherever he trailed his fingers, featherlight. Her lashes drooped. A tiny hissed inhale gratified him.

Wetness glistened on her bottom lip. He kissed her there, tender. Branding his memory with the shape of it.

He kissed her again. And again. Sweet pecks, gentle, careful, lingering.

“I feel like a starving woman who’s been served a feast,” she murmured.

“Ilsa…”

Saying her name was a prayer. He was reverent. And desperate. A tide was washing over him, waves and waves of need. Hazy and lost, he would gladly give in. Their kisses deepened, a slow connection.

Tender, endearing, stealing, restoring.

The storm persisted. Arousal rose fierce and passionate.

Ilsa matched him, touch for touch. Kiss for kiss.

She loosened the ties at the side of his vest. Her hands grappled and fumbled. The roar inside them both was furious. They broke their kisses, a little breathless.

He looked at her in wonder. Threads of glossy flaxen hair fell about her shoulders. Her nipples were small points, tenting the linen covering them. He touched one as if it were the greatest treasure.

She hissed again. “Your touch, it sets me on fire.”

Both of her eyes were black and glossy. His reflection shined in their depths.

He planted a knee on the bed, the ever-so-slight creak an intimate sound. Furs and coverings rustled. He slid his hand over her torso, going lower to the nest of hair between her legs.

“Does this set you on fire?”

Her shaky inhale gratified him.

Curls crinkled against his palm. Her skin was warm. Inviting. He touched her cleft.

Ilsa dug her fingers into his vest. “Don’t stop,” she cried.

Silken wetness coated his fingers. Words escaped him. There was only this—her body arching against his.

She tugged her under dress up and over her head. The plain garment fell in a heap on the bed.

Ilsa was gloriously naked. High breasts and tight nipples, the flesh red as lingonberries. She rolled back onto the bed, her arms outstretched, beckoning.

“Come to me,” she said.

He gathered his huntress close to him, chest to chest, legs twined, her hips cradled against his. Holding her thus stole his breath. A mutual embrace, they claimed each other, eyes to eyes, her length against his. The tenderness threatened to shatter him.

Primal need shook him. The waves roaring inside him—to protect Ilsa. Forever.

They belonged together. This truth was in their mingled breaths, their sweet kisses, their longing for each other.

He had to touch more of her to assure himself, to ground himself in her.

He caressed her knees, the jagged scar running up her inner thigh, the fragile gold-blond hair springing between her legs.

He groaned like a dying man—her cleft. Pink flesh opened to him, the small seam so pretty.

Ilsa twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Her cat-like grin invited him to explore. To claim. To do whatever he wanted.

She was taking him.

He kissed her knee and the bottom of her scar. Beyond the walls of this chamber, the victors celebrated. Kissing the wandering line up her leg, he was the true victor. He trembled with it. Him, a beast of war, conquered by a woman.

Profound joy soared in him. He kissed a vicious purple bruise on her hip, grazed skin on her ribs, the edge of the blooming gash on her head. They’d bled and lost…and they survived.

Together, they were alive, drunk on it and drunk on each other.

She was battered and bruised, his huntress, but not defeated. Laying with her, flesh between his legs raged for satisfaction. But all he could do was treasure her with gentle touches. He skimmed the edge of the wound on her head.

“Do you need a healer? Should I still touch you?” he asked.

Really, he wanted to know if her body could take more.

Ilsa answered by loosening his trousers. Her womanly smile enticed him as she took him in hand. Pleasure seared like white-hot arrows where she touched. Ilsa draped her leg over his hip and drew him into the cradle of her body.

He shook. Everywhere. Their joining threatened to break him.

Ilsa was rocking against him. Slow. Sweet. Taking him deeper into her body. Her smile more gorgeous than the sun. He moved, groaning. Lost to her.

She cupped his face and split his heart in two when she whispered, “I already have a healer, Bjorn. It’s you.”