Page 18 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

He dropped his empty drinking horn into the grass. Did the other men have a similar story? They called themselves the Forgotten Sons for a reason. Why had she not looked deeper? It was easy to lump them into one idea—blood-thirsty Vikings.

But, each man had a past.

Survival had made her desperate, and now, she was safe with Vikings. Because of their protection and companionship, she breathed easy. She could see again beyond the stumbling need to survive.

“Come.” Rurik’s smooth voice broke her thoughts.

She took the hand he offered, and the brooding Viking led her into the dark woods.

Grass grew longer here, brushing her hem.

Squat mushrooms poked out of crevices. Ancient trees rose to neck-wrenching heights.

Bats flew overhead, and a wolf howled in the dark.

A crafty-eyed fox peered at her behind fern fronds as Rurik brought her to a beached vessel set deep in the forest. Inside the ship, his hudfat was spread across the deck.

“Why do we sleep away from the others?” she asked.

No torch lit their evening conversation, a first since she’d cast her lot with Rurik.

“Because I want you.” He pulled the leather thong from his hair, his stare pinning her. “And your three days are done.”

She licked her lips. “The food I traded for.” Her voice was weak to her own ears.

“The last of it is gone. I honored my side of the bargain. Now you must honor yours.”

Oh, how her heart raced. Galloped. Stampeded.

“I think you do this to bury the pain of your loss.”

The back of his hand skimmed her cheek featherlight. “I think you’re talking too much.”

Rurik smelled of his soap and leather and deep green forests. He was freedom and sensuality...everything west of the Epte River. Everything forbidden to her.

His jaw was clean of whiskers, as if he’d prepared to caress her face with his.

Primitive strength emanated from him. Rurik of Birka was unlike any man she’d met.

Brusque. Decisive. A quiet leader of men.

Sparing with his soul, yet he’d given her glimpses of his better nature.

His private craving for softness—it almost melted him when he was alone with her. It nearly melted her too.

All this time she’d believed power was his. It wasn’t. Power was hers.

Large, calloused hands rubbed her shoulders, the rolling caresses as much a comfort as a fright. Scant moonlight skimmed his features, but there was no mistaking the hunger in his eyes. She was the prey he would devour. The forest wolf howled again, closer this time. She checked distant trees.

“Don’t be afraid,” Rurik said. “He’s looking for a mate, not a meal.”

Wolves. Four-legged and two-legged, they would sate their needs.

“Rurik.” Her voice was a raspy whisper. “Do not do this.”

“Do what?” Careful fingers pulled the tie at the base of her throat. Her cloak dropped to the ground.

“This,” she hissed.

He spun her around. She grabbed the ship’s rail with both hands.

The campfire was an orange ball of light in the distance, the smoke twisting higher, carrying the Sons’ laughter.

Rurik grabbed the rail, trapping her from behind.

His mouth was hot on her neck, seeding her skin with sweet kisses.

The tip of his tongue traced her ear. It was achingly delicate.

Her skin beaded.

Her heart thumped.

The thrum in her veins was desire. Fear.

Shock at being taken by a lusty pagan warrior and wanting him to do it.

His big hand palmed her hip. Caressing. Massaging.

Driving away stiffness from a day in the saddle, driving away her resistance.

Her open mouth sought his, but Rurik denied the kiss.

She whimpered, and he laughed low against her neck.

A carnal thrill shot to her navel. Heat spread lower between her legs, dripping like melted wax.

Rurik nibbled her ear lobe. “You want this.”

The whispered words were true.

Eyes fluttering shut, she shivered. His hot mouth was on her neck. Teasing her. Opening her. Weakening her resolve.

Breath skipped in and out of her lungs.

The hard plane of his body was solid against her back. Rurik’s fingers dug into her hip, sliding lower to the slanted crease where her bottom met her thigh.

The campfire’s flames shot high. Embers sprayed like pieces of gold on black. Three nights, the Viking didn’t touch her. He’d honored his word.

Would she honor hers?

Purpose warred inside her.

Rurik let go of the rail and covered her breast. Gulping air, she arched into his hand. Pleasure spangled a delicious trail from her nipple to her navel. Hardness nudged her backside. Rurik was plundering her defenses one kiss at a time.

How could a violent brute have such persuasive hands?

She had to touch him.

She grappled for him, artless and desperate.

Rurik grabbed her flailing hand and growled against her neck. “Keep. Your hands. Here.”

It was torture, holding the wooden edge. She was his captive. Fully dressed yet naked. She squirmed. Her breaths were ragged. She was...so...so...desperate.

Wetness slicked the skin between her legs. Rurik cupped her breast, strumming her nipple. Playing with it. Teasing her. Her nails dug into the rail.

Head tipped back, she cried out, “ Plll-eeasssse , Rurik.”

“‘Please, Rurik’ what?” His whisper was sin itself.

She had no answer.

His laugh was gruff. “You think I do this for your pleasure?” Dark notes threaded his voice. “I don’t. I do this for mine.”

Even the Viking’s gentleness had a feral edge.

His hands were everywhere. Tantalizing. Pleasing. Tender in places. Rough in others. The icy Northman worked her body like a fine-tuned instrument, plucking here, strumming there, plying honeyed cries from her.

He spun her around, his mouth sealing her moans.

Sensual fire shocked her. His fingers were grappling her bottom. His erection rubbed her belly—and she yearned for him.

Kissing his smooth jaw, the corner of his mouth, she deepened the kiss. Her fingernails grazed his nape. The grain of his skin was warm. Desirable. All of him was. Her breasts pillowed against his chest. Wool scraped swollen nipples.

This was the two of them together. A passionate battle. Give and take.

Rurik palmed her hips, soothing, calming. Lust and want braided none-to-gently with need. His hardness pressed her. Her legs opened wider. She pushed up on her toes and Rurik bent his knees to meet her. Their bodies fit well together.

His fingertips slid into her back cleft.

She gulped air, shocked. Aroused. He tucked the wool into her bottom’s cleft, and she clawed at his shoulders.

Her skirt inched higher and higher, cool air wrapping around her legs.

His tongue plunged her mouth. Slow. Sensual.

Rurik groaned. What they did with their mouths matched the rhythmic thrust of their hips.

Her thighs shook. She was about to give him everything.

Loyalty. Honor . The words rang in her head.

“I... I can’t,” she said against his mouth.

“You cannot what?” Rurik’s breath came in swift bursts.

“We cannot—” her chin hit her heaving chest “—I cannot lay with you.”

Three of his fingers swept lower, dipping until— sweet heaven —she hissed from white-hot pleasure. His fingers invaded her most private flesh from behind.

Her legs buckled. She gripped his shoulders, her knees falling open like a wanton woman.

She was drowning as wave after wave of desire sucked her under.

Rurik’s arm banded her waist, holding her up.

Dangerous fingers parted private folds and circled her opening with no more than the barrier of her skirt between his finger and her.

She tried to focus, but her arousal was excruciating.

“You are wet here,” he said in a husky voice.

She rested her forehead against his chest, trembling. Her hips circled over his tempting finger, feeding the fevered pitch inside her.

“Do you know what your wetness tells me?” His breath billowed against her neck. “Your body is ripe for me.”

She gulped cool forest air. If Rurik touched her cleft again, she’d gather her skirts waist high and tell him to take her.

Lungs pumping, she lifted her face to his.

Sun-blond hair fell around wide shoulders.

The length of it was glorious like a tawny-maned lion a merchant once tried to convince her father to buy.

Stroking Rurik’s hair was a surprise. The thickness.

Like silk, and so much of it. Nostrils flaring wide, he let her explore, and in the doing, her fingers grazed iron hobnails and carved-leather fangs.

The wolf on his vest.

Her two-legged wolf didn’t force himself on her. He plied her with sensual skill and she’d almost given herself to him. Undeniable lust burned between them.

But she had her life to consider—his, too.

“If I lay with you, I lose my maidenhood.” Her hand flattened on the leather wolf. Beneath it Rurik’s heart beat fast. “And if I lose that,” she said wearily, “I am not worth nearly as much.”

His brow furrowed. Clearly, the Viking warrior didn’t care about such things.

“I would take you as you are. Sharp tongue and all.” His crooked grin was sweet.

A sharp pang blossomed behind her breastbone. How good to have a man want her just as she was, even if it was for carnal satisfaction. Rurik wanted her. Raggedly dressed. No apparent wealth. Just her. But her Viking protector didn’t know all the facts.

She licked her lips. A new storm was coming. “But you care about gold.”

Rurik’s hands fell away from her body. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about an abundance of gold, Viking, more than you can fathom.”

“The reward for your return.”

“You say that as if it is a meager coin purse,” she said, both humored and surprised at his bored tone.

“You’re no thrall. I know that.”

“You have said as much all along, no?”

A hard laugh burst from him. “Now you decide to tell me the truth?”