Page 32 of Kept By the Viking (Forgotten Sons #1)

His grin was her reward. Rurik kneaded her breast and stepping closer, he tunneled his other hand into her unbound hair.

Bliss teased her skin...from scalp to neck to shoulders and shoulder blades down her spine.

Skin slicked between her legs. Heat bloomed across her inner thighs and shot across her calves to the soles of her feet.

Rurik’s lips brushed hers. Soft. Lingering.

He was sweet with her. A rough, big man yet careful. He deepened the kiss, and she opened her mouth to him, tasting spiced mead on his tongue.

This was what she wanted. Freedom. Life. Him .

Lust crackled like a forest fire burning fast. Emotions careened inside her. For this man. A Viking. A pagan. Her gruff, quiet leader of men. She pushed up on her toes, rubbing against him, lulled by passion’s intoxicating sounds...

Her skirt chafing his wool-clad thigh.

One leather-covered foot stroking the side of his boot.

The carved wolf on his chest scraping her nipple.

She broke the kiss. “Undress for me.”

A thick brow arched. There was a heady second or two when neither moved.

Without a word, Rurik removed his remaining arm brace.

It dropped to the floor with a plop . Storm-blue eyes locked with hers as he untied the lacing at the side of his vest. The warrior let the maid have a measure of control.

The headiness of it. Of standing one breast bared to him, telling him what to do, and him doing it.

Rurik tugged his vest over his head. Thunk . Thick leather landed on the floor.

Moonlight showered muscles rippling under golden skin. His arms were darker than his chest, the tan line arcing high on his shoulder. She drank him in. Blond hair on his chest. Brown nipples...pointy, as if asking to be sucked... Oddly few scars save the wide, ugly slash on his right arm.

Or did the dark room hide marks of his past?

Rurik’s hands dropped to the leather tie below his navel. “Now you undress for me.”

Wool sagged at his waist. His trousers parted over his abdomen, and she leaned forward, mesmerized, as much for what she saw as didn’t. His flat belly, small hillocks of muscles twitching when he moved. Wide V shaped lines of sinew and paler flesh narrowed into his loosening trousers.

Rurik stopped to ungarter his boots. He toed off one boot. “You’re not listening.”

No, she was slack-jawed at witnessing a beautiful naked man.

He balanced on one bare foot while pulling off the other boot. She licked her lips. His feet. She wanted to drop to her knees and kiss his feet. Her sister had never said anything about kissing feet.

Was this total surrender to a man? Wanting to lavish attention anywhere on his body?

Black trousers dropped to his ankles, and he stepped free of them. “You’re staring at my feet.”

Rurik’s grin was a crooked slash of white. A hot, sweet pang filled her chest, spreading like spilled wine.

“Every inch of you entrances me,” she said, a little breathless.

His laugh was a low carnal sound. Rurik opened his loin cloth and the plum-red crown of his cock sprang free. She licked her lips. Was tasting a man as wondrous as smelling him?

“Safira.” His voice was firm. “Take off your clothes.”

That was the moment she knew. A man could own a woman body and soul, and Rurik of Birka, the roving Viking warrior, owned her. The ancient weave of man and woman was here, a deep thread, sewing two hearts together. She would give her body to Rurik because he already had her heart.

She pulled free of the tunic, an awkward, graceless lifting of it over her head.

The underdress was cool on hot skin. Rurik devoured the sight of her.

His nostrils flared. His jaw was tight. Strange tautness twisted inside her.

Made her heart gallop in her chest. She grabbed the hem of her underdress with clumsy hands.

In her fumbling, a seam ripped but she tossed it aside, a saffron wraith floating to the floor.

Shabby boots slipped off until she too was naked.

She reached for the glass beads on her ear lobes.

“No. Keep them on,” he said, low-voiced. “Lay on the fur.”

She climbed onto the bed, the mink feathering her hands and knees. She lay on her back, a pillow under her head. Luxuriant fur teased her backside as she spread her legs for him. Air skimmed her cleft. So did Rurik’s hot stare.

Wasn’t this how a woman waited for a man?

Standing at the end of the bed, he removed his loin cloth and tossed it aside.

“I hardly recognize the woman I’m becoming,” she said, drunk with anticipation.

The bed dipped and Rurik stretched out beside her. He stroked her breasts, a slow back and forth from one to the other, the backs of his fingers and the palm of his hand. Tender and thoughtful. Strokes to bind her to him, a pagan spell of lust and like. She reveled in it.

“Why me?” he asked, nuzzling her shoulder.

Her maidenhood.

His whiskers tickled her. She sighed and turned to him. “It must be you.”

Rurik’s smile was profound and very male.

Lying beside him, their noses nearly touched and the bed creaked intimately. Rurik’s lashes were crescents on his cheeks as if he dared not let her see his eyes while he contemplated her answer. Was it enough?

He stroked her breasts and her ribs, his brows knitting as if he worked a problem. “I will plant my seed in you.”

Engorged flesh pulsed between her legs. She was hungry for him.

Her nipples were dark aching nubs under his caressed.

Her mouth opened for more air. She stared at Rurik’s mouth, pleased to see his lips parting.

Her Viking protector was hungry too. The line between his brows smoothed and the center of his eyes, big and black, took what she offered.

He rolled onto her and nuzzled the top curve of her breast. “You are perfect.”

She combed her fingers through his hair, finding the leather thong at his nape and untying it. A blond curtain fell around them, blocking out the rest of the world.

“I’m not doing anything for you,” she whispered, squirming against him. “Shouldn’t I…do something?”

“You don’t have to attend me.” Rurik nestled in the cradle of her hips.

She arched her neck at the sweet pressure of him there .

“There are no rules, Safira.” The uneven line of his smile lit the night. “ At skemmta ser ...to amuse oneself in sex. It is what we are doing.”

“Amused? No.” She cupped his face. “We are in a magical place...”

Her tongue and mind went lax. His cock was thick and hard on her abdomen.

Low in her vision a nest of blond hair rubbed her thatch of ebon curls.

The contrast of color was sensual. The pressure.

The rubbing, his body against hers. There was no rush.

No frantic need. Rurik held himself above her, lightly stroking his length against her nether curls.

Crisp, masculine leg hairs tickled her thighs.

His grin was easy and kind. Gentle emotion shined from his eyes.

Rurik soaked up every detail of her, his gaze touching her hair, her neck and collarbone before drifting to her mouth and her eyes.

“You are frid kon synum , beautiful to behold, a gift to be treasured.”

She swallowed hard at his soul-stealing words. How she ached deeply for him.

Rurik was erotic, rocking his hips over hers. The friction was...enticing. She rocked back. Giving softness to get his hardness.

Was that the song of men and women?

He kissed her forehead, trailing a line of kisses down her nose until he came to her mouth. He was stealing from her. Little by little. Pillaging her with light touches of his mouth to her lips.

His patient kisses were full of give and take until he whispered against her mouth, “Put me inside you.”

Her heart lodged in her throat. Smooth-skinned and rigid, his cock bumped her cleft. Wetness trickled through her seam. Once he was inside her, there would be no undoing what was done. With a careful hand, she curled her fingers around his hardness. His flesh was long, thick, and fine-skinned.

She set the crown in her opening.

Her eyes went wide. The carnal shock.

“Rurik...you are...” She rocked against him with the slightest nudge.

Hardness invaded her. Dull, throbbing pain swelled between her legs. She tensed. A small push from him and her maidenhood was gone. Aside from the discomfort, she was no different. She blinked not really seeing. She was...stretched.

Rurik kissed her hairline. “The pain will pass. I promise.” He braced his forearms on either side of her. “Tell me when you want to move.”

She stroked his ribs glad they rested quietly, their bodies simply touching. This part—being together—was perfect.

“It already hurts less,” she whispered.

Rurik’s skin beaded wherever she touched. Her fingers found small scars on his torso. There was a ridged scar on his waist that she couldn’t stop testing.

When she looked at him, he answered, “The work of a crazed Frisian. He attacked me while I slept.” He kissed her temple. “Thought I was bedding his wife.”

“Were you?”

His soft laugh tickled her ear. “No.”

She could see why women craved sex. Body and heart, she was bound to him.

Twining her fingers in his long hair sated her.

She explored Rurik, kissing his collarbone to the dip at the base of his neck.

Her toes rubbed his muscled calf. First one foot testing his corded leg and then the other.

Rurik held still as if understanding she needed this.

She nudged her hips against him, the bed creaked, and he slid deeper inside her.

Air hissed through her mouth. Pleasure rippled through her body. This was potent, moving with him.

“I like this,” she announced, getting his grunt in return.

Silky hardness rocked back and forth inside her. Arousing heat was building inside her.

Rurik was in the air she breathed, the scent of leather and soap and forest. Lust was a fever the more they swayed together. Her lashes drooped heavily. Drums throbbed in the distance. She matched Rurik’s thrusts with hungry pushes of her own. The rhythm between them quickened.

Her breath was ragged. Wildness thrummed from the crux of her body.

His hands framed her face. “Look at me.”

She got lost in his gaze.

“We were meant to be,” he said, hoarse and broken.

Her lips opened wide, but Rurik eased their pace. He plied her body with unhurried strokes. In and out. In and out.

“Take this slow,” he chided. “Savor it.”

“I...can’t,” she moaned. “Rurik…please…”

One hand gripped his hair at the back of his head, the other tunneled in rich fur.

Breasts shoved high, mouth gaping, she pumped faster.

Bed ropes squeaked frantic music. Chest hair crinkled against her nipples.

Rurik’s breath was hot on her neck. Sucking.

Kissing. Sucking. All while his cock slid with perfect, measured control until. ..

She wrapped both legs around his waist. He was in deep.

Rurik groaned against her neck, the sound vibrating down to the delicate flesh between her legs. His whiskered cheek brushed her breast bone. He spoke Viking words against her skin, words she didn’t know.

Dark, claiming, needful words by the feel.

She was hot. Everywhere. Base words were on her tongue. The Viking would plant his seed inside her, and she wanted it. Pulsing, wild need coiled tighter between her legs. Her thighs quaked. Tremors rattled her limbs. Rurik’s hoarse cries shattered her. His pleasure was hers.

Brilliant and blissful, she cried out too.