Page 17 of To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse #2)
He rammed one makeshift pole after another into soft, willing soil.
Sweat pricked his hairline, the labor taxing him in the best way.
Grinding wood into the earth diverted his lust, and set his mind on the right course.
They’d sleep here. Nothing more. He slanted one row of branches into the other row, nestling the top leafy ends in a point.
Their rough abode would protect them for the night and was wide enough for two if they slept close.
“I’ve never seen the like before,” she said, her voice floating behind him. “Yet another talent.”
He faced her, motioning to the inside. “This captures our heat.”
Sestra could be an elfin forest creature watching him from the log. Tales abounded of fair forest maids stealing a man’s life force. Other stories told of men falling prey to their forbidden love.
Teeth grinding, he knew where he’d failed Odin’s test. The kiss.
He hungered for another taste. If he was an honorable man, he’d promise to protect her forever, but he wasn’t a good man, never had been.
He’d stolen and killed for himself and in service to others.
Blood ran thick on his hands. Facing Sestra in the pitch dark forest, he felt her trust in his bones.
She was ripe for the taking.
Folding his arms across his chest, there was only one way to resist her charms. In his rudest voice he said, “Everything wet. Off. Now.”
Silence.
Sestra’s head cocked at an angle. Scant starlight filtered through the trees, the faint glow crowning her red hair.
He opened his mouth to repeat the order, but she stood up, shrouded by branches and ferns, more mythical forest woman than thrall.
A small animal stirred in the underbrush beside her, its eyes glowing between fern fronds.
The little beast’s courage didn’t surprise him as few people ventured here: fright wouldn’t be natural.
Sestra lived in a different world filled with dread, yet her feet stayed in place as if she debated the merits of obeying his command. Or she debated the merits of him.
The worse she thought of him the better.
“I don’t like repeating myself, but since you’re a mere woman and weak at that, I’ll make an exception.” He paused before finishing tersely, “Take your clothes off.”
Sestra put one leg in front of the other, twigs snapping with each measured footfall. When she got an arm’s length from him, the hudfat dropped with a quiet thump .
Tension coiled low in his trousers. Eyes burning holes in him, she gathered her russet skirts at her hips.
He locked onto her hem’s rise, hungrily following it inch by inch.
With a murmur of cloth on cloth, Sestra pulled the tunic over her head.
The garment coming off was a necessary thing, not meant to be seductive, but it was.
An unseen manacle squeezed his chest when she stood before him clad in wet white linen clinging to her curves, her long braid a rope between her breasts.
Round nipples jutted against the cloth, the nubs of flesh plump and red as rose hips needing to be sucked.
His wolfish gaze devoured her, straining to see in the dark what he’d imagined all summer.
“Here.” A ball of damp cloth slapped his chest and chin.
He deserved that. Stifling a smile, he clamped the tunic under his arm. “Now your undergarment.”
“You want me completely naked?”
Heat singed his loins. Those words and the pretty O her mouth made pushed him to a sharp edge. He fought the push-pull of wanting to touch her, knowing he shouldn’t, and lost. His free hand grazed her shoulder and her breath caught. The sound made his balls tighten.
He pinched the thin sleeve. “You heard me. All wet clothes. Off.”
She glanced at the shelter’s narrow opening. “I understand the wet tunic, but my undergarment?”
“At the clearing, you were all too willing to take my clothes off,” he jibed, a fine throb growing between his legs.
“I liked the man at the clearing.”
His chuckle rasped harshly. “You’ve got this one now.”
An owl sang his night song overhead. Fern fronds wavered from animals scattering. Sestra’s head shook as if she tried to read him and found herself befuddled. He was sure her eyes shot daggers.
“Don’t talk to me like every other lout,” she snapped.
An angry Sestra was good. She’d revile him.
“Keep testing me and I’ll tear it off,” he said with quiet menace. “Remember, I could make you go naked.”
Her chin dropped bit by bit. Cruel slave traders stripped women bare, stealing their dignity, yet somewhere in this quest, he and Sestra became partners. Equal. His rough-shod words set her squarely back to where they began—thrall and freeman.
“You don’t respect me at all.”
He winced. Pain slanted the shape of her eyes and her voice, the smallness of it, nearly stole his resolve.
No words could undo this course. He was a lout for staying in Uppsala when he should’ve gone, for thinking he could set aside this want for Sestra while watching over her, and then sail off to Gotland.
Jumbled, uncertain words filled his mouth like loose wool skeins tying up his tongue.
Her sadness crushed him, yet he stood limbs locked.
The man Sestra needed the most protection from was him.
She tossed back her braid and yanked the fragile white linen over her head. “You want my undergarment? You can have it.” She jammed the limp cloth into his hand and folded her arms over her breasts. “I should never have let you kiss me.”
“Thralls don’t have a choice.”
Her mouth flattened in an unforgiving line. “Such wisdom from the man who spent all morning telling me I have choices.”
He put a death sentence on what was started in the clearing.
Or tried to. Sestra bare-skinned in a dark forest stirred him better then ermine and silk.
The craving for sex, for her, was winning over the need for sleep.
Women were creatures he appreciated, tarried with for a time, and left.
Some highborn, some not. She was a slave, and he’d admit they formed a friendship.
Tonight he stood captivated by a lowly thrall, wanting to bury himself deep in the cradle of her hips.
What he wanted, he could never have.
Sestra gripped his forearm and crouched to the ground in front of him, her head brushing his knees.
Air hissed between his clenched teeth. “What are you doing?”
“Untying my boots.” She let go of his arm, sharp humor edging her voice. It was the tone she used when serving ale to other men. “You did say everything wet comes off.”
Tortured by her rustling against his leg, he forced himself to stare into the distance.
“What about you?” she asked. “Your clothes are almost as wet as mine.”
“Not so wet,” he groused.
She made a humming sound, the kind of noise a woman makes when she tolerates a man’s foolishness. If his clothes came off, there’d be no barriers. He grimaced, unable to stop tension pooling between his legs. Even Sestra’s little crooning did things to him.
His trousers bulged uncomfortably. Her shoulder grazed his calf as she tossed one boot aside.
In her fumbling, if Sestra’s head grazed his erection, he’d jump out of his skin.
He looked down, her body the lodestone drawing his attention.
Sestra bent forward, a sensual, a white hourglass kneeling at his feet, her waist nipping small above rounded hips wiggling sweetly as she unlaced her garter.
Knees locked, his fingers dug into her clothes. Otherwise, he’d bend over and grab her soft white bottom with both hands and not let go.
She covered herself with hudfat again and stood up. “You’re next,” she said with too much cheer.
Was she affected at all?
He walked around her to a low branch. Jaw set, he hung up her clothes with his leather bag and stowed his weapons inside the shelter. She turned away when he removed boots and clothes, but he was careful to stay facing her.
Darkness couldn’t hide everything.
Cool air saturated his skin, calming his loins and clearing his brain. He wore nothing save the iron amulet, the metal warm on his breastbone instilled courage to deny himself. He’d denied himself much for years, and this was one measly night.
With her back to him, Sestra waited at the mouth of the shelter, his sleeping fur wrapped around her. So quiet, too quiet. She was fatigued, but this was inner turmoil. She didn’t toss out saucy comments. She waited to see what he’d do.
He scrubbed his face with both hands, lack of sleep blurring his vision.
His body screamed for rest, yet he couldn’t ignore Sestra’s skittishness.
She expected him to pounce from behind. Why wouldn’t she?
Telling her he’d tear off her clothes and make her go naked back to Uppsala destroyed what trust they’d built.
“Sestra.” He gentled his voice and touched the hudfat. “I have to take this.”
She nodded meekly as he gripped the fur at her nape.
His fingers brushed smooth skin and curls fine as a babe’s hair.
A tiny moan came from her, the sound a feather-soft caress to his insides.
He hesitated. Coddling wasn’t in his nature, but the little noises she made threatened to undo him, made him want to sweep her into his arms and plant tender kisses on her lips.
Hugging herself, Sestra’s gaze slanted at him over her shoulder, her profile pale against midnight trees. “Take it.”
The fur fell away. Round, creamy curves showed like smoothly carved ivory in darkness. Her bottom’s cleft was a slender black thread on white flesh. He itched to run his finger down the enticing line. How soft would her skin be there?
He grasped her shoulder. She was shaking.
“I’m cold.”
Her small voice shook him to the core. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “We sleep together, sharing the fur. For warmth.”