Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The wench hadn't the first idea who she was dealing with nor the havoc he'd bring down on her once he was free.

How dare she treat him like this, worse than the lowliest of thralls, bound and gagged and used as a bed-slave? Worse still, to leave him uncomfortably engorged and unsated.

Regardless of her torments, it was obvious the woman was desperate for a hard swiving . She might hiss and lash with her claws, but she was ready for mating—and he'd enjoy showing her what that meant once he was towering over her. That time would come… and soon. If he gained her trust, making her think him obedient, she'd forget how dangerous he was. He'd enjoy screwing her—not to mention punishing her in ways she couldn't yet dream of.

He stretched his neck to each side, attempting to ease the tightness through his shoulders. With his back propped against the bed, the position was almost bearable.

She'd left him alone, passing through the curtain that separated this chamber from the main body of the longhouse, but he sensed she'd soon return. She was conversing with someone, though he couldn't discern their conversation; another woman from the light timbre of the unknown voice.

There must be others nearby. The solid walls of the longhouse muffled sound but he'd taken note of faint bleating, children's playful shouts, and a baby's passing cries. All perfectly normal but for the absence of any voice identifiable as male.

Where were the menfolk? Away in the fields, out fishing, or on the high seas a-viking? Some, perhaps, but not all. They must be aware of his arrival and that of his men. Someone in authority would want to interrogate him.

In the meantime, he had no choice but to play along with whatever game his little she-cat wished to play. As for the knife, if teasing him with it heightened her desire, it was no skin from his nose—or at least he so hoped.

There was mischief in this, as if Loki himself was laughing at the fate spun for Eldberg. His situation was humiliating and frustrating in the extreme, but he did not foresee the wench doing him lasting harm. He'd faced significantly worse perils.

Time passed, and the meager light that permeated the tiny window tucked beneath the roof began to dim. He let his head drop back upon the bed's edge, looking up at the vaulted beams dimly visible above.

How long he dozed he was unsure. Roused by voices, he came to himself again with the unpleasant remembrance of where he was—sitting on an uneven earthen floor scattered with rushes, with both thirst and hunger upon him, besides the dull ache in his head.

A sharply punctuated discussion was taking place, but once more, the voices were entirely female. Then there was a twitch of the curtain, and his captor entered, carrying not merely a jug but a platter—manchet bread, cheese by the look of it, and some sort of fruit. His stomach growled.

"As I'm obliged to share not just my quarters with you but the food from my table, I must be recompensed." She set down the victuals some way off. "How shall we achieve that, do you think?"

He could think of one obvious way, though her coaxing would be required, for his member now lay in a resting state. It hadn't escaped him that she said ‘obliged,' and it went some way to explaining her ill-humor. Her role as guardian had been foisted upon her—by some brother, perhaps. Probably not a husband for she was far too shrewish for the married state. No man could desire to remain wed to a woman so obtuse and provoking. Be it brother or husband, uncle or cousin, they'd surely be outraged to learn how she was carrying on.

"Nothing to say?" Her tone still held its spiteful edge, but there was something uncertain in her expression, as if she were waiting for him to match her offensive. He understood her better now; she wanted him to rise to her bait.

"Yours to command, though something to drink would be welcome." He glanced at the jug.

"Indeed." Her lips twitched. "Though I fear I've forgotten your cup, and it doesn't suit me to share my own." She knelt to untie her boots, as if with no care for his request.

It was all he could do to bite his tongue.

However, as soon as her feet were bare, she took up the jug again. Approaching him, she lifted her skirt to the knee and rested a foot upon his chest. Though she was quite tall for a woman, the foot was finely shaped. Moreover, the ankle above it was slender and the leg comely.

"Open your mouth." Raising her foot, she brushed his lips with her largest toe. "And do not think to bite me, or you shall soon enough be quenching your thirst… on blood from your own severed throat."

How the wench was obsessed with her blade!

He was not yet ready to call her bluff, though he doubted all the more that she would go through with her threats.

Accepting her bidding, he allowed her to push her toes into his mouth, which elicited another of her half-sneering smiles.

"Now you are learning. I think perhaps you should only drink this way." Her meaning became obvious when she tipped the jug, letting the contents run down her shin and the length of her foot.

The unexpectedness of it, coupled with the awkwardness of having his mouth so forced open, caused him to choke and recoil, only to have the water stream down his chin and chest.

"I see we shall need practice." A mischievous cruelty entered her expression, and she dashed the remaining contents of the jug over his head.

Spluttering, he cursed her roundly.

"What a sorry sight." She tipped his chin upward before brushing back the wet hair plastering his cheeks and across his eyes. "Nothing is going quite your way, is it?" Clearly, she relished every moment of his humiliation.

Were his hands free, he would grab her about the ankle and yank her off her feet, straight onto her back. Then they would see who was sorry and who would be having their way. A good tanning of her backside would be a satisfying beginning.

Turning away, she picked up the platter, poking at the contents. Was she planning to feed him like some lap dog? Perhaps from her foot again? It was too much! He would remember every indignity, and she would pay for the insults.

She was still playing games, evidently, for the plate was put aside again.

"‘Tis almost time to retire for it has been a trying day, but I shall require some soothing to find my rest. You're conveniently placed; a ripe opportunity to earn your supper."

Here it comes. The wench wishes to grind upon me again, does she?

What he did not expect was for her to bend over, grasping the hem of her gown and lifting it in one sweep, entirely over her head. The light shift she wore beneath was dispatched in the same manner. Without the least shame, she stood naked before him, letting him feast upon ample breasts and a narrow waist above nicely rounded hips. Her mon's blondeness made the place look naked as a young girl's. Considering her age, which he guessed to be beyond thirty, she was remarkably unblemished.

With a slow, sensuous motion she swept her hands upward over her softly cushioned belly, between her breasts, then over the slope of those high mounds. There she squeezed and circled, lingering over their weight and fullness, as if presenting herself for his delectation. Her eyes did not leave his own, watching his reaction as she kneaded harder. At last, taking each nipple between thumb and forefinger, she tugged the peaks. Even in their taut state, they remained shell-pink, barely distinguishable against the paleness of her skin.

Eldberg licked his lips. So, she liked breast play. He imagined his own palms covering each firm orb and guiding those pert nipples to his mouth. His cock gave a leap in response.

Closer, wench. Come sit on my lap, and let me draw your breasts for a suckling.

As if he'd spoken aloud, she moved forward but made no motion to lower herself. Instead, her foot came again to his chest, then slid up to press hard at his shoulder—upon the very place of his arrow wound. Eldberg couldn't help but growl, though he knew it would only feed her impulse to torment him.

With her other foot planted slightly wide, her cunny was now before him, the separation of her legs allowing a view not just of her nether lips but the sliver of crimson within.

There was only one direction for his eyes—gazing into that place from which all life sprang and to which men wished ever to return. He remained transfixed as she drew down a hand to part those lips, revealing more of the glistening heat. With trailing fingertips, she pressed either side of the fleshy nub, then stroked in circles, as she had upon her breast. Her dew was already visible, slick upon the swollen folds. Her scent, sweet and earthy, was strong in his nostrils.

There was a place he would happily drink from and take other sustenance besides.

"I have work for you." Her voice was husky as she reached lower, dipping her fingers to caress more invasively. "Prove to me you are a good thrall who knows his place."