Chapter Eighteen

It took but a few moments to remove the ginger from her unresisting arse. Brynhild's modesty was entirely vanquished, it seemed, as she lay acquiescent for him. The used root discarded on the floor, he removed his trousers again then rolled her onto her side to face him as he lay down beside her.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears still glistened amid the azure but she managed a tremulous smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, and leaned up to brush her lips across his. The kiss was a shy one, hesitant and uncertain, as though she half-expected to be rebuffed, even now. He recalled what she had said about being cold, undemonstrative. His proud Viking had much to learn.

Taranc cupped her jaw in his hand and slanted his mouth over hers. She reached for him, twisting her fingers in his hair. He deepened the kiss, angling his lips over hers and teasing his tongue over the seam until she parted to allow him in. He tasted her, tested the warmth and wetness of her inner space, played with her as he danced his tongue over hers. Brynhild gasped, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, uncertainly, she began to respond, her tongue tangling about his as she sucked gently .

Sweet Jesu, where did she learn such a trick?

Taranc rolled onto her, his palms now flattened against her breasts. The plump mounds swelled in his hands, nipples pebbling as he caught the delicate peaks between his fingers. He broke the kiss, intending to take her stiff little bud in his mouth, but paused when she went rigid in his arms. He glanced into her face, now more clearly visible as his eyes accustomed to the dark. She stared back at him, terror and yearning at war across her tense features.

With a silent curse at his own thoughtlessness Taranc rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she landed on top, her nude body draped across his chest. She cried out, grabbing for his shoulders.

"What? What are you doing? I do not want to stop, I…"

"Then do not stop. Kiss me, Brynhild."

"But I do not know how…"

"You did it before. Lay your mouth on mine. We shall go from there." He combed his fingers through her hair, blessing the sweet Saviour that she chose to wear it loose when in their bed, and drew her down toward him. Her lips met his, and she softened into the kiss. He darted his tongue between her lips again and their sensual dance continued unabated.

Ah, but his little Viking was a fast learner. She scrambled further onto him, her legs braced on either side of his hips as she rubbed against him, her wetness coating his lower abdomen. She was oblivious, he knew that. Brynhild had no idea that her arousal pooled on his skin, that her readiness, her desire was so redolent he could actually smell the sweet aroma of her. He feathered his touch across her shoulders and down her spine, probing each vertebra in turn as she writhed under his hands. When he palmed her tender, punished buttocks, her kiss became more desperate, more untutored yet all the sweeter for it. He cared nothing for delicate technique and all for unbridled sensuality.

"I want… I need…" Her words were frantic, breathy. She pushed herself up on her hands to peer into his face. "Tell me what to do."

"Straddle me," he commanded. "Take my cock in your hands and direct it toward you."

"I cannot. I do not know how."

"I shall show you."

He helped her to arrange herself as he had described, her hot quim hovering just a fraction away from the head of his cock. He took his erection in his own hand, angled it to her entrance and thrust his hips up. Her slick lips parted to accept just the tip of his cock, but he did not press home. Instead he smeared his own juices with hers, spreading their wetness about, coating her lower lips from the tight ring of her arse to the quivering nub of her clitty. She moaned as he rubbed the smooth, slick head of his cock against that sensitive button, the delicate flesh plump and trembling as he worked her harder.

He positioned his cock at her entrance, just inside, then released his grip to allow her own lips to hold him there. His hand now free, he rubbed her clitty in earnest, from side to side, then as she squirmed and panted he circled with his fingertip. She lowered her body, almost imperceptibly taking more of him inside her.

Brynhild was lost, her moans becoming more frenetic as she sought something he knew she did not really understand but pursued with an intensity she could not control. He could exercise restraint, however, and one of them must. He would not allow this to fail; it was too vital, too critical to their future together.

This had to be good. For her. She must succeed here, now, tonight.

He brought her higher, closer, his skilled fingers teasing and stroking and caressing her clitty as she soared toward her release. He lifted his hips, pressing forward, upward. Her body stretched and opened to accept him.

Brynhild gasped. Taranc paused, waited. She circled her hips, lowering herself a fraction more, working him inside her .

"It feels… tight. It will not fit."

He detected the wondering despair in her tone and was not having it.

"It is tight, gloriously so, but we fit beautifully."

"I… oh!" She let out a sharp cry as he pressed forward again.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Do not stop."

He buried his face in the hollow of her neck as he squeezed and tugged on her clitty. Her body quivered in his arms, trembling as her response surged forth.

"Oh, I… I…"

He knew the exact moment of her release and used the sudden, uncontrolled softening of her body as his opportunity to drive his cock fully home. She screamed, a rasping, guttural sound of pleasure laced with pain, and her cunt convulsed around him.

Taranc held still, his palms now on her buttocks to hold her in place. Brynhild was unmoving, her body reshaping to accept his intrusion. Taranc kissed her hair, murmured words intended to calm, to reassure, to thank her. Brynhild tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

"So, Celt, you are finally fucking me." Her tone was triumphant.

"'Twould seem so."

"Is this it? All that there is?" She rotated her hips in a large, slow circle.

He shook his head. "Not entirely. I prefer to take my time though. We shall go slow, and gentle, and with infinite tenderness."

"Tenderness?" She furrowed her brow. "Why tenderness? Why is that necessary? I thought—"

He kissed the end of her nose. "I know what you thought, and why. But you were wrong. There will be tenderness between us. You ask too many questions, little Viking. I have one for you though. Is there any pain still?"

She frowned all the more. "Why, no. No, there is not. How? I mean, I thought…"

"Tenderness," he repeated, tightening his grip on her sore buttocks to rotate her hips since she had stopped. He groaned as she instinctively squeezed her inner muscles around his cock. "Oh, sweet Jesu, you feel so good."

"As do you, Celt." She clenched again and resumed the motion herself now, rolling her hips and picking up on his sensual manipulation as she moved to take control of her own pleasure and his.

Typical Brynhild, he mused. Always taking charge, always wanting to lead, to give rather than to take. He would allow it, this time, this first time because he sensed that she needed this in order to start to restore her confidence. But it would not always be thus.

Brynhild rocked her hips above him, lifted her body then sank back down to take him fully inside her. His hands on her waist helped to take her weight, but the initiative was all hers. He allowed her to play, to test and experiment, to explore what felt right and good and where the pleasure pooled. Her breasts bobbed and swayed before his eyes, the plump, rosy-tipped mounds begging to be licked. Taranc took one nipple between his lips and sucked hard. Brynhild arched toward him, thrusting her breasts at him, wordlessly demanding more.

Her second release was swift, more intense than the first, he fancied, as she shook with the force of it. Brynhild wrapped her arms about his head to hug him to her, pressing her breast into his mouth. She pumped up and down on his cock, greedy and insatiable now, demanding and insistent as she ground her body down onto his.

He could not hold out much longer, but neither would he allow himself to finish before she was done. He slid his hand between their bodies again to take her clitty between his finger and thumb and roll the sensitive nubbin. She panted, ready, straining, seeking, reaching…

Taranc reached around her with his other hand to insinuate his fingers in the seam of her bottom. He found her rear hole, circled once, pressed, and slipped the tip of his middle finger inside.

Brynhild screamed. She screamed long and hard and loud, the sound barely muffled at all against his shoulder.

He blessed the foresight that had led him to bar the door as he entered. The last thing he wanted at this juncture was his mother and his aunt bursting in armed with pitchforks and torches, bent upon rescue.

His own release followed hers but scant moments later. Taranc let out his own groan of satisfaction as his balls tightened, twisted within their sack and his semen surged forth to fill his she-Viking's hot, tight channel. He grimaced into the darkness, a smile playing on his lips.

He was content.

* * *

Days passed, stretched into weeks, then months. Taranc found no cause for complaint at the bargain he had struck. Brynhild set his home to rights, assisted by Annag. His meals were wholesome, hearty, and hot. She weaved; she marched about his village, cloak billowing in the stiff northerly breeze that heralded the onset of the colder month, ordering his people about. She showed them how to salt the fish they caught, and insisted that a deep pit be dug in which to store ice in the winter. They could preserve their meat in ice, she insisted, enjoy fresh food in the depths of the harshest blizzards when it was impossible to hunt or fish. She never stopped, was always moving, always working, as though by constant movement she might stave off the need to think, to reflect upon the injustices that had brought her here.

Did she long for her home? For those left behind?

He did not know and would not ask again. He had offered, just once, to take her back to the Norseland if she so wished and he would have aided her in presenting her case to her brother; if not Ulfric then the other, Gunnar. Brynhild had refused, insisting that she had no desire to ever see Ulfric again.

If there was one thing he could say with certainty about his lovely Brynhild, it was that she held a grudge well. She swore she would never forgive her brother for his betrayal and Taranc saw no cause to doubt it.

Privately, Taranc could find no reason to quibble with Ulfric's decision, wrong-headed though it had been. Taranc had emerged the victor.

Brynhild was happy, he was sure of that. He knew she found pleasure in managing her household and enjoyed the company of Dughall. She spent most evenings at the manor house in Pennglas, but was always pleased to accompany Taranc back down to the coastal village and to writhe with undisguised lust in his arms the moment their door was closed and barred.

She was a truly glorious lover, responsive to his touch but equally ready to initiate their lovemaking. She was inquisitive too, and inventive, a sensual creature who once awakened revelled in her own pleasure and in his. He would chuckle and insist he had unleashed a siren of old, a Nordic goddess devoted to sensuality and lust. Brynhild would laugh and assure him that the goddess Freya had far weightier matters to concern her than the state of a Celtic fisherman's cock, but she would have no hesitation in dropping to her knees before him and releasing that same swollen cock from within his woven trousers. She would cradle his erection in her hands, lick the tip, taste the juices that flowed from the slit there before taking as much of the head and shaft as she could inside her mouth. Then she would work her tongue and teeth and throat until his seed spurted forth. She would swallow hard and lick him clean, a contented smile playing about her sensual lips as she sat back on her heels inordinately pleased with herself.

Cold? Never.

Distant? Lacking in affection? He believed not though she was not even remotely demonstrative in other ways. Always proper, always respectful toward him in public, Brynhild was quietly efficient and fair in her dealings with his people and seemed to have found contentment here at Aikrig. This was all that mattered to Taranc. He loved her. It was that simple.

* * *

"Do you have a few minutes to walk with me?"

Taranc glanced up from the timbers of the fishing boat whose hull he was coating with pitch. Brynhild stood behind him, her cloak flapping in the breeze. Her elegant features appeared tense, her skin paler than he liked. He hoped she was not sickening in this unfamiliar land, this strange climate, though surely she was accustomed to worse.

"Is all well with you, my Viking?" He rose to his feet and wiped his hands down his trousers.

Brynhild picked up a piece of rag and offered it to him. "Here, clean your hands. Yes, perfectly well. Come."

She turned to pick her way along the beach, turning just once to make sure he was indeed following her.

Taranc took a few moments to admire the tempting sway of her hips as she moved away from him. Perhaps she might not object too strenuously if he was to suggest she get herself back here right now and drape herself over the rail of the boat he was working on. She might even be so good as to invite him to lift her tunic to reveal her bare arse. He would ram his cock into her from behind, for he knew she loved it when he did that, and perhaps drop a few playful spanks on her delectable cheeks.

The notion had real merit. He opened his mouth to summon her back, but she chose that moment to pause and turn around.

"Please, hurry. I… I need to talk to you."

The troubled expression on her beautiful features dispelled his errant thoughts. He strode after her, then fell in step alongside .

"Tell me," he ordered.

"Soon. I just—"

He stopped, took her hand, and turned her to face him. "Tell me."

She tilted her chin, her jaw flexing in a defiant expression he had come to know well. Belligerence was writ across her features, as though she expected him to take her to task. What had she done?

Taranc waited, arms folded.

"I am pregnant."

"Ah." He should not be surprised, he spilled his seed into her on a more or less nightly basis. It was only ever a matter of time. Yet, he was taken aback. Perhaps it was her attitude toward this turn of events that dictated her hostile reaction rather than the news itself. "You find this to be a matter of some concern?"

"Do you not?" She stamped her foot in indignation, as though that might change anything.

Taranc shrugged. "No."

"We cannot wed."

"Can we not? Very well."

"My child will be a bastard."

"Our child will be chief of this village in due course, and my heir. I shall acknowledge and own him."

"What if it is a girl?"

"The same."

"Oh. Well, that is all right then. Thank you, Celt. I merely wished to make sure." She turned to leave him there on the beach.

Taranc watched her retreating form for a few seconds, allowed her to complete five, perhaps six paces, then he set off after her at a sprint. He caught her up, seized her about the waist and tossed her into the air, Brynhild flopped back down into his arms in a chaotic flurry of flapping cloak and kicking legs as she shrieked her outraged protest at such undignified treatment of her person.

"Set me down at once. What are you doing? You are quite deranged, Celt, a savage. I shall—"

Taranc put an end to the tirade before she could properly warm to her theme by the simple expedient of kissing her. Brynhild went still in his arms, then curled her wrist behind his head and pulled him closer. She could never resist a direct assault on her senses. He exploited that trait without mercy, deepening the kiss as he strode with her up the beach and into the cover of the surrounding trees.

"Where are we going?" She managed to mutter the question against his lips. Taranc did not break stride, or pause to respond.

He soon reached his destination, a secluded copse ringed by a dense undergrowth. Here, the trees were less closely packed and soft meadow grass carpeted the ground. Dappled sunlight tumbled through the branches overhead, the illumination soft and pale, delicately painting the earth below. Here, Taranc set her on her feet. He spread his cloak on the ground then drew her down to her knees beside him.

"Lie down, sweetheart."

"Here? Why?"

"Yes, here." He grinned into her startled face. "And do it because I asked it of you."

She eased herself onto her back, eyeing him with undisguised suspicion. Her brow furrowed even more when he moved to kneel between her feet, but she did not protest when he lifted her skirt to her waist.

Blonde curls greeted him. Taranc bent to press his nose into them, inhaling the sweet, musky aroma of her, a scent that he loved. He fancied he could detect the slight change that denoted her pregnancy, though of course that was whimsical and she would laugh out loud were he to voice such romantic nonsense. His practical Brynhild had no time for such capricious sentiment.

He spread her thighs and drew the flat of his tongue through her folds, already damp. Her breath hitched as he eased the tip of his tongue inside her entrance, she lifted her hips, thrust forward. He pushed her knees up toward her chest, raising and opening her to him. His beautiful she-Viking, so prickly moments before, relaxed in his hands and allowed her thighs to part. She flung her hands behind her head, her eyes closed as he lapped at the sensitive button of her clitty. The delicate flesh swelled, peeped out from within the hood that had shrouded it just moments before, darkening to a deep, rich pink as her arousal built.

He could fuck her. She would love that, he knew, as would he. But not this time. This time, he had something else in mind. He scraped his teeth across the tip of her clit, then suckled gently upon it. Brynhild writhed on the ground before him, twisting her hips one way then the other as she sought to increase the intensity of sensation.

Taranc held her still. On this occasion, he would control and she would accept. There would be no coercion, just a determined and ruthless erotic storm designed end executed with deliberate intent to send her past the point of oblivion. It was time his Viking learnt the true meaning of surrender.

He brought her to the edge of her release, then retreated. Brynhild arched her back, her heels now planted on the blanket as she pressed her demanding cunt against his mouth. She tasted so luscious, so exquisite, so utterly delicious he could have wept.

"Taranc, please…" Her voice was ragged, her moan verging on desperation.

This was good, but his beautiful Nordic lover had some distance to travel yet, Taranc determined. She would beg and plead and weep for her release, and her pleasure would be all the sweeter for it. He slipped two fingers into her channel, then a third.

Her inner walls fluttered about his thrusting digits as he plunged deep. He turned his hand, angling his fingers as he sought that spot that would send her wild. He found it, smiled as she lurched under his skilled touch.

"Now. Taranc, I need you to… to… oh! Oh !" She thrashed her head from side to side on the cloak, her fingers now tunnelling through his hair as she sought to control the precise angle and pressure of his assault on her senses. Her efforts were to no avail, Taranc was determined upon that, but he enjoyed witnessing her futile attempts to force the pace.

He lifted his head and gazed up at her; her features were flushed now, the rosy hue spreading from beneath her cloak and creeping up her neck. Her jaw was tight, her lips flattened against her teeth. She glared at him.

"What are you waiting for? I am ready."

He splayed the palm of his hand across her lower abdomen, his thumb lazily tracing a gentle caress over the tip of her clitty. She gasped and arched upward.

"You like that?"

"Yes," she ground out.

"What else do you like?"

"You know what I like."

"Tell me. Tell me what you want, and you shall have it."

"My release. I want my release. Why are you doing this?"

"How do you want it? Tell me."

"I do not understand. You know—"

"What do you want me to do to you? How would you prefer to be touched?"

"With your mouth!" She yelled the words at him. "Your mouth, your tongue, inside me."

Taranc smiled. "Ah, not so hard after all, once you stop resisting your desires. My tongue, then…" He leaned back in and parted the lips of her cunny with his thumbs, then plunged his tongue as deep as he was able inside her quivering entrance.

Brynhild trembled. She shuddered, panting softly as he drew his tongue in and out.

"Your fingers now. Deeper…"

"My pleasure," he murmured, driving three fingers deep again. He wondered if she would have the words, the awareness of her own body that would enable her to ask him to stroke that pleasure spot.

"There is somewhere, a place where it is more… "

Ah, so she had been taking notice.

"You mean just here, my sweet?" He found the place and pressed.

"Yes. Oh… yes…"

"Is there more I might do for you? Remember, you have but to request and it is yours."

"Your mouth…"

"Again? Of course. Is there any particular—?"

"Suck me. That place. Just here…" She released her grip on his hair in order to lay her fingers over her swollen clit. "It feels good here."

"Oh, yes, I know it does. Like this, then…"

He took the plump bud between his lips and scraped it with his teeth. He watched as her eyes rolled back in her head, her entire body now shaking as he brought her once again to the very brink of ecstasy. This time, he did not retreat. This time he held her there, his fingers inside her, his mouth, teeth, tongue working on her clitty to draw every last frisson of sensual delight from her body.

He knew it, the precise moment she yielded. He knew the exact instant she gave herself over into his keeping, her pleasure his to create, to give or withhold as he chose.

He witnessed the definitive juncture when she handed him her trust and he took it into his keeping.

Satisfied he had attained his goal, Taranc hollowed his cheeks to increase the suction on her clitty, just enough to send her spiralling past the point of no return. His fingers stretched and caressed her inner walls, his tongue flicked the tip of her clit without mercy and she was lost.

Brynhild fisted his hair between her fingers and she screeched her release to the heavens.

After, she lay still, spent in his arms. He held her, enjoyed the gentle rise and fall of her chest as her breath returned to normal. His hand lay within the folds of her cloak, her breast beneath his palm. He allowed himself a private smile as her heartbeat slowed, settled to a steady, rhythmic beat.

He believed she was happy, here, with him. Or she could be, if she could be reconciled to her past and embrace her future. Their future.

"Why did you do that?" she murmured drowsily.

He did not pretend to misunderstand. "Why, for the sheer joy of it, Brynhild. For the sheer fucking joy of it."