Chapter Fourteen

Jorund was almost embarrassed by the hugeness of his erection. Almost.

Really, he could not remember a time in his life when he'd ever wanted a woman so much. Had she ensorcelled him? He knew that he was treating her unfairly, accusing her of trying to be a leader in the sexplay. But —blessed Odin!— he had to do something to slow down his catapulting excitement.

He glanced down at his excitement and snorted with disgust. For the love of Freyja! Instead of lessening, his engorged member had become even more painfully erect.

Rita waddled in, probably figuring it was time to bedevil him again. Instead she took one look at his excitement , then appeared to do a feline double lock before raising her fat head with disdain and ambling off. Obviously she was not impressed.

But Mag-he was. Truly, did she not have the least bit of sense to be staring at him so, gape-mouthed with wonder? Did she not know that a maiden s eyes on a man's most prized instrument caused it to react on its own? As his brother Magnus always said, "A man's cock can be his best friend, or his worst enemy." And his other brother, Rolf, always said, "A manroot has no brain." He agreed with both sentiments.

"Are all Vikings like you?" She was still ogling his staff.

"I'm the only one," he lied.

She giggled. She actually giggled. He considered crossing his legs and covering himself with his hands, but that was so out of character for him, who was usually proud of his endowments…except that his endowments had never been quite this endowed. In truth, he wished the slate floor would open up and swallow him whole. Instead his other brain—the one between his legs—decided to take over.

"Take it off." His statement came out more like a growled order than a sweet request.

"Take what off?" The wench was holding on to the stair post, white-knuckled, as if she might fold bonelessly to the floor without its support. He was of the same mind.

She should know perfectly well what he'd meant, but then her eyes did seem dazed. Perhaps she was a bit disoriented. So he told her, "The siren robe." If he was going to be standing naked as a plucked chicken with a bull-size erection, he was bloody well going to have company.

"Oh." Her skin was flaming, from her face right down to the edge of the deep neckline.

He liked her blush ever so much. Usually Jorund sought out women well experienced in bedplay…ones who could teach him new tricks. But he had to admit he was anticipating the joys of teaching Mag-he a thing or two…or twenty.

She untied the cloth belt at her waist, then stopped. "Joe, I'm not as beautiful as you are, or in nearly as good shape as you are." Shyly she parted the sides over her shoulders and let the fabric slither to the floor in a crimson pool.

His heart stopped beating for a second, then exploded inside his chest into a thundering beat. "Oh, Mag-he, you are beautiful to me. And your form is shapely, just the way I like."

Actually her form was more than fine to him: it was perfect. She was taller than the average female, more like the statuesque women of his race, though there was naught Nordic about her appearance. Her hair was raven black, cut far too short to be feminine, but attractive nonetheless. Her lips were full and red and kissable beyond all bounds of sensuality. Her eyes gazed at him through misty blue pools of passion.

But it was her body that drew him now…a body that was curvaceous…made for love. Her breasts were large and full and rose-nippled. They were not excessively large, except in relation to her small-boned frame, and they were uplifted, not sagging with their heaviness. He intended to pay great homage to those breasts; that was a promise he made himself.

He knew that Mag-he thought she carried too much weight, but she was wrong. Men did not like skin-and-bone females, as was the fashion of her time. That was one thing he knew had not changed through the centuries. On that issue, men were men.

He let his eyes roam lower. Her creamy torso tapered in at the waist, but then flared out at the hips…hips perfect for bearing a man's babe, or a man's lustful body. The navel ring sparkled in its place, midbelly. He could not wait to taste it with his tongue. Was it cool? Or hot?

The thatch of dark hair below was curly and already glistening with woman-dew, he would wager. Her legs were long and comely, and her feet high-arched and narrow. He intended to investigate every part of her thoroughly before morning. Bloody hell, it would be before midnight, he amended in his head, if he kept going at this rate.

"So beautiful," he repeated in a voice raw with passion. Then he reached for her.

Maggie did feel beautiful at that moment. Under Joe's appreciative scrutiny, her womanliness was suddenly something to glory in, instead of repress. She wanted him to find her sexy, and he apparently did.

When he opened his arms to her, reaching as he strode toward her, Maggie was filled with such joy that she hurled herself into his embrace. He caught her with a surprised laugh and lifted her high. But when she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders, she must have startled him, because he gasped and exclaimed, "Mag-he!" just before his knees gave way. He lurched forward, landing on his knees on the first rung of the carpeted stairs. Then, still pitching forward, he pressed Maggie backward, and she found herself sprawled on the steps, legs wide, and Joe on top of her.

He blinked at her, wide-eyed with shock. Maggie wasn't sure if he was about to laugh or cry. Despite the carpet that had broken his fall, Joe's knees must pain him dreadfully. "Are you hurt?"

"Beyond belief," he choked out, and insinuated his erection more tightly against her. "Too late, too late, too late," he moaned as his lips took hers hungrily and he thrust himself inside her slickness. Well, not quite inside. Halfway. He was so big, and Maggie had not done this for a long time.

With his eyes closed and his head reared back, he pulled himself out, then thrust again. Three times he repeated this exercise before imbedding himself to the hilt.

To Maggie's mortification, she began to spasm around him. Her eyes were probably rolled back in her head, with only the whites exposed, so intense was the pleasure he gave her. She shut her eyes. And she continued to spasm. It was much too soon. How pathetic she was. She began to cry and tried to squirm out from under him, but he would not allow that.

"Shhh," he said, "you feel so good. Like a supple glove of warm, oiled leather." Then he rolled so he was on his back on the steps and she sat on his lap, impaled and filled. "Peak again for me, sweetling," he urged in a voice smoky with sex, putting his hands on her hips to hold her still. Her first instinct was to undulate on him. But no, he took her hand and made her touch herself at that place where they were joined. She glanced down. The base of his erection was barely visible where blond hair blended with black.

Just that sight made her go hot with liquid pleasure, there .

Does he feel the scorching heat as well?

His gray eyes appeared glazed, like misty silver, and from his parted lips came a soft moan.

He does .

His firm hands on her hips forced her to keep him inside her. He refused to let her seek her release through movement, only through her own sinfully erotic touch. Within seconds she came again in violent convulsions that grasped and released, grasped and released, grasped and released his still-engorged penis. In fact, she thought he might have elongated and thickened with the flexible accommodating of her inner muscles. She wanted desperately to move, to feel the friction of his penis, but he kept murmuring against her ear, "Not yet, not yet."

Maggie realized he was indeed playing the role of the conqueror. Didn't he realize that she'd already surrendered? But no, that wasn't quite true. There was a part of her that still fought these out-of-control passions. He must sense that.

And so she threw her head back and moaned and moaned and moaned as shudders rocked her body, and she came endlessly. "Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooh!"

And still Joe had not climaxed.

But that did not mean he was unaffected. Hardly. He rolled them over so she was on the bottom again, and his stiffened arms were braced on the step, on either side of her head. From his lips came a panting noise, "Wfff, wfff, wfff, wfff," like an overheated horse. He was clearly trying to rein in his excitement. For what purpose?

Finally, when he had calmed down a bit—though he was still fully erect and imbedded inside her, like a permanent erotic fixture—he smiled down at her and gave her a brief kiss. "Where are those condoms we bought?" he whispered against her ear, at the same time he nipped at the lobe. Even his breath was a carnal caress at this stage of her seemingly endless arousal.

So that was why he was holding off. Birth control. He wanted condoms. "In my purse…in the hall closet."

In one lithe movement, he put a palm under each of her buttocks and stood, still planted inside her. Then he began to walk across the foyer.

With a little yelp, she wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders, as she had before. The slight jarring created by his stride reverberated into sensations inside her that were…interesting. Maggie was beginning to think she was either a wanton, or a woman who had been very sexually deprived for a long time. Maybe a little of both.

In a few moments, condoms in hand, Joe carried her through the archway into the living room, where he deposited her on an antique chaise lounge, which she'd inherited from her great-grandmother. It was upholstered in green velvet, backless, and had an arm at only one end. A useless piece of furniture, she'd always thought…till now.

With surprising expertise for a task he'd never performed before, Joe put on the condom, then made a great fuss over arranging her nude body just so on the chaise…half reclining, with her head against the armrest, her hands behind her head, and her legs spread with her feet resting on the floor.

The old Maggie would have been mortified beyond belief to be so exposed.

The new Maggie wondered what surprising, sinful things he would do next.

Kneeling on the floor at her side, he was studying her body from head to toe, like a connoisseur considering the purchase of a fine painting. Did he like what he saw? The answer she saw on his flushed face and parted lips was a glorious Yes, yes, yes .

"Let's just make love," she urged, and her voice came out even huskier than usual.

"We will, heartling. We will," he promised, still studying every curve and plane of her body.

When was he going to start touching her, and doing other things? Oh, good Lord! Was it possible that Vikings didn't make love the same way people did today? No, that was silly. Sex was sex. Wasn't it?

Aaarrgh! Can a person go crazy from hormone overload?

"When?" She arched her body involuntarily, like a purring cat in need of a good petting.

Her posture caused his eyes to go wide, and he clenched his fists at his sides, still restraining his impulses. Darn him! He'd better unrestrain soon, or…or else .

"When you are wild…with want."

Oh, boy! Maggie simultaneously felt a sharp throb between her legs and an ache in her breasts, and she thought, I am already wild.

Jorund could not believe his eyes. His Mag-he had gone wild for him. What a picture she made, reclining sensuously on the low sofa…a sofa that was, by the by, constructed perfectly for bedsport. Jorund, kneeling on the floor at her side, could not get enough of gazing at her. But he'd best be careful, or he would explode before he ever entered her body. That was a shame he intended to avoid at all costs.

The ripeness of her mouth attracted him first. He let his touch trace the outline of her full lips, then dipped a finger inside and moistened them. A lamp on a nearby table provided just enough golden light for him to view the glistening wetness he had created. Then he tunneled his fingers in her short hair, and moved his lips over hers, back and forth, till they fitted together perfectly. He had been telling Mag-he the truth when he stated at one time that he had no particular fondness for kissing. But, oh, she had changed his mind. Now he could not imagine making love with her and not tasting her lips and tongue and teeth. With that in mind, he stroked her with his tongue, in and out, in and out, in and out, and she drew on him. He had never known a kiss could be so intimate, or so like sex itself.

When he finally tore his mouth away, her lips were swollen and even more kiss-some. Her breathing was as ragged as his. He saw the plead ing in her luminous blue eyes. Her eagerness both excited and scared him at the same time. Beware , some inner voice warned, this woman could be your downfall .

But then another voice, accompanied by some whalelike clicking noises, countered, Or your greatest achievement. Follow your heart, Viking. Follow your heart .

But Jorund ignored the voices in his head. He had a beautiful, sensual woman begging for his erotic loveplay. "Soon, dearling, soon," he assured her as he moved his ministrations lower.

It was her breasts—her beautiful, beautiful breasts—that caught his attention now. For a long time, he played with them, pushing them up from underneath, tracing the dusty areolae, fingering the prominent nipples. She was a mewling, mindless creature by the time he was through with her, imploring him for release. That was the way he wanted her. In truth, he was a bit mindless himself.

"Tell me what you want, Mag-he," he entreated in a voice thick with male need. "Tell me your desires."

Her eyes went frenzied, and he knew she was fighting the part of her personality that wanted to be in control. She did not want to tell him her secrets, her wanton yearnings, because then he would have some power over her. Foolish wench! She did not yet realize that she was the one who had power over him.

He saw on her face the moment that she yielded to his mastery. Her hands were still folded behind her neck, where he had forced them to stay, but now she pulled them out resolutely. She put her left hand on the nape of his neck, drawing him downward, and with her right hand placed under one breast and pushing upward, she gave him her breast to suckle. And —oh, holy Thor!— how sweet it was!

For a long time he stabbed her nipple with his tongue, and licked, and plucked, and bit, and sucked, and fluttered her. Then he did the same to her other breast. Such wonderful agony was this to her that she cried out her pleasure with little mewling moans and bucked her hips rhythmically on the sofa, trying to find her release against thin air. In the end, even as he continued to minister to her sensitive breasts, he put the heel of his hand on her mons, and she bucked against his callused flesh till she peaked in unbridled convulsions.

"Ne'er have I enjoyed anything so much in all my life as watching your pleasure," he told her.

When her breathing slowed down a bit, she opened her eyes and glared at him. "You'd better end this soon, Viking, or you'll be sorry."

He doubted that. Laughing softly because she was such a delight, Jorund moved to his knees at the foot of the sofa. Then, hooking her under the knees, he yanked her toward him till her buttocks rested on the edge of the sofa and her feet were planted on the floor, on either side of his legs.

He explored her abdomen then, her trim waist, her delicious navel with the warm metal ring, the crease where her buttocks met her thighs, but mostly the dark nest of curls and the parted cleft that was so very wet with her readiness for him. He spread her legs even wider, to expose her more.

Then he tasted her, just a quick swipe of tongue over swollen nether lips and a bud that was turgid and prominent.

Mag-he screamed out his name, not that modern one, but his real one; "Jorund!"

He thought he would melt at how sweet his true name on her tongue sounded to his ears. But it was too soon for melting, though the scorching heat in his vitals did not bode well. Just a few more minutes, he promised himself.

Relying on all he'd learned over the years about bedplay, and a few surprising ideas he thought up now, Jorund then used his tongue and teeth and lips on Mag-he's slickness…and never in all his life had he brought a woman to such wetness. Like a nectar of the gods was her cream. He pushed his tongue inside her as far as he could go, trying to find her most erogenous zones—-that was a term he'd learned from Dock-whore Ruth on the TV box—then decided to save those delights for later. When he sucked on her rigid bud—the center of female eroticism, or so he'd been taught—Mag-he let loose a continuous wail of "Yeeeeeessss," the whole time pounding on his back with her fists.

Needless to say, she peaked again. Perhaps it was even two times. It was hard to tell with all that continuous convulsing.

It was time.

Raising his head, Jorund saw that Mag-he was lying sprawled on the sofa like a limp doll, with her eyes closed. Well, not for long, he pledged silently. Putting his hands on her waist, he lifted her bodily so that she lay farther up the sofa.

Her eyes shot open.

Yes, he wanted her wide-awake for this.

Bracing his arms on either side of her, he eased his erection into her hot depths. As before, she immediately started shattering around him, her inner muscles grasping and releasing him in welcome, not unlike that handshaking practice.

He tried to go slowly, with long, easy strokes, his fingers entwined with hers above her head, but he had prolonged his ecstasy too long.

"You stretch me," she commented in wonder.

"Yea, I do," he remarked pridefully. Was that not the way it was supposed to be with a man and a woman? "Should I stop?"

She laughed, a seductive, feminine trill. "Don't you dare." She drew her knees up, wrapping her legs about his hips as if to lock him in.

He needed no such encouragement. He was not able to let her go. This time he lunged so deep, he feared his penetration had reached her womb. He paused in question.

She blinked at him repeatedly. Then she said, "Goodness!"

He assumed that meant she was pleased at how well he filled her, so he continued. Caught in the throes of a hurricane, his sexplay became a raw act of possession as he drove into her, hard.

He was wild.

She was wild.

The power of their joining was a palpable thing swirling between them as they gazed in wonder at each other. His burning eyes held hers, but she did not look away. Had a coupling of man and woman ever been so staggering to the senses?

"I love you," she whispered as the pinnacle of their rapture approached, and he continued to hammer himself into her. Her words surprised him and did not surprise him at the same time. He could not say that he was displeased, but he did not repeat the words back to her. He could not.

Still, he gave her the greatest pleasure he could with his shaft and his expert fingers and mouth. At the height of her fierce undulations and his deep strokes, he slid his fingers between her legs from behind. At that one touch, her molten folds exploded around his shaft, which was now so engorged it pained him. Jorund reared his head back, released a harsh, masculine roar of victory, and came to pulsating satisfaction.

Then he fell heavily on top of her, sated to the point of bonelessness.

I love you, sweetling , he said inside his head. But he did not say the words aloud. In truth, he did not know where the sentiment came from. He did not really love this modern woman. Did he? He was no longer capable of love. Was he?

Cloudy thoughts swam in his brain as he eased himself off the too-small sofa, onto the carpeted floor. He took Mag-he with him, nestling her face in the crook of his neck, one of her arms over his chest, and one leg draped over his.

He wanted to say something to her, to thank her for the most incredible experience of his life, but "thank you" seemed so inadequate to express all he felt. Instead he hugged her tighter and kissed the top of her head.

Maggie must have swooned, or slept. All she knew was that some time must have passed since the most spectacular sexual marathon of her life—of anyone's life, she would bet—and Joe was sleeping soundly beside her.

Her face was resting against his shoulder, her palm over his chest, where his heart beat slowly in sleep, and a leg was thrown over his, with her knee pressed up against his genitals—genitals that were now semi-limp. Did the man never give up totally…even in sleep? Was he always half-ready to go?

Her body felt bruised and battered from Joe's lovemaking…and wonderfully satisfied, too. She was exhausted, no doubt due to her being out of shape. And more than anything, she was confused by the whirlwind that had overcome her in the form of a very sexy Viking. This was so much more than she'd ever expected. He was so much more than she'd ever expected.

A warm shower, that was what she needed. Then she was going to crawl into bed and sleep till noon. Only then would she feel rejuvenated enough to contemplate with a logical mind all that had happened to her tonight.

Carefully she eased herself off of Joe. He was in a deep sleep. She attempted to stand, but her legs gave way. She sank back to the floor, on her knees, and giggled. Then she clamped a hand over her mouth and glanced guiltily at Joe. He snored softly. Well, good . There was some small gratification in knowing she'd worn him out, too.

It was an ignominious posture, but Maggie began to crawl from the room on her hands and knees. When she got to the hall she would stand, with the support of walls and stair rails.

"Going somewhere, wench?" a silky, male voice inquired. At the same time, an iron hand snaked out and grasped her ankle.

Maggie peeked over her shoulder and groaned. Joe was approaching her, on hands and knees, too, like a big, stalking cat. That image was only reinforced when he came up and over her from behind, covering her with his massive body, and purred into her ear. Already she could feel his erection against her leg.

"No, Joe, not again. Haven't you had enough for now?"

"Did I not say afore that my biggest talent was my stamina?" he boasted. She didn't look, but she suspected he was smiling.

"Is that like the Viking version of understatement?" she remarked dryly, and tried to crawl away.

He swatted her on the behind and yanked her back. She could feel the heat of his skin as he undulated over her, like a cat, though he barely touched her skin.

"It's too soon," she protested. "I couldn't. Really. Oh, my goodness!"

In one sleek, feline move, he lifted her hips and entered her from behind.

And Maggie soon discovered that, in fact, she could.

While his male member stroked her inside with long, leisurely plunges, his fingers and his whispered words praised her breasts…then the wet folds that she had thought were too sensitive to be touched again so soon. But —oh…oh…oh— they were not.

Maggie realized then, if she had not already, that this was not a modern man who did things according to politically correct rules. He was a Viking warrior with savage sexual appetites and barbarian ways of seduction. An uncivilized lover.

She would have him no other way.

This time a sated Maggie lay flat on her stomach on the floor, with Joe splayed top of her, laughing in her ear. "So what do you think of Viking lovemaking, m'lady?"

"I'm afraid to ask what you do for an encore," she said with a strangled laugh.

"Aaahhh, I am so glad you asked. Have I not told you about the famous Viking S-spot?"

It was midnight. They were lying nestled in each other's arms on the sofa bed in the den, watching a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show , which Joe adored, for some reason.

They were sated…for the moment, anyhow. One never knew about Joe. Just a little while ago, she had inquired of Mr. Hornier-than-Thou, "Do Viking women walk around bowlegged all the time?"

He'd tilted his head at her, baffled by her question. Then he'd laughed. "Nay, just the lucky ones."

There were no lights on now, but the Christmas tree in the corner was twinkling brightly, and Joe had built a fire in the fireplace, even though there was enough heat in the room to fire a nuclear station. Sexual heat, that was.

Joe had carried her here after they had taken a shower together. Words didn't begin to describe that experience, involving hot water, liquid soap, and a loofah.

Afterward they had sat at the kitchen table in nothing but oversize bath towels, scarfing down beef Stroganoff over buttered noodles, and an entire half-gallon of orange juice. Joe had wanted a beer but she'd suggested o. j., as being more regenerative. Hah! Little did she know!

Then they had made love again, this time with her sitting on top of the vibrating dishwasher, and that was where she discovered the secret of the Viking S-spot. Holy cow! Joe could write a book about the phenomenon, if he stuck around this century long enough, and if he was unable to find a job as a warrior. It certainly put the G-spot to shame. She knew for darn sure he'd be a hot ticket on the talk-show circuit.

Then again, no. Maggie didn't want to share this man with anyone else. That was selfish of her, of course, but she regarded him as her special secret.

Joe had then carried her to the den. Now she wondered why he was so quiet.

"What are you thinking, Joe?"

He chuckled. "Already you are back to the sigh-colic-jest questions."

She slapped him playfully on the chest, and he playfully winced as if she'd hurt him. When she tried to shrug out of his arms, he tucked her more closely into the cradle formed by his arm looped over her shoulder.

"I was thinking that I must be more virile than I thought if I can make a woman peak twenty-five times in a matter of"—he glanced over to the mantel clock—"four hours."

"Oh! That is such a lie. I never climaxed twenty-five times."

He lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Were you counting?" she accused.

"Are you daft, wench? I was too busy trying to catch my breath."

She buried her hot face against his chest as all her old insecurities slam-dunked into her brain. Was she a slut at heart? Too sensuous? Too uninhibited? "Was I too…too…?"

Her words were muffled, spoken as they were against the warm skin of his bare chest, but he heard her. Tipping her chin up with a forefinger so he could see her face, Joe finished for her, "…wanton?"

"Yes. Was I too wanton?"

"Oh, Mag-he! How can you ask such a question?" He threw his head back and laughed uproariously. When she sliced him a glare, he gave her lips a quick, smacking kiss. "Your woman-joy is my man-pleasure, silly lady. I was teasing you, but in essence I was puffing my chest out with pride at my good fortune."

"Really?"

"Really."

"So what were you thinking about so seriously then?"

"I was thinking that mayhap living in this godforsaken country and time might not be so bad. I was thinking that perchance my mother was right when she said home is where the heart is. She was answering my question at the time as to how she—a highborn Saxon lady—could adapt so easily to the harsh northern climate and a vastly different culture. And finally I was thinking—and this scared me mightily—that your home is becoming too much like home to me."

Tears welled in Maggie's eyes. "Oh, Joe, that's the nicest thing you could have said."

"So you think, but how will I ever be able to depart this land if my affections grow so strong? All this time, I have been heeding your cautions not to let your daughters get too close, for fear of the hurt they would suffer once I leave—which I must do inevitably—but not once did I realize that I was being pulled into this selfsame net."

My affections… Maggie homed in on those words of Joe's. What did he mean by that? Suddenly she recalled blurting out to Joe, in the midst of their lovemaking earlier tonight, that she loved him. Had he heard her? Did her words bother him? Was he trying to tell her, indirectly, that he returned her affection? She couldn't help herself. Maggie asked, "Are you in love with me, Joe?"

"Pfff! How would I know? I have never been in love afore."

"Some men claim that if you have to ask the question, then you're not."

"Ha! Most men don't know their manroot from a beet root." He sighed deeply. "All I know is that I go breathless just looking at you. Is that love? I could swive you till my cock falls off. Is that love? When you leave a chamber, even for a few minutes, I miss you. Is that love? My heart swells almost to bursting when I watch you with your daughters. Is that love? I want to do things to you that no man has ever done or contemplated. Is that love? I want to protect you with my shield from all harm. I want to stop all men from gazing at you. I want to see…I want to see you…" He was unable to finish his litany.

Maggie was weeping openly now. "You want to see me what?"

He reached beneath the covers and placed a hand over her belly. "I want to see my babe growing in your womb."