Page 24 of Her Rogue Viking
“I said that you are beautiful. I had not known that a man could be so… so… perfect.”
He would not have described himself thus, but saw no sense in disputing her assessment at this precise moment. Ulfric laid her on the bed and stood over her to appraise her nude body, now glowing a healthy shade of pink and no longer shivering.
“And you are quite lovely also, Fiona. I thought so the moment I first saw you.”
“Yet you bound me, threatened me, and abducted me.”
“As for the first two, it was a somewhat heated moment and you had just felled two of my warriors with your sling. As to the third, I have no regrets. I want you. I wanted you from the start, so I took you. Because I could.”
She looked up at him and held his gaze. Even yesterday she would have berated him about his treatment of her and her people, but today something had shifted. Maybe he had his sister to thank for this change in attitude, though she would receive no fair words from him for her ill treatment of his helpless captive. Ulfric glanced about the chamber but could not see the bandage he had fashioned yesterday. No matter, he could replace it. He lifted the lid of a storage chest and groped within for a length of linen. He tore the fabric into strips and sat on the edge of the bed close to Fiona’s feet and gently lifted her injured ankle to lay it across his thighs. He wrapped the bandage around it again, pulling it tight to provide the support she needed. The first time he had done this she had lain fearful on the ground, but now she relaxed in his bed, her eyes closed and her mouth curling in a hint of a smile.
Ulfric completed the task, tugging the bandage tight since that would offer more support. He tied it off then glanced up at his captive’s face. Fiona lay still, her eyes closed, though she opened them as though aware of his perusal. Her irises were a stormy grey, dark, rich with some sort of heady allure. He was sure she did not intend to beckon him with her gaze, but that was the effect even so. She made no further attempt to conceal her nudity from him, seemingly content to allow him to look at her as he pleased. As she should.
Turning to face her fully, Ulfric gently parted her legs, pushing her ankles wide. Her expression remained serene. She wanted this. Him.
He glimpsed the damp sheen of her sex peeking from between her spread thighs, already wet for him though she had hardly the barest notion of what that meant. She had been startled, astonished, by her response in his bed the previous night but he intended to continue her enlightenment here and now.
Ulfric stroked his hands up her inner calves to her knees, then pressed to widen her legs even more. She bent her knees obligingly and allowed him to push her thighs apart, revealing her dark pink lower lips, now gleaming with her arousal. The tip of her clitty was just visible, peeking out from within its hood as though begging for his attention. He would not disappoint.
“Put your hands behind your head, and keep them there. It will be as though I bound them again.”
“There is no need to tie me to your bed, Viking. Even if my ankle would hold me, I do not think I would desire to leave just yet.”
“I am delighted to hear that, but there are many reasons a man may choose to tie a wench to his bed. You will do as I say.”
It was a command, though gently made, and she obeyed him. Her features remained tranquil, even as the new posture caused her to arch her back and lift her breasts up for him to admire. Surely she did not do this innocently? She must realise how her acquiescence, her obedience, her lush availability affected him? She was young, yes, but not a child. And she had been betrothed to the thrall who had looked as though he might tear Ulfric’s head from his shoulders given the slightest opportunity. He did not have a look of a man who would leave his beautiful bride-to-be in ignorance of her sensual charms. Ulfric’s cock lurched to full attention as his captive writhed before him on the furs.
“How old are you, Fiona?”
She opened her eyes fully to regard him. “Nineteen summers, Viking. And you?”
He grinned at her forthright question. “I shall not see my thirtieth summer again, wench. Tell me, how long were you betrothed to your fierce Celtic warrior?”
Her expression hardened, and he at once regretted his words.
“Do not mock Taranc. He is a fine man and… and I love him dearly.”
By Odin’s fucking balls. This he did not need.
“You are no longer his.” The statement came out as more of a growl.
Fiona made to scramble away. “I was neverhis. He is a good and gentle person, he would never…”
“Do not move.” His command was harsh, but effective. She paused, bristling with resentment as she lay, splayed before him. Ulfric cursed again under his breath, though his anger was directed at himself and his stupid remark. He had behaved like a jealous lad when he knew full well the thrall presented no threat to him or to his plans for this captive. He was a fool, but he was not about to let that ruin his plans for this little Celt’s deflowering.
“I apologise. I was tactless, but meant no offence, to you or this… Taranc?” It was a name unfamiliar to him.
She gave a wary nod.
“So, you will oblige me by returning your hands to the position I instructed you to maintain, and settling back down to listen to me.”
Her beautiful eyes flashed, their colour reminiscent of the ocean in the throes of a storm, but she obeyed him.
Ulfric had intended to weave a web of sensuality around her and draw her in slowly, but now changed his strategy. Insteadhe would go for a quick overwhelming of her senses. Despite his apology—which was a rare enough occurrence he would concede—she was angry still. He felt it, and would channel that passion. His hands still rested on the insides of her knees, but he held her slate-grey gaze as he drew his palms up her inner thighs.
Her eyes widened, darkened. Her lips parted, but she said nothing. He allowed his own lip to quirk as he retraced his path back to caress her knees. The next time he slid his hands up he hovered close to that delightful hollow where her thighs and pussy met, his fingers just brushing the soft curls that nestled there.
“Viking…” Her voice was a low groan, breathy and laboured.
