Page 60 of Her Rogue Viking
“So pretty,” he murmured. “And already so wet. I suspect I shall be requiring a decent switch in due course.”
Fiona chewed harder, until her lip hurt. She resisted the urge to whimper, to plead. It would do no good. Her previous languor evaporated. She braced and stiffened as he traced the outer contours of her slit with one extended fingertip.
Oh, sweet saviour, that felt nice.
“Please…” she began, despite her best intentions.
He ignored her and instead leaned forward to better examine her moist folds. Using both hands now he parted them to open the entrance to her channel, then without further preamble he slid two fingers deep into her.
Fiona yelped, thrust her hips up then sought to wriggle from side to side. Her movements were jerky and restricted, he had bound her well and she was powerless to obstruct his insistent probing. He withdrew his fingers then drove them deep again, somehow twisting his hand to increase the friction. It was glorious, and terrible, and quite irresistible. Her arousal coiled and threatened to surge forth. She was about to succumb, and he had barely laid a hand on her.
She opened her mouth to beg him to stop, to allow her the first of her respites, but as suddenly as he had ramped up the pressure he ceased. He pulled his fingers out and turned to smile at her.
“You see? It would be so easy. Perhaps after your first climax you will be less… volatile, though I doubt it. I wonder if you should turn your thoughts to something else, something less… evocative.”
She squeezed her eyelids shut, unwilling to even look at him. Tears of frustration trickled from the corners. This whole experience was so erotic, so absolutely sensual, so perfect, yet she could not savour it. She had to fight, to resist, to deny herself the exquisite pleasure that was multiplied many fold by her restraints, her absolute helplessness.
How had he known?
“Little Celt, you are crying. Have I hurt you?”
She shook her head.
“Then why?”
“I will disappoint you. I cannot control how I feel, how you will compel me to respond whether I wish to or not. You will think me weak…”
“I will think you beautiful. I always do.”
“The next time you touch me, I will… I will…”
“Do you wish for your first respite? A drink, perhaps?”
She nodded and opened her eyes. “Yes, please. I believe that I must.”
He ambled over to the barrel where their mead was stored and scooped some of the liquid into a tin cup, then he helped her to turn her face to his and take a few sips.
“Enough?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He grinned. “See, you can be polite when you choose to be.” He wiped her damp face with his thumbs. “So, any more tears?”
“I am sorry, it was just… just…” She frowned, searching for a word to convey the depth of sensation and tumult of emotions he evoked in her.
“Overwhelming?” he offered, with a soft smile.
“Yes. Overwhelming,” she agreed.
“Are you still afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“No. Never of you. I am frightened by what you make me feel.”
“Ah, then in due course we shall discuss what, exactly, I make you feel.” He leaned in to kiss her lips and Fiona wished her hands were free. She longed to tunnel her fingers through his blond locks, to hang on to him tight and burrow into his solid, dependable strength. He made her feel many things, this Viking, but she preferred not to be called upon to give a name to them all.
