Page 61 of Her Rogue Viking
“Shall we continue?”
“Has it been ten minutes?” Her belly churned, her lower abdomen heavy as a solid knot of unspent lust lodged there. Her clit tingled, though he had not yet teased her there.
“Aye, it has.”
“I see.” She closed her eyes again, and offered a brief, resigned nod.
He turned his attention back to her hot, weeping pussy. First, and with aching slowness, he used his fingers to spread her inner lips apart, then drew the tip of his tongue around them. Fiona jerked, caught off guard. She had expected him to simply resume where he had left off but again he surprised her, upsetting her equilibrium once more.
He was unhurried, patient, circling her sex with his tongue, tasting her juices, lapping at her drenched folds, then dippinghis tongue into her entrance. She squeezed around him, longing for more even as she dreaded what came next.
“Ulfric, please, no more…”
“If you want me to stop again, allow you your second respite, you must say ‘halt.’”
“I did not mean that. I… oh! Oh!” She was cresting again, soaring upwards toward the glorious release she craved. But it was too soon, she must resist. Fiona clenched, hard. With everything she had, she squeezed down tight as she battled to delay the inevitable. She willed these sensations away, prayed for them to fade, to recede, just for the few precious moments she would need in order to?—
“Aaagh!” She let out a keening wail as her climax seized her and she tumbled, shuddering and shaking, into the inexorable abyss.
15
Ulfric remained still for several moments, simply gazing at the woman spread out before him on his table. He wondered what superlative service he might have performed that had so pleased the gods that they had seen fit to grant him this female. She was beyond lovely, beyond beautiful. He had cared deeply for his wife, but that sentiment paled in comparison. He simply adored this little Celt, this woman who he had plucked from her home, enslaved, then freed.
She had remained with him, as a karl, a free woman, by her own choice. She had fought to protect his son, and had aided him in the defence of his home. Then, she had permitted him to bind her, to tie her to his table and do with her as he would. Had she refused, fought him, demanded that he release her, he would have done so. He knew it and she also knew it. This was why she did not fear him. And her lack of fear was the reason he loved her.
Ulfric glanced at the lamp, then moved over to check it more carefully. He allowed himself a wry grin and returned to lean over his prone captive.
“Your estimate was truer than mine.”
She opened her eyes, the pools of dark grey reminiscent of the northern skies just before a storm. Her brow furrowed.
“My estimate?”
“Aye. The lamp. It is already one third empty.”
“Ah, I see.” Now her lips curled in a shy smile. “I do not have to endure your vile attentions for a great deal longer, then.”
“You are right. We should press on. I shall keep the tally since you will be somewhat distracted I daresay. One stolen climax has earned you two strokes of the switch. I shall expect you to select and prepare a decent one, when the time comes.”
“There will be no need. You instructed me to ensure a supply is ever to hand. I am an obedient thrall.”
“No longer a thrall since I had the smith remove your leg shackle, but I do appreciate obedience even so.” He strolled around the table to the head and picked up the jug containing the remaining cod liver oil. “As a reward for your compliance, I shall do you the service of oiling my fingers.”
He enjoyed the faint blush that spread from her neck and up across her delicate features. She knew what he intended, and despite her usual protestations when he insisted on making use of her arse she never failed to find her release this way. He was confident the tally would soon rise.
Ulfric leaned on the edge of the table as she watched him, wide-eyed. He shifted his gaze to admire her cunt, pretty and plump and pink as a summer apple. He angled his perusal lower. Her tight rear hole glistened, already damp from her juices. He might have managed without the additional oil but this was about pleasure for her, pure, irresistible delight designed to sweep away her control and release the wild, unrestrained lust he knew lurked beneath. He would witness this and relish it.
“Open for me, little Celt.” He laid the tip of his middle finger at her rear entrance but did not press. Not yet.
“I cannot…” she groaned.
“Open,” he insisted, and now he did apply pressure. Not much, the merest hint would suffice. The ring of muscle relaxed and his slick digit penetrated her tight barrier.
Fiona gasped. He glanced up to meet her anguished gaze, then held it as he drove the length of his finger into her narrow channel.
She groaned now, and lowered her eyelids as though to shut him out that way.
“No. You will look at me while I do this. I want to see the need in your eyes, the desire which will heat even as you try to fight me.”
