"No."
"In that case, you may move whenever it pleases you."
"How? What should I do?" She looked quite lost.
"Whatever feels good to you." He placed his hands on her hips and moved them in a circular motion and grinned as she let out a long, low moan. Next he lifted her a couple of inches, thenallowed her to sink back onto him again. His reward was more moaning and a sensual sigh. "There, you get the idea now?" He released her hips and moved his hands around to the front to peel back the slick folds which barely covered her clitty. He laid the pad of his thumb on the engorged nub. "Rub against my thumb. Seek your release, do whatever you must to achieve it."
Her eyes popped open in sudden understanding of her own power to claim her pleasure, and his. She lifted her hips and lowered them again, this time using her inner muscles to increase the friction. Now it was Gunnar's turn to groan. He prayed she would find her climax soon for he could not stand much of this.
Mairead quickly eased into a sensual rhythm – lifting, lowering, rising, falling, all the while slowly rotating her hips in a manner calculated to drive him wild. She leaned forward, her plump breasts swaying before his eyes as she moved. Gunnar reached up to cup the soft mounds, testing their weight in his hands as he gently squeezed her deep pink nipples. He traced the outline of her aureole, admiring the contrast of dusky pink against the creaminess of her skin. Soon, when she was no longer feeding the infant, he might enjoy more sport here. And so might she if her contented expression was any indication.
"Gunnar, I need... Oh, yes, just like that. Yes, yes!"Her breathy moans were louder now, her demands more insistent. His own arousal built and threatened to crest soon. Too soon.
"Be still a moment. Allow me to help you..." He took over the action now, his fingers skimming her clitty as he gauged her response. He kept the pressure light at first, then increased the intensity of his caress until she cried out his name. Her features contorted in pleasure and her inner muscles convulsed about him. He bore the rippling caress as long as he could, then thrust up – hard. His shout was guttural as his own release surged forth again.
This woman would milk him dry, and he would love her all the more for it.
12
The wedding took place two weeks later. It was a quiet affair since Gunnar required no fuss, Mairead even less. There was no dynastic alliance to negotiate, no dowry to claim, just a few words spoken before his men and his followers and a feast for all at Gunnarsholm. If any considered the hasty marriage of a Viking Jarl to a Celtic thrall in any way worthy of comment, they did not share such a view publicly.
Tyra slept throughout the entire process. Donald sat beside his mother at the table in their hall, his face quite unreadable, as though the boy did not dare to express his fears. The boy’s anxious features awakened a memory in Gunnar, one he had thought long buried, of being taken into his father’s longhouse soon after the death of his mother. He had been a similar age then to Donald now, and just as scared though he would never have admitted as much. He was uncertain of his welcome, his place in this new home. Was he part of the family, or an outsider, a slave still?
His father, the Jarl, was always kind enough, though strict. Frey of Skarthveit treated his sons well, and expected much of them. He made no distinction between the legitimate one andthe one born a bastard. But it was Solveig, his father’s wife and Gunnar’s new stepmother, or so he had always thought of her, who defined his childhood.
Solveig was an austere woman who ran their household with a rod of iron. All knew better than to disobey or rile her. In return, though Solveig was fierce, she loved her children dearly and this included Gunnar right from the moment he arrived, trembling at her table. He recalled that she set a bowl of broth before him, told him she was sorry for his loss, tousled his hair then bade him eat. When his stomach was filled she showed him where he was to sleep, in a warm spot right next to Ulfric.
Solveig offered little in the way of outward affection, not to any of them, but by her deeds Gunnar knew she cared for him every bit as much as for her natural born son. Her generosity to him was not effusive, but from that very first day he was never in any doubt of his welcome in her longhouse. She accepted him without question and he grew up under her stern, efficient care. Gunnar never forgot Solveig’s understated kindness to a small, scared child and in return he became utterly devoted to her.
He knew of her affection for sure when, perhaps a year after entering her domain, he fell from a tree and broke his arm. He had climbed the massive Norwegian pine because Ulfric dared him, urging him to reach an osprey’s nest which the older boy swore was up there. Solveig was furious with her son and whipped Ulfric for causing his brother to be hurt. She bound Gunnar’s injured arm and took the smaller boy into the bed she shared with their father until he ceased crying with pain at night.
Solveig might appear cold, he could not deny that. Many considered her distant and aloof, but to him she had been there when he needed her, always utterly reliable. Although a grown man by then he had wept when she died, and he missed her still. Solveig had become his rock, and now this frightened littleboy who shared his longhouse needed the same certainty he had been given.
Gunnar knew what he must do. He rose from the table and leaned down to speak into the lad's ear.
"Come with me, Donald."
The boy swivelled on the bench, his face white. Gunnar turned and strode for the door.
Outside, he waited for the boy to catch him up, then led the way to the stables. He was aware that Donald spent much of his time here since his punishment for the thefts had been completed. The boy was fascinated by horses, and Gunnar would use that now to his advantage. He entered the low building and approached the first stall, occupied by a dappled gelding he had acquired a few days previously. The animal was small and well-mannered and Gunnar had purchased him as a mount for his new bride.
"I have watched you grooming Knut. I had thought him a decent horse for your mother. What is your view, Donald?"
"He is very gentle, Jarl. She will like him, I think." The boy reached up to pat the horse's velvety muzzle
"Do you like him?"
"Oh, yes. He is beautiful. I have been taking care of him. Will I still be allowed to do that?"
"You may. I believe your mother would appreciate your assistance as she is so often busy with Tyra, or helping Aigneis. I find though, that when we travel beyond Gunnarsholm I prefer her to ride with me. This little fellow will become fat if he is left in the stables overmuch."
"I... I will walk him. I will make sure he gets the exercise he needs."
"Better that you should ride him. A horse needs to gallop, not walk. I suspect a boy does, also. Certainly I always felt that it was so."
The boy's face fell. "I do not ride, Jarl. I am sorry."
"Then you must learn, and quick. I shall teach you. We start tomorrow."
