Page 78 of Her Celtic Captor
Brynhild moved forward, angling her head to take more of his cock into the warm, wet pocket of her inner cheek. She scraped her teeth around the sensitive ridge which circled the head, then traced the same course with the tip of her tongue. She rolled his throbbing, aching balls in her hand and with the other she gripped that portion of his shaft she could not take into her mouth and she pumped her fist up and down his length. She kept the strokes slow at first, leisurely, taking all the time in the world as she sucked on the head with the cultured daintiness of the highborn lady he knew her to be.
Brynhild Freysson was complex as the stars which adorned the heavens, and as simple as the back of his own hand. He knew her utterly, yet not at all. She exasperated and enchanted him in equal measure. Quite simply, he loved her.
"Brynhild, I?—"
She hummed against his cock sending a frisson of vibration trembling through him. Taranc closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop back. He would spend in her mouth in mere moments unless...
He tightened his grip on her hair and eased her head back. "I want my seed inside you."
She acquiesced, her submissive nod and quiet smile sending a bolt of pure lust arrowing straight to his balls.Christ, this would be quick!
He scooped her up and stepped past the small pallet where their son lay sleeping. Gently Taranc laid his Viking on their nest of blankets and tugged at the ornate brass pin which held her skirt in place. The fastening released and her lower body was bared to him. He paused for a moment, always more than ready to admire her long, slender legs and the triangle of pale blonde curls at their joining. Brynhild herself made short work of her tunic and the thin cotton leine she wore beneath.
"Are you warm enough?" Annag had tended their fire whilst they were at Pennglas but he could always throw another log or two on the flames.
"Yes, perfectly. Hurry..."
He kicked off his trousers and boots, and divested himself of his knee-length tunic. She was already spread out for him as he moved over her.
"I died a thousand times on the ride back from Castlereagh. I did not know if you... if you..."
"I was safe."
"I did not know that." He buried his face in her neck. "I could not bear to lose you."
"You will not lose me, my Celt. I am yours."
"Mine," he agreed as he thrust his cock into her slick heat.
Brynhild gasped and arched under him. Her fingers closed about his shoulders and she hung onto him as though afraid he might yet slip from her. She rolled her hips as she squeezed her inner muscles about him. She was tight, as ever, all heat and wetness and warm, willing welcome. Her breath came in ragged pants, hoarse and more laboured as her arousal built. She was close, he knew. So was he.
He altered his angle just a fraction, but it was enough to ensure every stroke caressed and teased that sweet inner spot. She needed more, he knew it, so he bent his head to take one turgid nipple between his teeth and bit down lightly. Brynhild groaned. He bit harder and she squealed.
Ah, just right then.
He withdrew his cock, held there for just a few moments, the head just piercing her entrance as she squirmed and quivered on the tangled blankets, clawing at his shoulders and begging him to fill her. His balls ached, he ground his teeth and flexed his jaw as he forced himself to wait, to make her wait.
She screamed when he at last relented and drove his cock deep again. The sound reverberated about their house and Morvyn whimpered in his sleep. Taranc spared a glance over. The child settled again, though the mother did not. Brynhild wrapped her long legs about his waist and hooked her ankles together in the small of his back. She abandoned any semblance of restraint and ground her hips against him as her release took her. His beautiful, sensual Viking clung to him and sank her perfect teeth into his shoulder as passion overwhelmed her. Taranc drove his cock into her body, again and again, each stroke long and deep and demanding her total response.
He had it, all of it. She convulsed about him, her cunt contracting to grip him like a fist. Moments later he tumbled into his own release with a hoarse cry of triumph, then collapsed, limp, on top of her.
He fell asleep still buried within her, his Viking nestling within his arms.
Two months had passed,and still Gunnar Freysson remained at Aikrig. He and Mairead had moved into the tiny one-roomed fisherman's cottage she once occupied with her husband. It was a squash, especially with the two children, and Taranc had offered them the use of a larger dwelling. Gunnar refused. He insisted theirs would not be a lengthy stay, he merely sought a place to remain for the colder months until it was safe to make the crossing back to the Norseland with his fast-growing family. He had endured far sparser accommodations on the battlefield and could make do.
Mairead and her children were content to be wherever Gunnar was, so that seemed to settle the matter.
Dughall had made no further reference to the question of his slain son, at least not in Taranc's hearing. He was not certain if Gunnar and the elderly lord had discussed the heir's death, but assumed they must have since neither was a man to allow an issue of such import lie unresolved. Taranc would not ask. It was between them.
He knew that Brynhild was enjoying the company of her brothers, and he was proud that she even managed to forge friendships with their wives. He was under no illusions regarding the effort she had made to build those relationships. Her natural reserve made it difficult for her to reach out, though she was ready enough to accept that she had wronged Fiona deeply. She was doing what she could now to make amends, and Fiona's natural generosity of spirit worked in her favour. They got by, and Vikings and Celts continued to thrive together.
And now, his own family was growing. Brynhild was pregnant again. She hoped for a daughter. He hoped she would have her wish. A feast was planned at the manor house to celebrate the good tidings and to invite the blessings of both Christian and Norse deities down upon the coming babe. Tarancmuch preferred this approach to the sacrifice of fine livestock, though he suspected a goat would yet be called for even so.
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Brynhild gazed the length of the table, and could still not entirely believe that she found herself here, at the heart of this noisy, laughing family. Vikings and Celts alike drank her health, and that of her unborn child. A solicitous Fiona kept the bucket close by, ever mindful of the inconveniences of these early weeks. The chamomile tea Brynhild swore by was in copious supply and Mairead offered her own recommendations from her basket of herbal remedies. The love and support of other females was something Brynhild had missed as she grew to womanhood herself and now she basked in its comforting warmth. Murdina and Morag were kind and caring, they had welcomed her to their family. Annag was her rock and stanch ally, and the younger woman's wicked sense of humour a source of endless amusement to Brynhild.
Her little boy brought her joy, as did the other children who scampered about the hall. Njal and Donald were raucous, though they tended to spend most of their days with their Viking fathers. Little Tyra, however, was invariably at Brynhild's house in Aikrig with her mother and was into everything, ably abettedby her devoted little helper, Morvyn. The tiny pair ran Annag ragged.
