Something about it had aroused him—the idea of watching Bretta touch the thing against that part of her that was designed for his pleasure. Watching her push the cold stone inside her warmth—moving it in and out and thinking all the while of what she really wanted instead.
That she’d desired him, Eldberg had never doubted. He’d served Beornwold for over ten years before the old man had settled the contract. In that time, Eldberg had watched Bretta grow from a child to a woman, and he’d seen how she admired him. Shyly at first, for she’d been innocent. Later, with an intensity that spoke of the passion she would bring to her husband’s bed.
He’d waited, taking no other in marriage, making himself indispensable to the old man. There was no one stronger, no one more formidable, no one better able to take command of Skálavík. Once Beornwold had realised that, the settlement had been straightforward.
And Bretta—so beautiful, so eager, and so in love—had been his.
Eldberg frowned. Always, it came back to this—what had been his, and what had been taken from him.
Moving to the bed, he brought his hand directly to her—his palm against soft curls, his fingers pressed to the opening of her sex.
She jolted, attempting to avoid his touch. Her belly, softly rounded, moved rapidly with her breaths. Against the fat pad of his thumb, her skin was cool. But not so for the flesh between her legs. There, it was hot.
How would it have felt for her—to lie here, exposed, all this time?
No doubt her shoulders were aching, though he’d tied her flat and given enough slack to allow her to flex her elbows.
What had she most feared?
A subtle shift located her swollen nub.
Just like this, he’d given Bretta pleasure—with his fingers and his tongue. There was a way to stimulate a woman, just as there was a man.
Dipping inside, he brought out her cream and rubbed lightly upon that part she would be incapable of controlling. She wrenched away, but then her hips pushed forward, meeting the caress again.
His captive.
He played the game patiently, letting her resist with murmured protest, withdrawing, then bucking toward him until the wetness covered not just his fingers but her thighs.
Something inside him tightened.
Splaying her with one hand, he touched the marble rod against her slickness.
“What is it?”
“It’s what you agreed to, slave. Nothing more.”
With a single push, he slid the column inside her.
“I don’t want it.” She thrashed her hips, then bore down, trying to expel the thing that filled her.
“An ungrateful way to behave when you’ve been given a gift.”
As she raised herself again, attempting to shake away the rod, Eldberg slipped the leather harness under her back. His fingers were not as nimble as they had been, and the wick had all but burnt away, but he didn’t need his vision to fasten the strap around her waist.
“What are you doing?”
In the near dark, he wedged the rod into its leather cup and brought the holding straps over her lower abdomen, knotting them onto the front of the belt. These, he pulled tight, so that the marble shaft was drawn fully into her body, held securely in place.
“I don’t want it!” she hissed again and thrashed, then made another angry sound and went still. “When I move…”
Satisfied, he pulled one of the sheepskins from the bed and tossed it on the floor. She’d have all night to simmer.
In the morning, he’d ease her discomfort—at least for a little while.
“Take it out,” she said quietly. “Please.”
He smiled.
