“I cannot. I am so ashamed.”
“Of what? Being a woman? Look at me, please.”
She did, and he saw that her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “I must be a wanton.”
“Silly goose,” he said and gently laid his lips over hers. He moved slowly at first, wanting her to become accustomed to him. Women were skittish. Like horses. Especially Helga, who would not appreciate the association, he was sure. That was the last thing she needed to hear. “Helga the Homely” had been objectionable; “Helga the Horse” would be intolerable. So he forgot the horse association and concentrated on worshiping her lips. Holding her face in his hands, he nibbled. He smoothed. He licked. He caressed. Just the friction of his mouth over her so desirable lips was pure ecstasy. He’d meant to please her, but he’d ended pleasing himself.
“You taste like honey… and cloves,” he said.
“You taste like horse,” she said.
He laughed. It’s not the first time I’ve been told that.
But she didn’t seem to be objecting to his horsiness, so he chose not to take offense.
“Open, Helga,” he murmured against her wet lips.
She did—in her innocence, far wider than was necessary. He inserted his tongue and began a slow in-and-out rhythm that simulated the sex act. A most excellent pupil, she quickly learned the lesson and did the same to him. He thought he just might swoon, so intense was his arousal.
And speaking of arousals!
She was undulating her hips against him in a rhythm as old as time. He assumed it was instinct and not experience that caused her to move so enticingly. He pulled back slightly and stared down at her.
Her lips were kiss-swollen and wet. Her eyes were glazed over with passion.
“Are you a virgin?” he asked her of a sudden. Of course she is a virgin. Her father said she was.
“Yea, I am,” she answered, too dazed to be offended by his question. At first. He saw the moment when she realized just what he’d been asking. Anger suffused her already flushed face. Then she asked him, “Are you a virgin?”
“Nay, but I feel as if this is all new with you.”
“Hah!” she said and rolled away from under him, standing clumsily. Apparently his question had been a bucket of cold water on her ardor. His, on the other hand, was still rock hard and ready. “I do not know what trick you played with your lewd fingers to turn me into a harlot, but it will not happen again.”
He leaned back on his elbows in the straw. “Methinks your father was wrong about you.”
He could tell she did not want to ask, but she did anyway. “What was my father wrong about?”
“Your female parts are not withered into raisins. They are plump and juicy and wet. I would bet my life on it.”
She inhaled sharply and tried her best not to react to his teasing. “Are you ever serious?”
“On occasion.”
“Speaking of serious, you told me that you would not do anything serious to me in the straw. You lied.”
He shook his head. “Nay, you are wrong to malign me so. What I did… what we did was not serious. When I get into the serious business of lovemaking, you will know it. And I will see just how juicy and unwithered you are there.” He glanced pointedly at the juncture of her thighs.
“You are by far the crudest, coarsest, crassest man I have ever met. They ought to call you Vagn the Vulgar.” She was towering over him, hands on hips.
“Now that you mention name-calling, I think I have come up with a new name for you, Helga,” he said as he watched her attempt, futilely, to brush all the straw out of her cloak. She even had straw in her blond hair, but he would not tell her that. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“Nay, I do not. It’s probably something crude, like Helga the Harlot.”
He made a clucking sound of disapproval with his tongue. “Helga the Magnificent.”
“I hope you do not consider that a compliment.”