Silence reigned, but only for a moment before she said in a shaky voice, “How do you feel about self-caressing?”
All of Vagn’s good intentions floated away with those few words. He turned back over and sat up. Stacking his hands behind his head, he observed her standing by the door, nervous as a virgin before a ritual sacrifice.
That is not a comparison I should be making.
Her face was flushed with color, but that was all he could see, because her body was covered entirely by a blue cloak which she clutched together with both hands at her waist. But wait, there was another body part exposed. Her bare feet. Her oddly erotic bare feet.
Could she be naked underneath?
At first, he could not breathe, let alone speak. When he got himself reasonably under control, he remarked as casually as he could, “Self-caressing, Helga? Me or you?”
He had expected to shock her with his question. Instead, she seemed to ponder his words. “Well, Rona says—”
“Rona? Who is Rona?” he interrupted in an almost shrill tone. Helga is discussing self-caressing with me. Have I entered another world—a strange otherworld of demented people? Is this a jest? Toste, are you responsible for this? Did you plant the idea in her half-brain head, from wherever you are?
Her eyes seemed to light up with pleasure that he did not know this Rona person. “That is neither here nor there, but Rona says men like to caress themselves betimes—”
“Only if there is no other option available.”
“Quit interrupting me. ‘Tis hard enough to get this out without your teasing,” she snapped, then seemed to catch herself. After all, a female should not be snappish when she was engaged in the business of seducing a man to get his man-seed. “What I was trying to say is, Rona claims that men caress themselves betimes, but what they really like is to watch a woman caress herself.” She said all in one whoosh of breath, as if she had to get it all out afore she lost her nerve.
Now, to say that this particular assertion got his attention would be the understatement of all time… like saying Viking men were somewhat virile. Every hair on his body waved in the wind. His nipples ached, and they almost never ached. His tongue thickened. His staff was thickening, too. And humming, for a certainty. In fact, it was singing “Alleluias.” Surely Loki the jester god was engaging in his pranks again, because no mortal being could ever come up with such a notion to tempt an already lustsome man.
Vagn had no intention of getting Helga with child and walking away. The best way to avoid that happenstance was to keep his manpart as far distant from her woman folds as possible, like in another country. So, what did he say? “Mayhap I would need a demonstration to decide… whether I would like to watch you self-caress or not.” Liar, liar, liar! Lackwit, lackwit, lackwit! I am a blithering idiot. Meanwhile, said manpart was making a tent of his bed fur.
“All right,” she said.
All right? What does she mean, “All right?” She cannot mean to…
Uh-oh!
She unclapsed one of her hands.
She does.
Helga bit her bottom lip nervously, then spread her cloak wide and let it drop to the floor. Tears of embarrassment glistened in her blue eyes… an indication of how difficult this disrobing was for her. She probably still suffered from the Helga the Homely misname she’d been given so long ago.
And it was a misname, because the woman who stood before him now in all her naked glory presented a picture beauteous beyond belief—to Vagn, leastways. He suspected that some men—blind dolts—might find her too tall and skinny and big-mouthed. She was taller than average for a woman and very slender, with small, almost nonexistent breasts and exceedingly long legs. Instead of being put off by her less-than-generous endowments, he found her slimness appealing. Her hair was pale gold hanging down to her hips. Her mouth, one of her greatest assets, was wide and wet from her darting tongue. Her eyes stared at him, direct with question.