He would like naught more than to reach across the table and shake the willful wench. Why must she always be at cross purposes with him? Why could she not be biddable for once? He counted to ten silently, then offered, “A compromise, then.”
She tilted her head in question.
“If I should get you with child, I would offer for you. If you refuse, then you must let me acknowledge my child and be a part of the babe’s life.”
“You ask much.”
“Nay, Helga, you are the one who asks much.”
“Why would you be willing to make this compromise?”
“Because I want you so bad my teeth hurt and my loins ache. I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you.” And because my cock is so hard it hurts and must soon find a sheath. And because you are driving me eye-rolling barmy. And because I keep picturing candles. And because I want to see for myself if you have turned into a raisin down there.
He could tell that his words pleased her. Good thing he’d kept his coarser thoughts to himself. “Besides,” he said with a grin, “Toste wants me to.”
She grinned back at him. “Been talking to your dead brother again, have you?”
“Yea. All the time.” He reached across the table and took one of her hands in his. Just that gesture gave him a thrill, so besotted was he. When he laced the fingers of her hand in one of his and their wrists pressed against each other, he had to close his eyes against the intense emotion he felt. He could not imagine the outcome of this strange pact they were making, but it felt right. “Will I come to you tonight, or will you come to me?” he asked in a voice raw with need.
“I will come to you.”
And so their fate was sealed.
When a man loves a woman…
Vagn had told Helga that he was a full-grown man who was too old for games, but he felt like a youthling now. And games were beginning to hold way too much appeal. Sex games, that is.
He swept the stale rushes from his bedchamber and replaced them with new fragrant ones. He put clean linens on the mattress and shook out the bed furs. An extra candle burned on a low table. A warm fire burned in the small hearth. All this he did himself, wanting to please Helga with these intimate courtesies.
As for himself, he bathed, shaved off his facial hairs and braided war braids on either side of his face. A man needed his hair off his face when leaning over a woman. Then he donned clean garments.
He looked down at his hands as he waited for her and saw that they trembled. The sight pulled him up short.
Was the trembling from excessive arousal? After all, it had been almost a year since he’d lain with a woman, thanks to his and Toste’s forced celibacy as Jomsvikings.
Or was he suddenly nervous about his talents in the bedsport? That could not be. He’d been making love for fifteen and more years, and his expertise had never failed him.
Then it must be Helga who turned him into a jittery halfling. Scary prospect, that. No woman had ever had such an effect on him. It made him feel vulnerable and lacking in his usual self-confidence. Like a needy milksop, for the love of Frigg! Good thing his old friend Bolthor the Skald was no longer in this world. He would compose a horrible poem about Vagn’s present dilemma… something like “When Viking Men Lose Their Swagger.”
It was unacceptable, he decided, slamming his cup of ale down on the table and causing the candle flame to flicker. I am Vagn Ivarsson. I do not humble myself for anyone. Not even a woman for whom my lust is high.
He undid his belt and jerked his tunic over his head, tossing it to the floor and no doubt mussing his hair in the process. He did not care. He was angry with himself. Next he sat down on the bed and pulled off his half-boots and short hose, pitching them across the chamber to land hither and yon. He was about to shimmy out of his braies when he heard her soft knock on the door. He stopped in mid-shimmy, unsure whether to take them off or not. But Helga took that decision out of his hands by entering without waiting for his response to her knock. He yanked the breeches back up.