by Sandra Hill
“You mean mellow.”
“That, too. I was just picking a light, sunshine color.”
He arranged himself on the bed then, on his side. He was already half-hard, but that would have to wait. He had other plans.
She stared up at him warily, even when he only outlined her lips with a forefinger.
“Dost know what I intend for you, my sex slave?” As if I know!
“Sex slave? In your dreams!”
“I repeat. Dost want to know my plans?”
She frowned at him with wariness.
Well she should be wary!
“First I intend to kiss you. Many men do not like kissing, but I consider myself an expert in that foresport. Dost like kissing as much as I do?”
She nodded, still wary.
“Well, first I will kiss you endlessly, in so many ways we will lose count, until you reach your first peak.”
“That’s great, Steven, but this would be so much better if you would release me.” She struggled against her ties.
“Remember, Ree-tah, this is all about control. Mine.”
She said a foul word that he chose to ignore.
“After the kissing, I will move down to your breasts, where I will experiment with each of the different feathers. Then I intend to fondle and suckle until your second peaking.” At that promise, he could see her already hardened pink nipples engorge even more. “After that I will move down to your bare mons, which I have saved for last. I must say I have heard of such, but ne’er seen it afore. So, I will have to examine it thoroughly. Not just by looking, but by touch and taste as well. With my fingers as well as feathers.”
She whimpered.
“After that exercise, which I expect to result in another peaking or two, I will take my own satisfaction inside your female channel, which by then I expect to be hot and dripping with your woman dew.” If I can survive that long.
“In other words, you intend to torture me.”
“Yea, I do,” he murmured against her lips. “Sweet torture.”
Chapter 11
Kissed to death . . . the little death . . .
Steven hadn’t even begun to make love to her, not really, and already Rita was so aroused, she could barely breathe.
“You are trembling,” he remarked.
“Must be I’m cold.”
He laughed, not at all fooled. “Not for long, sweetling.”
If that was meant as a threat, she wasn’t frightened. Somehow, she knew that he wouldn’t hurt her and that he was no more into Sadie and Maisie than she was . . . sadomasochism, that was. Still, she was finding her restraints difficult to accept. Maybe Steven was right that she needed to be in control . . . that submission spelled weakness to her. She would have to think about that later. Right now, she was having trouble concentrating on anything other than, “Oh. My. God!”
His warm breath fanned her face before his mouth descended on hers. “Ree-tah,” was all he said. It was both a plea and a demand, both of which increased her trembling. The only place he touched her was the pulse point in the curve of her neck where his fingertips rested lightly. Lying on his side, his other arm rested above her head on the pillow.
At first, his kisses were as gentle as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings as he explored and tested her mouth with wet lips, tongue, and even teeth. Many men went through the motions of kissing, but only as a prelude to the good stuff. Other, wiser men recognized that kissing could be the good stuff, as well. Steven was obviously of the latter persuasion. Without a doubt he enjoyed every little nuance as the intensity of his kisses took her gradually from one level of pleasure to another.
Rita had doubted Steven’s earlier boast that he could make her come just by kissing. She wasn’t so sure now. Each step he took displayed an expertise in the art of kissing. Exploring. Teasing. Persuading. Demanding. Then he would backtrack and start all over again. It was driving her crazy, and she nipped at his tongue on its latest withdrawal, attempting to keep him where she wanted him.
His chuckle vibrated his tongue, which triggered the beginning of an orgasm. But wait, the brute stopped. “Not yet,” he murmured thickly. Lifting his head, he stared down at her. His thick black lashes swept half-mast over eyes that were illuminated to silvery desire. He used the fingertips that had been at her neck to trace the moisture on her lips. Then he did the same with one of the stiffer feathers.
“Release me, Steven. I need to . . .”
He pressed a forefinger into her mouth, then took it in his own mouth and suckled.
She could swear her vagina lurched.
“Need to what?” he asked, licking her ear.
Oh, my! Oh, my! Ooooh, my! “Touch you. Kiss you. I don’t know. Just something.”
“In other words, you would take control, even of something so simple as kissing.”
“There is nothing mere about your kisses, and you damn well know it. I swear, if I were free, I would smack you.”
“That is not very loverlike of you.”
“I’m not feeling loverlike.”
“How are you feeling?”
She couldn’t answer, because he was back to French-kissing her. Hard, fast thrusts of his tongue that caused ripples of pleasure to slingshot from her mouth to her nipples to her clitoris, all of which were swollen with her rising need.
She fought it, hating to come alone, under his scrutiny, but in the end, she jerked her head to the side, arched her hips up as much as she could, which was only a few inches, and fell into an orgasm that started inside, then moved in waves out to her slick folds, in fact to all the extremities of her body. Even her fingertips and toes felt sensitized.
When she flopped back down to the bed, her lips burned in the aftermath of what felt like a sexual possession. She glared up at him. “That wasn’t fair.”
“How so?” he asked, giving her a fleeting kiss.
“It was one-sided, dammit.”
“Best you watch your language, m’lady. And, for your information, that was not one-sided at all.” He pointed downward, where his penis was rising to the occasion, already dripping pre-come.
“Release me. The next time I come, I want you inside me.”
“Nay, we do it my way.”
“Yeah, you and Frank Sinatra. I mean it, release me. Right now. Aaarrgh! I’m going to have my witch friends put a spell on you. Your penis will probably shrivel up. You might lose all your hair. Who knows . . . if you don’t release me right now, you might get struck by lightning.”
He laughed. “I enjoy your fierceness. Yell at me some more.”
“Okay, let’s make a deal. You get ten more minutes to do your thing, and then you release me.”
“I am not exactly certain how long ten minutes is, but it sounds too short to me. How about two hours?”
“Are you crazy? What are you going to do for two hours?”
He smiled down at her. A wicked, wicked smile. “I told you afore, Ree-tah. I plan to go exploring.” He waved the fan in her face. Then his gaze swept her body from scalp to toes, especially taking note of the Brazilian wax, which seemed to fascinate him. Noticing that she noticed where he was looking, he told her, “I am saving that exploration for last.”
Taking a deep breath, she exhaled whooshily and said, “Okay, Marco Polo, do your thing. Let’s see if your longboat is going to be able to go the distance.”
She went a-Viking in a whole new way . . .
Steven prided himself on his staying power in the bedsport, but Rita was right when she questioned whether his “longboat” would be able to stay the course. Hah! He would make sure that it did.
Bracing himself on his left elbow, he began to examine her body. For a soldier, or soldier in training, she had no battle scars. Instead, her body was smooth and soft, even those areas where she had muscles, like her upper arms, abdomen, and thighs.
A sex flush heightened the color of her cheeks, neck, and chest. Whether it was from the peaking she had already experienced or anticip
ation of the next, he was not sure. Who the hell cared! By the time he was done with her, the flush would no doubt be deeper and brighter.
He used the fingertips of his right hand to trace her upraised arms from wrists to underarms, which were also bare of hair. She shivered at his light caress. Assuming she was sensitive there, he repeated the caress.
She closed her eyes and seemed to be bracing herself against another arousal.
“Open your eyes, sweetling, I would see your pleasure.”
She told him to do something very crude to himself. And she declined to open her eyes.
We shall see about that, you stubborn wench.
He used a feather to vibrate against one of her pale rose nipples, which was already standing to attention or rather begging for his attention.
Her eyes shot open.
Definitely an erotic spot for her.
And so he began a thorough exploration of her breasts, which were not overly large, but they were not small, either. The areolas surrounding the pert nipples were a slightly darker shade of dusty rose. He palmed them from underneath. He traced them with his fingers. He flicked the tips with his tongue. On and on he fondled her until her whimpers became almost cries. When he judged her ready, he took one nipple into his mouth and began to suckle rhythmically, playing with the nipple of the other breast with his free hand. The whole time he watched her face for reaction.
Even so, he was surprised when she screamed.
He was about to rise, not wanting to hurt her, when she hissed at him. “Don’t you dare stop now.”
And he didn’t. Giving equal attention to one breast, then another. Alternately licking and suckling. The intensity of her peaking was a joy to watch and almost his undoing. He took his cock in hand, near the base, and squeezed, hoping to forestall his own peaking.
“You are killing me, Steven,” she finally said when her breathing slowed down to a pant.
“Good killing or bad killing?”
She smiled at him, which he took for a good sign. “Is there such a thing as a good killing?”
“In the bedsport, yea, I think so.”
“Would it do any good for me to ask you to release me?”
“Not yet.”
“Even if I said please?”
“Even then.” He rose up from his reclining position at her side and knelt between her widespread legs. Leaning forward, he kissed her flat belly and was pleased at the instinctive clenching of the muscles there. He had feared she was too depleted of sensation for him to continue his journey right now, but, praise the gods, apparently not. “Tell me again how you did this?” he asked, examining her bare mons up close.
She explained some procedure involving hot wax and stripping of the hair out by the roots.
“Did it hurt?”
She nodded. “Especially the first time. Not so bad after that.”
He could not fathom why a woman would put herself through such agony, but then he knew a Viking, Evin One-Eye, who had his second wife shave the hair on his buttocks betimes. With a shiver of distaste, Steven decided that he would no doubt do the same if he had hair there.
He put his hands under her buttocks and raised her slightly so that he could see where the hair had been removed along her cleft as well, a cleft that was slick and glistening with her woman dew. He could not wait to touch her there.
“Oh, good Lord! Do you have to be so close?” she complained.
“Yea, I do. The better to see you, my dearling.” He sat back on his heels, letting her lie flat again.
“That Big Bad Wolf routine is getting old.”
He grinned at her, then began to explore the entire area with his calloused fingertips. With fascination, he discovered that a woman’s mons had so many nerve endings ripe for a man’s touch, which were not discernible under the usual woman-hair.
He was not sure he preferred his women this way, but it certainly was different.
By the time he dipped his fingers in her moist cleft, she was keening her arousal with one continuous, “Aaaaaahhhhh!” He had never seen a woman be so wet for him, but then he had never tied a woman to his bed and pleasure-tortured her to the point of madness. And she was weeping, as well.
“Dost cry, Ree-tah? Am I hurting you? Shall I stop?”
She opened her eyes, which had been clenched shut. “Yes, I hurt, you idiot. I hurt so good.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding as idiotic as she had called him.
He touched the moistness experimentally at first, then with more relish. He could actually see how plump the folds were, and near the top, that bud of a woman’s pleasure stood out like a pearl nestled in silk. “I had no idea it would look like this,” he remarked. “Truly, more men should get this close-up view of a woman’s parts. ’Tis fascinating.”
She made a choking sound around her keening. He was not sure if it was because of his comment or because he now had one, then two, then three fingers inside her body.
“Methinks you are ready,” he observed.
“Methinks you are the moron of the ages. I was ready about an hour ago.”
“Savor the anticipation, sweetling.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
If her hands had been free, she would no doubt have hit him. In fact, she appeared about to tell him to savor something entirely different, except he had arranged himself on braced elbows above her, and without warning, thrust into her female portal where her spasming muscles gave him a hot welcome. The next thrust brought him in more. On the third thrust, her body expanded to accommodate his size, and he lunged in totally.
Was there any pleasure in the world greater than this?
He gritted his teeth and tried not to move, despite the clasping and unclasping of the channel that attempted to milk his cock. Nature’s way of ensuring that the man’s seed erupted in the right place, he supposed.
“Open your eyes, Ree-tah,” he urged.
When she did, he saw that her blue eyes were unfocused with excitement beyond anything he had ever seen before. In truth, she was almost delirious with her need for completion. Mayhap it was due to the long period of self-denial she had alluded to earlier. Or mayhap it was just him. He hoped so.
“Soon, dearling,” he murmured. “Soon.”
The only sounds in the room then were the wet slapping sounds of flesh upon flesh as he rode her hard, plunging into her with punishing slams as his raging lust took over. He might have keened himself then, so intense was his pleasure. He lost count of how many times she peaked.
In the end, when he ground himself against the heart of her, spurting his seed into her womb, they peaked together . . . a peaking so powerful he could swear their hearts beat as one. Every sexual experience he ever had in the future would be measured against this high standard.
Once his breathing slowed, he gazed down at her. She was staring up at him with equal wonder at what had just happened to them.
“Heartling,” he whispered. That one word expressed all his emotions.
Where’s Spot? . . .
In the middle of the night, Rita awakened from a warm slumber to find herself unrestrained and Steven making sweet love to her. A gentle stroking and rocking that was no less potent than his other erotic assaults.
“Shhh. Do not move,” he crooned. “I will do all the work.”
“Hah! That’s got to be one of the most famous lines of men through the ages. Right up there with, ‘You can’t get pregnant if I put it in just a little bit.’”
He stilled for a moment. “You can? Get pregnant when . . . what you said?”
“Of course.”
He looked horrified, then shrugged, resuming his previous activity.
“Besides,” she continued breathily, “it’s not like I could lie still when you do . . . yikes! What was that?”
“The Viking S-Spot. Have you ne’er heard of it afore?” He looked up at her from where he was doing something unusual down yonder. “Nay, of course you have not, since I am your first Viking.”
And hopefully the last.
“It is a special spot on your body that only a skilled Norseman can find.”
He was skilled, all right. And not even a little bit humble.
Rita wondered if a woman could die of too many orgasms. But then she thought, What a way to go!
Steven was fascinated with her body, like a boy with a new toy, partly because she was still a mystery to him . . . her appearance, where she’d come from, her uninhibited enjoyment of sex . . . but also because of the no-risk of pregnancy. “You mean I can do whatever I want, and my seed will not take root in your womb?” he asked several times.
“Define ‘whatever I want,’ ” she inquired.
And he told her. In graphic detail.
This boy is far ahead of his time. Perhaps too far.
Afterward, he carried her, wrapped in a linen sheet, out to the bathing house, where he carefully washed both her and himself, followed by another bout of sex. Rita wasn’t usually so passive, and, energized by her short nap and the bath, showed him what a modern woman could do when she wanted to.
“I did not know that women could do that,” he exclaimed as he panted like a quarterback attempting to catch his breath after being sacked by five two hundred-pound linebackers.
She looked up at him and arched her brows, unable to speak at the moment.
“Well, I knew they could. I just did not know they would.”
She disengaged. “So, you think I’m a slut.”
“Must we talk now?”
“Yeah, I think so!” She attempted to stand.
He pulled her back. “A slut?”
She explained.
“Ah, a wanton. Yea, you are a wanton. The best kind. A lady wanton. And do not get all huffy. That was a compliment.”
“A left-handed compliment, I suspect.”
“Left, right, the best,” he assured her. “Now, resume your wanton acts.” Afterward, he said, “I am not sure I can walk.” Immediately followed by, “Can you do that again?”
Later, they lay in bed, she on her side, with him tucked behind her, spoonlike, a light blanket over them both. He kissed her shoulder and said, “We still must needs talk.”