Down and Dirty

by Sandra Hill

  “Oh. We do the same in the Norselands, except we reuse the bathwater, over and over.”

  Okay, score one for me. But, yeech!

  “The dirtier ones go last,” she elaborated, as if that made it all right.

  Double yeech! He reached for the Olay body wash—his mother again—and squirted a big dollop into one hand, then rubbed both palms together, creating foam. The scent of aloe permeated the cubicle. He sure as hell hoped it was an aphrodisiac.

  “Is that soap?” she asked, fascinated by the foam and the scent. Still no false modesty about covering herself.

  Good diversionary tactic…the body wash. “Yep. Soft soap. And you know what they say? ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’”

  “God? Did you say God? Oooh, I knew you were a god.”

  Hey, if she wants to think I’m a god, who am I to complain? “Turn around, baby, let me do your back.” Then let me do you, period. He bit his bottom lip to make sure he didn’t say that aloud.

  Britta stared at him dubiously.

  “It’ll help conserve on soap, too.”

  “Ah, ’tis a luxury in your land, too?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I am so good.

  She turned.

  “Put your hands above your head and spread your legs a little,” he directed. Please, please, please.

  She snorted and started to turn around in protest.

  Every man worth his salt knew there was not one, but several windows of opportunity in the art of seduction. The rule here was, never allow a woman time to think. So, cool guy that he was, he placed a palm against her back, between her shoulder blades, and shoved, mashing her flat against the tiles.

  “Ooomph!”

  “It’s easier for me to wash your back and sides if you raise your arms and spread your legs.” What a line! I should write that down. Later.

  “Dost think I am a wanton?”

  A guy can only hope.

  Miracle of miracles, she put her hands above her head. That’s all. But, hey, that was enough of a start for a guy in lust mode.

  “Stubborn wench,” he muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  “This will also massage your sore muscles.”

  They were both silent then as he worked the soft soap into her shoulders, down her back and sides, where his fingertips barely skimmed the sides of her breasts, over her hips. Then he started all over at the bottom, her feet, ankles, calves, and thighs. He was working fast, knowing that any minute now Britta was going to change her mind.

  “I should forewarn you,” Britta said. “I am no longer interested in any of those orgasms.”

  “Is that a fact?” He smiled. “Why?”

  “I saw one performed by those dwarves on Madrene’s black box. Six times, actually. And I am not impressed.”

  “What exactly did you see?”

  “Much moaning and screaming and rocking up and down. It cannot be an exercise to be desired if it involves moaning and screaming. Right?”

  “Wrong. There is good moaning and screaming and bad moaning and screaming.”

  “What nonsense!” She gasped, then squealed, “Yikes!” as she peered over her shoulder and saw him kneeling with his face in front of her butt, soaping her up. She turned quickly and managed to knee him in the funny bone—not that funny bone, thank God!—the funny bone at his elbow.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” he yelped, clutching his elbow.

  “I am sorry, but it was a shock to see you kneeling there sniffing my bottom, like Hilda’s randy dog Stig.”

  “I was not smelling your butt. I was lathering you with soft soap, which incidentally smells very nice, don’t you think?”

  She sniffed several times. “Yea, ’tis nice, but move aside so I can leave this showering box. ’Tis crowded in here.”

  Not crowded enough, baby.

  “’Tis past time I returned to the base.”

  Should I tell her now that she’s stuck here…at least overnight?

  Nah!

  “Let me shower real quick. Then I’ll finish you off.”

  “I do not think…”

  He managed to stand under the shower, blocking the door, and took the quickest shower in history. When he finished and used the heels of his hands to wipe the last of the water from his eyes, he saw that she was staring unabashedly at his body. “Do you like what you see?” I sure as hell like what I see.

  “What is not to like? You are a pretty man. But pretty is as pretty does. Now move aside.”

  “Not yet, sweetie. I need to wash this side…of you.” He waved a hand to encompass the front of her body from neck to toes.

  “I can wash myself.”

  “I can do you better.” Already his soapy hands were rubbing across her breasts. The nipples were small and pink, and the sensation of them abrading the palms of his hands was beyond pleasurable. If her gasp was any indication, she was enjoying it, too.

  Britta was shocked. Not by what the lout was doing to her but by her own reaction to it. And why was she standing here like a knight’s pike stuck in the ground, allowing him such liberties?

  Gazing downward, she watched as he used his palms to lift and massage her breasts, the whole time his calloused palms abraded her nipples. Then she looked upward, and her eyes connected with his, a bright, stormy, very serious blue. He appeared to be waiting for some reaction from her.

  “How does that feel, honey?”

  Now he was using his fingertips to tap her nipples, then flick them up and down, side to side.

  “Strange. It feels strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “My breasts ache…nay, not ache. Yearn.”

  “That’s nothing. Wait till we wash this soap off. Then I’m going to kiss your breasts and lick you all over. My mouth and your breasts are going to become very well acquainted.”

  She should have been appalled, but instead she moved a hand to her belly where the yearning had moved.

  His eyes followed her hand.

  Abruptly, he grabbed hold of her and placed her under the showering water, facing him. Sputtering, she closed her eyes under the onslaught of sluicing water and eye-irritating foam. Once the soap melted off her back, he turned her, and both of them stood under the spray, his one arm wrapped around her waist, the other hand resuming its pleasure-torture of her breasts. She could feel his manpart, hard and long, pressing against her buttocks.

  She blinked, able to see now. That yearning that had begun in her breasts and moved to her belly now lodged itself betwixt her legs, where it swelled and pulsed till she was overcome with spiraling sensations. She tried to break away from him, but he held her tight against him and turned her face to the side where his lips met hers in a kiss that began soft and searching and soon escalated into hard and hungry.

  And whilst she was preoccupied with all these different sensations—his tongue plunging in her mouth, his fingers playing her nipples—his other hand stole to her female place and dipped into the hot wetness there. She screeched at the invasion, but the sound was caught in his mouth. Her hips bucked outward, but his arm was a vise around her waist, holding her in place.

  Thus she was caught by the man’s wicked fingers doing wicked things to her down there. He seemed to have found some spot that was particularly sensitive, because when he touched her there, stars burst behind her eyelids in a colorful shower, and her traitorous hips began to undulate against his finger in a rhythm matched by his thrusting tongue.

  It was too much. And not enough.

  She heard herself whimper. Her body stiffened. She tore her mouth out from under his and arched her neck back over his shoulder, keening.

  But the brute would not relent.

  “Relax. Take it easy.”

  She tried to laugh at what must be a jest. How could she relax when her body was rising to some fever pitch?

  And then…and then, it was like a shower of stars she’d seen one time in the eastern skies. That part of her that he still strummed splintered into a millio
n pieces shooting out to all the parts of her body and beyond.

  It was the most wonderful awful experience of her life.

  And Zachary was no better. He held her even tighter now and stroked his manpart along the crease of her buttocks and between her legs, faster and faster as he panted for breath, then bit her shoulder, lightly, slammed into her back, hard, and groaned, “Yessssss!”

  She was fair certain she bit his shoulder, as well, but she could not be sure, because she lost consciousness for a moment. When she regained her senses, he was toweling her dry, then taking her by the arm, leading her down the corridor. In a daze, she barely noticed him stopping to peek in Sammy’s room to make sure the child was still asleep. He turned around then, passed the bathing chamber, the next bedchamber, and then led her into a third…his, she presumed, considering the vast size of the bed.

  Still in a daze—else she would clout the man for leading her about like a pet dog—she watched him pull down the bed coverings and take some objects out of the bedside table.

  “What was that…back in the showering chamber?” she asked.

  He glanced up and smiled, and Holy Thor! the man did have a charming smile. “An orgasm.”

  “Nay! It could not be.”

  “A small one. To take the edge off.” He was moving around the bed toward her.

  She frowned. “But that was not like the little people in the box. The woman was reclining, and the man was on top of her. And there was screaming.”

  “Oh, there will be screaming all right. That’s a promise.”

  “’Twas interesting, but I am not sure I liked it. In truth, methinks ’twould not merit a repeat.”

  He arched his brows at her in disbelief. “Maybe we’ll have to try it a few more times to get it right, till we get to the screams.” Before she had a chance to react to that, he picked her up by the waist, tossed her on the bed, then crawled up and over her.

  “Who will be screaming?” she asked. “Me or you?”

  “Both of us, baby. If we’re lucky.”

  In the game of seduction, who’s on first?…

  Britta lay on her back, naked as a newborn babe, with the most beautiful man in the world atop her, also naked as a newborn babe. But there was naught babelike about this scene.

  He probably thought she was being docile because of his overwhelming charm. Well, there was that, but the situation and position she was in now was all of her doing: a hastily concocted plan to seduce the man into thinking he was seducing her. His conceit was excessive enough already, without her handing herself to him on a platter…uh, pallet.

  After Sammy had fallen asleep, she had realized that Zachary would not be able to transport her back to the base…a perfect opportunity to carry out a plan that had been brewing in her no doubt demented mind for days…mayhap even for the past two years.

  Still, she had not wanted to appear overeager.

  Now, still holding to her plan, she pushed against his chest, using a small portion of her strength, and said, “Methinks this is a bad idea.”

  He raised himself up on straightened arms, extending her arms overhead with their intertwined fingers, thus pinning her to the bed with his belly and legs. His manpart nudged her womanpart, just to let her know it was there. As if she did not already know that. “No, sweetie. This is a very, very good idea. And I’m not letting you go till I prove it to you.”

  Not letting? Did the idiot think she could not shove him off of her? Yea, he did. Little did he know her true strength, for she was as strong as many a man.

  “In truth, I am a mite curious about this whole sex business,” she admitted.

  He grinned with pure, unvarnished male slyness, as if he were the cat and she the helpless mouse.

  What a lout!

  “You liked your first orgasm, huh?”

  “’Twas interesting.”

  “Interesting?” he nigh yelled. You would have thought she’d hurled some great insult his way. “It was more than interesting, babe.”

  She shrugged. “Euphoric then. Like the rush after a hard-won battle. Or the satisfaction of a particularly good meal following a fast, as evidenced by a loud belch. Or a ladle of cool spring water to quench a fierce thirst.”

  “This has got to be a first for me. She’s comparing my sexual prowess with a belch!” He rolled his eyes with mock dismay.

  Even Britta saw the humor in those comparisons. And Britta was nothing if not honest. She liked what Zachary had done to her, and she was curious to see what he would do next.

  Britta had no time for thought then as Zachary began to lead her on yet another journey into sexual bliss.

  “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

  “I am not beautiful, and save your slick words. They gain you naught with me. Do what you will with me and be done.”

  “Britta, Britta, Britta, there’s no rush here. We have all night for this sexual adventure.”

  “There may be no hurry for you, but there is for me. This journey progressses too slow for my taste. Like pouring thick honey syrup, when what I crave is thin, honeyed mead.”

  He laughed. “Food again!”

  She must have frowned her opinion, because he added, “The best meal is savored slowly, bit by bit. And I intend to savor you for a long long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Hours and hours.”

  “What? I expect to be asleep shortly and up afore dawn to return to the base.”

  “All night long. I’ve been dreaming about this forever, and no one is going to rush me.”

  “Oh, for Thor’s sake! What can a man and woman do for so many hours? Nay, do not answer that. You will no doubt say something coarse.”

  And he did. In explicit, crude detail. He told her a dozen and more things he planned to do to her, things she had ne’er heard of and some she guessed might be physically impossible. Then he told her a dozen things he would like her to do to him.

  He’d stunned her speechless, as he had intended. Then whilst she was still gaping at him, he leaned down, brushing his lips back and forth over hers till she became pliant. But did he then stick his tongue in her mouth like he did afore? Nay! Not even when she opened her mouth for him. Instead, he chuckled and moved on, nibbling at her chin and jaw and moving up to her ear. Her ear, for the love of Odin! There he did some engaging things with the wet tip of his tongue, tracing her whorls, plunging into the canal. The sensations he created in her ear ricocheted down to her nether parts, where warm liquid pooled. Hmmm, mayhap the ear is not such a bad place to start. Still, this was syrup, and whilst syrup was fine and good, her appetite had been whetted for ale.

  “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

  “Nay, how much?”

  “That was a rhetorical question.”

  “Well, you have dawdled so much I no longer want you.”

  “Liar.”

  “I am just curious.”

  “Liar. Do you want to know how I can tell?”

  “Nay.”

  But he told her, again in explicit detail. Something about erect nipples, slick folds, flushed face, panting breath, and swelling clit. She did not ask what he meant, not about folds, not about clits, suspecting she would learn more than she wanted to know about those signs her body revealed.

  “Plus, you haven’t smacked me upside the head yet. If you really didn’t want me, you would have let me know, in spades.”

  “There is that.”

  He released her hands and lowered himself to his elbows. Now he was nuzzling her neck. Her neck!

  Frigg’s foot! Enough! She grabbed his face, raised it, then kissed him hard, thrusting her tongue inside of his mouth with the finesse of rusty plow in a cotter’s field. He did not resist, exactly, but he choked and lifted his head, evading another kiss.

  “You move too slow.”

  “Slow is good.”

  “Slow is good for fermenting ale, not for fermenting the female juices.”

  He chuckled. “Give m
e some credit for knowing a little bit about lovemaking, Britta.”

  “And give me some credit for knowing what I want.” In one deft motion, she hooked a leg around his calf, pressed against his chest, and rolled him over so that she lay atop him. “Now do it,” she ordered. “I would do it myself if I knew exactly how.”

  He was laughing so hard he could scarce breathe, let alone “do it.”

  Now she was embarrassed at her daring. He must think her a wanton. She tried to roll off of him but only succeeded in landing at his side and almost knocking them both off the bed.

  With much more deftness than she’d employed, he took her by the waist, tossed her back to the middle of the bed, and placed himself atop her again. “Now, behave yourself, Britta. I welcome you jumping my bones, but not this first time. Understood?”

  “Nay, it is not understood,” she grumbled, turning her face to the side, still embarrassed, not just at her attempt to control the bedsport, but at having failed.

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” When she refused, he slid down her body a bit and kissed first one breast, then the other, right on the tips.

  She squealed and arched her body upward. She was looking now, all right. Good and plenty.

  He put a hand at her chest and pushed her back down, roughly. She would no doubt have finger bruises on her chest come morn.

  It had been a bare whisper of a kiss, but her nipples rose to attention, wanting more. Then he went to work in earnest, kneading her entire breast, raising it high from underneath, licking all around, but never quite in the center where she most wanted—nay, needed—his mouth to be.

  She continued to try to arch her chest upward, offering her breasts to him.

  He continued to hold her down. “Tell me what you want, Britta,” he said in a voice that was deliciously husky.

  “How do I know what I want? I do not know. Yea, I do. I want your mouth on me.”

  “Oh? Here?” He pressed his mouth against hers in a fleeting kiss.

  She shook her head.

  “Or here?” He raised one hand and kissed the wrist where her pulse no doubt beat like a battle drum.

  She shook her head.

  “Ah, I know.” He nipped her shoulder with his teeth, then kissed it better.