by Connie Mason
Once he disappeared over the top of the cliff, she cupped her hands around her mouth. “Tie the line off on a boulder or tree and toss the tackle seat back to me.”
“I understand how this works, you know. You’re not the only one who’s ever gathered gull eggs.” His face appeared over the ledge, his features set in a hard grimace. “You may tell me what to do or how to do it, but not both.”
“You warned me to be specific. I don’t want a repeat of the way you kissed my foot,” she called back testily.
“No danger of that, princess.” The leather seat came hurtling toward her, stopping an arm’s reach above the coracle. “There’ll be no kissing today—on your foot or anywhere else—unless you order it.”
“Unless I order it,” she muttered. “It’s a wonder the man continues to breathe without my say-so.”
Didn’t he want to kiss her?
“What’s that?” he shouted down.
“Nothing.”
Absolutely nothing. Why had she even brought the matter up? There was no way she was going to order him to kiss her, and that was final.
Katla stood, balancing in the rocking coracle as he lowered the seat the rest of the way. She slipped the triangular seat over her head and slid it down her body to fit the wide leather strap under her bottom. Then she lashed the upper part of the harness around her waist to give herself a secure ride. She tied the basket holding their food and drink to the harness and pulled on some work gloves.
“All right,” she shouted. “You can—oof!”
She rose, legs kicking, into the air. Then she dipped suddenly, enough to trail her skirts into the water for a heartbeat before rising again. Masculine laughter washed down to her as he swung her toward the cliff face. She kept herself from bashing into the rock with her feet and palms. She bounced a couple times against the sheer face. Once she came to a complete stop, she glared up at him.
“I wasn’t ready.”
He leaned over the edge and cocked his head at her. “But I was.”
Brandr looped the slack in the rope around one arm and over his massive shoulder, not straining under her weight a bit. Then he straightened and disappeared from her view.
“Let me know if you need more or less line,” he called down.
She snorted. Everything was always a struggle with this man. He challenged her at every step. No matter how long Brandr Ulfson wore the iron collar, he’d probably never think of himself as her thrall.
Katla worked her way along the rock face, swinging out in long jumps from one clump of twigs and dried vegetation to the next. Gulls usually laid three or four eggs, but she never took more than two from any one nest. Birds screamed and dived at her, but none came close, since they never knew when she might kick out from the cliff face and become as airborne as they.
Katla supposed they must think her a much larger bird and wouldn’t chance a fight.
Each time she called out, Brandr hauled her up higher on the cliff face. She supposed she ought to feel some trepidation, both for her precarious perch above the surf and for the man who literally held her life in his hands.
But despite their wrangling for control, she trusted him. He’d given her his oath to obey her and not to try to escape his fate. In the few days she’d known him, he’d proved his honor was important to him. She felt safer when he dogged her steps. Her life was spent caring for others. For the first time in a long while, someone was looking after her.
And it felt wonderful.
She reveled in the sense of lightness, in the ease with which she danced along the rock face. When she pushed away from the cliff and swooped to a new spot, it was almost as if she sprouted wings.
She was nearing the top, only another few spans of a man’s arm, when her rigging began to loosen. The knot on the upper part of the harness unraveled, and the piece at her waist gave way. With the next leap, her bottom slipped forward off the thick leather strap.
Katla screamed and grasped at the rigging, catching it with one hand. She spun in midair. Her body slammed against the rocks, but she clutched the leather strap in a death grip.
Every muscle in her body clenched tight. She was dimly aware that the basket with their provisions tipped and all her carefully harvested eggs had fallen into the sea below. But she didn’t dare look down.
If she fell, she’d be dashed to pieces on the rocks. Panic froze her. She could only cling to the rigging, unable to even think what to do to help herself.
“Katla! Grab on with your other hand!” Brandr shouted down to her, leaning so far over the ledge she feared he might topple off.
His words cut through her stunned rigor. She sucked in a quick breath and heaved her other arm up. She managed to wrap her fingers around the rope and gripped it with all her might.
“Hang on.”
She didn’t think she could release her grip even if she wanted to.
Brandr pulled her up, hand over hand. When she was near enough for him to reach her wrists, he dropped to his knees and then flat on his belly. He grasped her so hard his nails bit into her flesh.
She found a toehold and pushed herself up. Brandr’s eyes were wide, his mouth drawn into a hard line. She saw herself mirrored in his darkening pupils, her face a mask of terror. He gave a mighty heave and tugged her over the rugged lip of the cliff.
He rocked on his knees and fell backward, dragging her body on top of his. His arms clamped tight around her, as if he’d never let go, and together, they rolled away from the cliff’s edge onto a bed of spongy moss and salt grass.
Both of them panted for breath. Katla could feel his heart galloping beneath hers. She tried to control the shiver of delayed terror that wracked her body but couldn’t quite manage it. Brandr stroked her hair and down her back, his touch gentle and full of comfort.
“Oh gods, Katla,” he said, when the worst of her trembling stopped. He cradled the back of her head in his palm, pressing her cheek to his. “I thought I’d lost you.”
She’d thought so too, for a moment.
While she dangled over the precipice, the Great Dark had loomed before her, a daunting and unknown place. She knew all the stories of Valhalla. She’d heard skalds weave the tales of Freya’s hall for unhappy lovers, and how they lived in the land beyond death, reveling in the bliss Fate had denied them here. She’d even listened politely while visiting priests described the Christians’ blissful heaven and their fiery hell.
Who was to say what really bided on the other side of that dark portal?
Her body hummed with life. And a new awareness of just how close Brandr was pressed against her.
Katla looked down at the man who had saved her life. She’d enthralled him, and yet he hadn’t let her drop to her death. Then she said the two words she’d promised herself she’d never say.
“Kiss me.”
Chapter 11
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Brandr captured her face, palms on her cheeks, and slowly brought her mouth to his. Her soft lips molded to his, fitting together so perfectly there was no space, no break in the seal between them.
He ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, tasting her. She was sweet, a sip of nectar. Succulent, juicy, and moist as the exotic pomegranate he’d tried in the South. Salty, a chilling reminder of the sea and the jagged rocks she had narrowly escaped.
When her lips parted, he drank more deeply of her, determined to push aside all thought of those horrible things that might have been. His tongue sought hers with feverish desperation.
Without breaking their kiss, he rolled so they lay side by side. He hitched a leg over hers, keeping her close, claiming her. Her eyes were shut, but Brandr kept his open so he could watch her.
So he wouldn’t lose her.
Her dark lashes were silky crescents on her cheeks. Her
brows drew together in longing.
Her lips parted wider, and she sucked the breath from his body. Then she refilled him with her own. Brandr was used to taking the lead with a woman, but Katla seemed to want to wrestle him for control, even now.
He wasn’t the least surprised. She wouldn’t be Katla otherwise.
She kissed him fiercely, as if it were the last thing she’d ever do.
Or maybe the first thing.
A brush with death made a body feel reborn. He’d stared down that cold specter a few times himself and recognized the vibrant rush of lust that followed. He heard his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, felt Katla’s throbbing against his chest. The echoing rhythm of blood surged in his stiff cock.
Katla pressed herself against him, rocking her pelvis. She felt it too—the drumbeat of life pulsing between them. She groaned into his mouth.
She was no longer the acknowledged head of her people, bowed by her burden and stiff under the mantle of leadership. She was only herself. Unfettered, passionate, free of all constraints.
Alive.
He abandoned her mouth to press hot kisses down her neck to the open collar of her thin underdress. Her skin was tender, and he barely restrained himself from sucking a bit between his teeth and giving her a love bite. He didn’t want to chance anything that might cause her to stop him.
She smelled of cedar and warm woman. Her scent made him ache so badly, the line between pleasure and pain started to blur. He couldn’t find enough bare skin to ease his throbbing need.
Her hands roamed over him, pulling up the hem of his tunic and slipping beneath it to smooth her palms over his abdomen and chest. His nipple tightened when she raked a nail around one. He almost sat up and yanked off the garment to give her unimpeded access, but he feared she’d come to her senses and call a halt if he stopped kissing her.
In a one-handed feat of dexterity, he unhooked her left brooch and pulled down that side of her overtunic. He cupped her breast through the linen underdress and thrummed her nipple. It strained toward him beneath the thin layer of fabric. He covered it with his mouth and sucked, linen and all.
She murmured something. He couldn’t make out the words, but they sounded earthy, needy, full of deep hunger. When he nipped the tender flesh, she cried out his name.
It was a surrender.
He released her nipple. It showed clearly through the damp underdress, the wet fabric nearly transparent. He pressed another kiss to the fabric, and she arched into his mouth.
Her bare skin would be sweeter, but he didn’t dare try to undress her completely. Not here. Not if it might lead her to start thinking again instead of feeling.
He kissed back up her neck and captured her mouth again. This time, she didn’t fight him for control of the kiss. He rolled her onto her back and ravaged her lips. He made love to her mouth, plunging his tongue in and out.
Would her body receive him as warmly and with as much luxuriant wetness?
It was time to find out.
***
Brandr’s hand was on her breast again, teasing her through the wet linen. She ached when he rolled the taut bud between his thumb and forefinger.
She wanted to climb inside his tunic and feel the heat of rock-solid chest against her damp breast.
And his kiss! Skalds sang of the nine worlds of creation. Of all of them, only smoldering Muspel was said to be a place full of fire. Brandr’s kiss was a molten world of its own.
He consumed her. Every place his mouth touched, he branded her. He turned her insides all warm and liquid with nothing more than his lips, teeth, and tongue.
His beard and mustache stubble had grown enough to be soft, yet it was still short enough to prickle her cheeks and chin. She ran her hand over his sleek head. It was like stroking a selkie.
She gave in to the downward pull in her groin. A heaviness gathered between her legs, a throbbing, aching mass. When she felt the breeze slip up under her skirts, she knew he was rucking up her hem, sliding his fingertips from her calf, over her knee, and up her thigh. She propped up one knee to give him easier access to the tender skin of her inner thigh.
He skimmed over her, brushing the small hairs over her sex and then trailing down her other leg. She moaned into his mouth in frustration.
His hand stroked her again, and this time she lifted herself into his questing fingers, but he moved on once more, teasing and circling.
She longed for his intimate touch. She was near to begging for it.
She reached for him, rubbing his hard shaft through his trousers, and this time, he groaned.
The next time his hand passed over her, his skillful fingers slipped into her soft folds. He massaged the lips of her sex and circled her opening until she squirmed for him to slip a finger into her.
Two fingers.
The yawning emptiness was still there. She wanted more. Needed more.
Slick with her own wetness, Brandr’s fingers glided with ease to her most sensitive spot, but she didn’t break off their kiss. She couldn’t get enough of the man’s mouth. Tendrils of bliss radiated through her.
The world started spinning. She tore her mouth from his kiss to catch her breath, hoping for a slice of sanity. But she fell into Brandr’s amber eyes instead.
She gasped a lungful of sweet air. The musky perfume of her arousal mingled with the crisp sea air and thick pine. She swallowed hard but couldn’t look away from him as he continued to drive her to aching fury.
He made soft sounds of encouragement. She knew he was speaking to her, but her mind refused to make sense of his words. Her whole world spiraled down to the heat, the friction, the aching need between her legs.
And the throbbing emptiness of her womb.
“Please,” she whispered as a single tear slid into her hairline and down to her ear. The man had reduced her to pleading, but she could feel no shame over it. Want knew no shame. “I need…”
“What do you need, Katla?” His voice rumbled over her, a wave of masculine sound. All that was feminine in her shivered in its wake.
“You.”
She groped for him again, and this time, her fingers found the drawstring at his waist. He helped her pull down his trousers.
Then he moved into position between her legs.
He braced himself on his elbows to spare her from the full brunt of his weight. He needn’t have bothered. She wanted to feel him.
All of him.
He leaned down to kiss her again. The tip of him teased her entrance.
She gasped at the contact, longing to be filled. Ached for his thick, long length inside her.
He slid into her in one slow stroke, penetrating her so deeply her breath caught in her throat. The emptiness retreated, but the ache remained.
Then he began to move.
She rocked with him, rising to meet his slow thrusts with an undulating roll of her hips. When he fully sheathed himself in her, his lips parted, and she recognized bliss on his face. Each time he pulled out, his brows drew together, as if he were bereft at nearly severing their deep connection.
Her insides tightened, coiled. A knot with no end, no way to untangle itself.
Brandr picked up speed, and each time he drove into her, the pressure on her sensitive spot made her cry out a little, sobbing for more.
Then when she thought she couldn’t be tied in any tighter a cluster of frayed ends, it was as if someone tugged the right thread, and she unraveled like a spool of yarn bounding across the longhouse floor. Her inner walls clenched.
He stopped moving, sheathed to his balls, while she spasmed around him. Her limbs shook, and her body bucked with the force of her release. She drew a shuddering breath as her womb constricted once more.
When she subsided, he gave one more slow thrust. A low growl sounded fr
om the back of his throat, and she felt him erupt in hot pulses inside her.
He rocked his hips a couple times as he finished, and then his full weight settled on her. He laid his forehead on the mossy ground beside her head, close enough that his stubbled cheek tickled her ear.
Brandr lay there panting for a few heartbeats while Katla tried to recover her breath as well.
Then he started to rise.
“No, don’t,” she said, wrapping her arms and legs around him. It felt so wonderful to hold him inside her. She couldn’t bear to be empty again so soon.
He laid his head back down, obviously content to remain where he was, still joined with her.
Katla stroked his head and neck, reveling in their deep connection. She smoothed her hands down the rough tunic covering his back. It would have been lovely to have touched his bare skin, glorious to feel it against hers, but the act had been so instinctive, so spontaneous, they were both still almost fully clothed.
“I wish you had taken this off,” she said. Now that her mind was functioning again, she could actually form intelligible sentences. Osvald had ridden her hard on occasion, but he never reduced her to such incoherent need.
He turned his head to nuzzle her ear. “I didn’t want to do anything that might give you a chance to change your mind.” She could hear his grin.
It was hard not to smile a bit in return. How could he know her so well already? She’d never felt so sated, never had such a shattering release. If Brandr took advantage of a momentary weakness, she realized she didn’t care a whit.
Then with the benefit of a clear head, she thought about it for a moment.
She’d taken pleasure with her thrall. He’d reduced her to senseless, blind need. This had the potential to change matters between them, to tilt the balance of power in his favor.
But perhaps not as much as if he were a freeman. She was still his mistress, after all. Still in control.