Cum For The Viking 4 (The Sins of the Virgins)

by Wade, Virginia

  “Oh, fiddlesticks! I forgot my jewels. I’ll be back.” I hurried from the room, while something enormous thundered overhead. It sounded as if someone were breaking down the door.

  “Charlotte!” shouted my mother. “Come back!”

  I was determined not to leave my valuables behind. I had hidden them in the lining of my cloak. Monks ran by in the hallway, their eyes filled with fear. In their flight, they hardly paid me any notice, one colliding with my person. He stumbled and fell, but got quickly to his feet, as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Perhaps, retrieving my belongings wasn’t the brightest idea. If I had only three extra minutes…

  Rounding a corner, I met up with a wall, slamming into a man dressed in chainmail with a helmet and shield. I fell backwards from the impact, landing on my bottom. The steely end of a sword was suddenly at my neck.

  “Fagr mær,” he uttered. There were a dozen men behind him dressed similarly.

  I’d made an enormous mistake. I should have stayed with my mother and sister, as they were now safely hidden behind the bookcase. The blade at my throat dripped with blood. I screamed, terrified that I would die now. Several men laughed, their eyes glinting behind the brass noses of their helmets. Some were adorned with masks and horns, but all looked fierce, strong, and impossibly tall. The terror I felt was tangible; my heart beat wildly, as the strangers stared down at me. A booming voice spoke then, and the sword at my neck disappeared.

  The men stepped aside, and a broad-shouldered man approached. He wore gilded chainmail with a bejeweled helmet, which seemed to gleam; the polish was extraordinarily fine.

  “Secure the building,” he ordered in a heavily accented voice. “Do not kill any of the monks. They’re unarmed.” He rested the end of his sword on the floor. “What do we have here?”

  “A present, King Gunnlaug.”

  “And a pretty one.”

  “Yes, my Liege.”

  His pale eyes roamed over me, missing nothing. He reminded me of another Viking: Finn Vapnfjord. This man was clearly his superior; the armor alone said as much. He was older; his dark blonde hair held hints of gray, and small lines crinkled the edges of his eyes.

  “Find me a room.” He began to walk away, his boots clicking on the stone floor.

  “What about the girl, my Liege?”

  “She’ll warm my bed nicely.” His laughter followed him down the hallway.

  I was taken to the Abbot’s chamber, which was surprisingly luxurious, especially considering he had taken a vow of poverty. The Abbot, it seemed, was fond of comfort. His walls were draped in brightly woven tapestries, the floors were covered in thick carpets, and heavy-looking curtains shrouded an enormous bed. Bookcases filled with stacks of vellums graced the far wall along with an ornately carved desk and chair. Trunks held his belongings, and there were many of those.

  My kidnapper searched the room, looking for a weapon. When he had assured himself that there wasn’t one, he took his leave, the door slamming behind him. I pressed my ear against the wood and listened, hearing nothing. Releasing the cold metal handle, I opened it a crack, seeing a man dressed from head to foot in chainmail staring at me. Of course, they had sent someone as a guard. He grinned, exposing yellow teeth. I shut the door, leaning against it. My mind spun with disturbing thoughts.

  I’ll be ravished again.

  He is handsome—”

  Shush!

  He’s taller than Finn.

  Be quiet!

  He’s kind. He told his men not to kill the unarmed monks.

  So what?

  What does he look like under all those—”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  Disgusted with myself, I sat on a cushioned windowsill and stared out into the courtyard. Hoping to find a reprieve from my disturbing thoughts, I was dismayed to see hundreds of Vikings milling about, laughing, drinking, and loitering, while a man fornicated with a woman, whose tunic was bunched up around her waist.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Heathens!”

  It would be hours before I saw the king again, and, prior to his arrival, his men brought up a large copper tub. Then bucket after bucket of water was deposited, the steam rising from the surface. The fire blazed, and candles cast a warm glow over the bedchamber. The transformation was pleasing, relaxing, and after a tray of food had been delivered, the aroma was positively mouth-watering. I eyed the food, slowly approaching it; my fingers itched to take a chunk of mutton or a bit of venison, which had been stewed to perfection.

  “Hungry?” a deep, male voice asked.

  I jumped. “No.”

  “Liar,” he laughed. “Have some. It’s more than I can eat.” King Gunnlaug strode into the room; his booted feet were muddy. “Ari!”

  A younger, handsome man appeared in the doorway. “Yes, my Liege?”

  “Take my boots off.”

  “Of course.” The king sat on the chair behind the desk, while his man removed his boots. “I’ll clean these at once.”

  “Bring mead. There’s nothing to drink.”

  “Yes, my Liege.”

  He began to divest himself of the burdens of war, removing heavy-looking chainmail. This was followed by a shirt, tunic, and then trousers, which had been bound to his legs with thongs of leather. He was completely naked within a minute. I didn’t want to admire his physique, but…it was difficult not to. His skin was adorned with tattoos, various wounds, and scars were on his shoulders, arms, and legs. Some looked newer than others, and one was still purple. His thick, dark blonde hair hung to his shoulders in shaggy tresses that needed combing. A week’s worth of stubble graced his cheeks, giving him a tousled look that was far too appealing. His temples were surrounded by wisps of gray hair.

  “Ah…heaven.” He stepped into the bath. Grasping a chunk of soap, he held his hand out to me. “Come. Wash me.”

  I stiffened. “I will not.”

  A blonde brow lifted. “What?”

  “I won’t touch you, you…heathen pig.”

  To my vexation, he laughed, “We’ll see about that.” He proceeded to scrub himself, working the soap into a foamy lather. After he had rinsed, he glanced at me. “Take that cup, and wet my hair.”

  “No.”

  “Do as I say, you little wench. Now.”

  I stood my ground. “I will not.” I was not this man’s servant. I had already suffered quite enough at Finn Vapnfjord’s hands, and I refused to be used in such a manner again, even if I had enjoyed the treatment. I was a highborn lady. I was no one’s servant.

  “Ari!”

  “Yes, my Liege?”

  “Douse my head, and hurry. When I’m done, I’m going to beat some manners into this little twit.”

  Ari glanced at me, smiling slightly. “Will you require a belt?”

  “No. My hand will do nicely.”

  Chapter Three

  King Gunnlaug stood in the tub, like Poseidon emerging from the ocean, as water fell from his shoulders, running downwards in little rivers amid the bulging masses of his pectorals. Ari handed him a linen cloth, and he dried his hair; the lengthy tresses hung past his neck. First one large foot emerged, finding the carpet, and then the other. I remained at the far end of the room near the window, half-listening to laughter and voices in the courtyard below.

  “That will be all, Ari. You may go.”

  “Yes, my Liege.” He cast an amused, yet interested glance in my direction, and then shut the door.

  I tried not to focus on the king’s manhood, but…it was impossible because it thrust out before him, hard and angry looking. It jerked slightly; the balls were nestled within a thatch of dark blonde hair. His thighs were long and lean, laced with muscles, which ran downwards to bulging calves. His scarred skin was interspersed with fair hair, his chest especially and his taut stomach.

  “Come dry my back.”

  “No.”

  He pursed his lips. “Are you a virgin?”

  I gasped. “That’s none of your business!”
>
  “I didn’t think so.”

  Oh, the gall! “I’ll not submit to a heathen.”

  “Submit?” He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “You’ll submit all right. You’ll be begging me to fuck you before the night’s out.”

  I inched towards a nearby candle, which was embedded in a solid-looking brass candlestick. Blowing out the wick, I snatched the item and held it like a weapon. “Keep your distance.”

  “This could be enjoyable. There’s nothing worse then bedding a limp rag. I prefer my women with fire in their bellies.”

  “Ouf! You’re just as ill-mannered as the rest of them.”

  A bushy blonde brow lifted. “Is that so? You’ve sampled the delights of many men then?”

  “Certainly not,” I lied, trying to retain some shred of dignity.

  “Well, we shall see soon enough. Take your clothes off.” He took a step in my direction.

  “Stay away!”

  Three steps later, and we were face to face, the towering form of the Viking staring down at me. My resolve faltered under a mountain of fear, my belly twisting into nervous knots. I was hardly a match for a man of his strength and stature. But I had to fight to preserve what little was left of my self-respect. If I were overcome and seduced, I could hardly be blamed for the incident, or could I?

  “You’ll hurt yourself. Give me that.” He snatched the candlestick with an easy flick of the wrist.

  My weapon was gone! Instinct took over, and I dashed by him, racing for the door, but my tunic was in his hands. The sounds of fabric tearing alarmed me. A strong arm went around my stomach, lifting me off the floor.

  “No!”

  “Why resist the inevitable?” His lips were near my ear. “Wouldn’t making love be far more pleasurable than fighting?”

  I kicked him, my body twisting, trying to escape. He hauled me to the bed, where he threw me upon it and I landed with my arms and legs akimbo. Before I was able to roll off, he was on me; his weight was immense.

  “Stop that, you bastard!” I hit his face, my hand contacting skin, which resounded in a sharp clap.

  He was unfazed by this, shifting between my legs, separating my thighs with an easy shove. “I’d hoped to eat and drink first, but I suppose I could just fuck you now and then we can eat.”

  “No, no, no!” I pushed against the hardness of his chest. “You miserable barbarian.” It was exhausting trying to dislodge him, and, as I struggled and fought, tears pricked my eyes.

  He paused, staring at me, his expression strangely neutral, but the undercurrent of emotion that passed between us was palpable. “Let’s eat first.” He stood, dragging me with him. “Sit.”

  I was deposited on a sheepskin rug before the fire, slightly stunned by the unexpected turn of events. I’d narrowly escaped that time, but how long until the reprieve ended? The tray of food looked delicious, with stewed chunks of venison and thick bones, surrounded by succulent looking meat. A knife protruded from the middle of a large piece of bread.

  I pulled it free, pointing it at my captor. “Stay away.”

  He seemed unconcerned, pouring mead into a pewter cup. “Slice yourself a piece.”

  “I plan on it.” I stared at him; my intensions were clear, and they had nothing to do with bread.

  Humor glimmered in his eyes. “I admire your resistance, but is it really necessary? There’s no one here to observe your half-hearted heroics. No one will think any less of you for having a good meal…and a good fuck.” He laughed at his own joke. “You’re hardly a nun.”

  “You’re hardly human, barbarian.”

  He lowered himself to the floor, grasping at a leg of mutton, tearing off a substantial piece and chewing. “Ommm…good. Come. Join me.”

  I felt slightly silly holding the knife, which I realized was rounded on the end with perforated edges along the side. I’d hardly harm him with it, even if I had the strength to attack.

  “God’s teeth!”

  “You may use stronger language than that…what’s your name?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Sit, Charlotte. I hate to eat with people standing over me.”

  My dilemma would be easier, if these Vikings weren’t so charming. Did they all have to be so good-looking and charismatic? The men in the courtyard were coarse in appearance and behavior. Perhaps, the ones I had met were of a slightly higher caliber. This was a king after all. With great reluctance, I joined him sitting more than a foot away. I stared into the fire, while my tummy rumbled.

  “Here.” He handed me his cup. “Drink.” I glared at him. “It’s not poisoned, Charlotte. The mead’s perfectly drinkable.”

  “How do you know I haven’t poisoned it?”

  “I’ll take my chances. Have a sip.”

  I had been trapped in the room all day without sustenance. I was parched and nearly dizzy from hunger. “Oh, fine.” I drank from his cup, gulping down the contents. I wouldn’t concern myself with manners. This was a heathen after all. “Might I have some more?”

  “By all means. It’s always a delight to meet a woman who can drink me under the table.”

  I glowered irritably. “I haven’t had water all day, sir…er…barbarian,” I sputtered disdainfully, “king.”

  He leaned in. “When we’re in bed together and I’m inside of you, I want you to call me that. When you scream with orgasm, I want to hear you say, ‘Take me, my barbarian king, take me.’”

  If I hadn’t drunk the contents of the cup I would have thrown it at him. Appalled beyond belief, I wasn’t able to form a response, so I remained silent. He poured more, nearly to the brim.

  “Skål. Praise Odin.”

  I drank it, eyeing him, noticing that his naked chest was even broader at this proximity. There were sinewy muscles running up and down his arms. The alcohol burned my belly. “It’s strong.”

  He nodded. “Eat, before it gets cold.” He handed me the bowl of venison, and I took it, albeit begrudgingly.

  We didn’t speak, with only the crackling of the fire and the sporadic snapping of a burning branch shattering the silence. When the meal had ended, I drank more, feeling the effects, as my body hummed with pleasure. I’d never imbibed in such quantity before, although I had drunk plenty of wine in my time. The linen towel was in his lap, hiding that part of him that seemed to bulge.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “What brings you to the monastery?”

  “You must be joking.”

  His grin was enormous. “So you’ve fled here. Did you come alone? Where is your family?”

  “Hiding.”

  “Here?”

  I glanced at the fire. “No. We were separated.” This was partially true. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that my mother and sister were in a hidden room. “I’ve a husband. He’ll arrive any day now. He’s been away on a crusade, but they say he’s returned.” This was a blatant lie, but I did not care. “He’s a big man…far taller than you. He’s been killing the infidel for years. He won’t hesitate to take a sword to your fat neck.”

  Amusement registered in his look. “You’re a delightful little flower.”

  “And you care nothing for the suffering you’ve caused. Your men are pigs. They rape women. They burn homes. They’ve killed so many of our young men. If you had a heart, you Danish pig, you’d return to your ships and leave.”

  “I do believe it’s time for your punishment, Charlotte. I did promise you a thorough beating, now, didn’t I?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you were a wife beater. Does your queen receive these punishments as well?”

  He used the linen to wipe his mouth, exposing the steely length of his cock. “It’s interesting you bring this up. I’m actually in search of a queen, if you must know.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have killed your last one.”

  There was a hint of sadness in his eyes, but it disappeared quickly. “Think what you will of
us, Charlotte. I don’t begrudge your anger. It is justified. We are an abominable lot. We’ve come from across the sea, the salt-water bandits that we are, to plunder and raid. We wouldn’t do it, if it weren’t so profitable.”

  “I’m well aware of this.”

  “But what you don’t know is that we enjoy a good woman. And a good woman is very hard to find.” He scratched his beard. “Or perhaps, I’m hard after I find a good woman.”

  “You’re not funny at all.”

  His eyes creased around the edges when he smiled. “You’re right. Now, where was I? Oh, I was going to administer your punishment.”

  I moved quickly, but he grasped my arm before I could stand, hauling me over his lap. “No! Let me go!” Smack! “Ouch!”

  “That’s a firm English ass. Let’s get this tunic off, shall we?”

  Chapter Four

  The sound of material ripping had my attention, as my clothing was stripped from my body, while I fought and kicked, connecting my heel with his jaw. He hit me, the flattened part of his hand connecting with my bottom.

  “Ouf!”

  “You’re stronger than you look.”

  “And you’re even more of a buffoon than I first thought.” My long gown was in his hands, the material shredding bit by bit. I’d have nothing to wear at this rate. “Wait! Stop! I’ll take it off myself.” He stilled his movements, and I slid from his knees, sitting on the floor before him. “I’ll do it. There won’t be anything left if you keep pawing at me like a bear.” The smug look on his face was irritating. He clearly thought himself the winner of this battle.

  “Take that thing off your head.”

  “It’s my wimple.”

  “You’re married. You don’t need it.”

  I bristled. “I prefer to be modest, Viking Kin—pig.”

  “I don’t want you modest. I want you naked and hot for me.”

  “Once I’m undressed, I’ll fling myself in the fire.”

  He roared with laughter. “That’s not the kind of hot I was thinking of.”

  I struggled not to smile. It was an effort to keep a straight face. He was far too charming and intelligent. He seemed to enjoy my barbs, transforming them into lustful play. I avoided looking at him while I undressed, knowing that it was useless to struggle. I was no match for a man twice my size and five times stronger. My mind taunted me.