Pleasurably Undone!

by Christine Merrill, Michelle Willingham, Louise Allen, Terri Brisbin

  He wasn’t about to let this outspoken slip of a girl defy him. The knife rested between them, a reminder that she could not win this battle. “Will you cut out my heart?” He drew so close his thigh moved between her legs, daring her.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “You don’t have one.”

  The journey to Lutus’s home was far more uncomfortable than he’d expected. With the slave seated in front of him on the horse, Tharand was forced to hold her while riding. His arm held steady against the curve of her breast, while her slim body rested within his legs. He had wrapped her in his cloak for warmth, and yet she leaned into him for protection against the cold.

  High above them, storm clouds bided their time. He urged his horse Ymir to move faster. The stallion sensed the impending need to reach their destination, and Tharand held her tighter.

  He still didn’t know why he’d let her keep the knife. Somehow he sensed there would be no danger from her. At least, not yet.

  The lush scent of her body invited him, tantalizing him with the motion of her hips rocking against his manhood. He grew hard, his length aching to sheathe itself inside her.

  Odin’s bones. He’d intended to deliver her to Magnus, an exchange for his sister’s life. A beautiful slave, bound to pleasure her master. Instead, he found himself wanting to discover her secrets. He wanted to slide his hands beneath the soft linen underdress. Feel the round breasts, her nipples pebbling beneath his thumbs.

  Her shoulders lowered, and he sensed a change. She knew of his arousal, tensing against him. A groan caught in his throat when she turned toward him. Her dark eyes hardened into ice. “I am not yours to take, Lochlannach.”

  The words challenged him, as surely as one sword striking against another. “I’ve already taken you, kjæreste.” And with that, he reached forward, lifting the edge of her skirts until his palm touched her bare thigh. He let the woolen cloth fall back into place, though he kept his hand upon the softness of her skin.

  She hissed, jerking her attention back to him. Though she tried to pull his hand away, he kept it in place. Lowering his mouth to her ear, he whispered, “When I bring you to Magnus, he will not be wanting a shy virgin.” He slid his hand up to the slit of her womanhood. Cupping her, he let the rhythm of the horse move his hand. She fought him, trying to reach the dagger. But a moment later, he felt her begin to bloom.

  Warm wetness coated his thumb, her honeyed arousal. Encouraged by it, he stroked her intimately until he was rewarded by the arch of her back. A low moan sounded in her throat.

  “Have you ever sheathed a man?” he murmured, sliding his fingers into her silken entrance. “Did he give you pleasure?”

  Her breathing quickened as he teased her folds, feeling for the hard center that would send her over the edge.

  “I don’t…want you,” she managed, struggling not to let herself go. His fingers were bathed in her wetness, her body denying the words she spoke.

  He slowed the horse, deliberately letting it trot so that she bounced against his hand. His own breathing had grown harsh, his length hard and hot against her buttocks. If he lifted the back of her gown, he could lift her up and impale her on his shaft.

  He rubbed her faster, and her skin grew fevered with desire. No, she didn’t want him. And Odin’s throne, he was a bastard for arousing her in this way. He’d never been able to resist a challenge. Especially not one as sweet as this.

  He entered her with two long fingers, pressing hard against her sweet flesh until she cried out. He kept his strokes in a deliberate imitation of lovemaking, drawing out her frustration until at last she crumpled, shaking with the fierce aftershocks of pleasure.

  And still he didn’t stop. He rubbed her until she wept, her hands gripping his thighs as though begging him to join with her. When her muscles grew boneless, he stopped, withdrawing his fingers and pressing a soft kiss against her nape.

  “We’ll be stopping for the night soon.”

  She leaned forward, her shoulders slumped forward. “I hate you.”

  As the sun started to slip lower in the sky, he told himself he would not regret arousing her. She had to be ready for Magnus, to become his concubine.

  And though he craved joining his body with hers, he would leave her untouched. Even if it killed him.

  Aisling awoke in the middle of the night, her spirits bruised and battered. It wasn’t far now, and within another day Tharand would hand her over to the Norse king.

  The cold floor had made it nearly impossible to sleep. Tharand had offered her the chance to sleep beside him upon a humble pallet. The thought of feeling his warm body against her own made her shudder. Not from fear, but from her own forbidden desires.

  He’d touched her in a way no man ever had. She’d despised the feeling of being so trapped, so helpless to his strength. Like a lover, arousing her until her body opened to his. It tormented her, the way he’d brought her to the edge of ecstasy and sent her drowning into an abyss of wild need.

  She sat up, pulling her gown around her, as if to shut him out from her mind. Only a few feet away, she heard the steady rhythm of his breath. Beyond them, the other inhabitants slept, Ludin and his family. The presence of people should have made her feel better, but she knew that these were his allies, his friends.

  The earthen floor was so very cold, the air so frigid her breath formed clouds within the longhouse. Tears began to fall once again. Not so he could hear; she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But the burden of what had happened swept over her until she could no longer hold it in. She lowered her head and gave in to a good cry.

  “I know you’re awake.” His deep voice slid into the silence. “And my offer still stands if you wish to sleep beside me.”

  “I would sooner sleep with a viper,” Aisling retorted. Her teeth chattered, and she bit her lip, trying to keep warm. She had enough willpower to resist the temptation of his body heat. It was simply difficult convincing her freezing feet that they were better off without warmth.

  Aisling glanced around, hoping that someone would awaken. But no one paid any heed to their conversation, their slumber unbroken.

  “You enjoyed my hands upon you,” he murmured. “You’re afraid of what else you might feel.” He sat up, his large frame silhouetted in the shadows. Though she could not see his face, her heart raced in fear.

  And undeniable anticipation.

  He could have forced himself upon her, time and again, but he had not. Her body broke out in a sweat, just thinking of his touch earlier. The rough wool of her léine abraded her skin, her body completely at war with her mind.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” The lie did nothing to allay her fear, and she hugged her knees, keeping her body covered.

  “You’re terrified I’ll force myself upon you.” His deep voice brushed over her like a wicked caress. “And worse, that you’ll enjoy it.”

  Her pulse pounded so fast, she couldn’t answer. But he sensed it, and in the dark, he closed the distance. His fingers threaded through her hair, loosening the strands. Though he did nothing more, she was shaking so hard, she couldn’t face him.

  “Don’t touch me.” The words were ripped from her mouth with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  He bent in so near, she could smell the spiciness of his skin. Like winter’s breath, mingled with the exotic tang of foreign lands. A raider’s scent.

  When his mouth tasted the skin of her neck, a dark heat raced through her blood. She couldn’t move, her body rising to his forbidden call.

  “You’ve never been touched by a man, have you?” He drew back, and let her go.

  A denial tangled in her mouth, for she had shared in the Bealtaine rituals, taking a lover as most women did. “I haven’t been touched by a murderer,” she corrected. “Or a thief.”

  “I’ve been called both.” His hands moved to the sides of her breasts. Lazily, his thumbs traced circles over the fabric, so close to her nipples, the tips grew erect. “I’m not a good man, kjæreste.”


  Another brush of his lips grazed her mouth. A heated flame kindled between her legs, a rising fire to experience more of what he’d taught her that afternoon.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said, tossing her his own coverlet. “Stay where you are, Aisling Ó Brannon. For if you join me here, you’ll find yourself on your back and I’ll be inside you.”

  The nightmare strangled him, tearing out any hope of peaceful sleep. Tharand’s hand clenched in a fist, as though it held a dagger. Stifling air clogged his lungs, while memories of his sister’s screams tormented him.

  His heartbeat pulsed within his chest, a slight dampening of sweat upon his skin despite the frigid air. He rolled over, but the space beside him remained empty. Aisling insisted on sleeping upon the floor beside the fire, huddled beneath the woolen coverlet.

  The instinctive desire to take her into his bed had not dimmed. Though her skin would be freezing cold, he wanted to warm her. Hours ago, he’d succumbed to his curiosity, tasting the softness of her skin. It was everything he’d imagined it would be, with her hair falling over his hands. The way a breath caught in her throat, and the soft sigh when he’d kissed the tender space. She might loathe him, but she had been caught up in the moment as well. The very thought made him shift uncomfortably.

  As the hours crept toward dawn, Tharand could feel the temperature dropping. He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment. The easiest way was simply to drag her to his bed. Why should he allow a captive to choose?

  He sat up and saw that Aisling was seated, no longer sleeping. All senses went on alert, for he knew nothing of her intent.

  When he dropped to one knee before her, she didn’t raise her face to his. She’d been weeping. Her reddened eyes and quiet demeanor gave the evidence.

  “Did you kill them?” she asked quietly.

  “Who?”

  “My brothers.” She closed her eyes, refusing to look at him. “Kieran and Egan.”

  “Many tribesmen were taken,” he answered. “Most were sold into slavery. Your brothers might have been among them.”

  “If they aren’t dead,” she finished. Her posture remained downtrodden, her voice dull. “I want to know what happened to them.”

  He reached out and tipped her chin to look at him. “No one is going to rescue you, Aisling. Your fate rests in the hands of King Magnus now.”

  “No,” she whispered. “My fate rests in your hands.” Her voice pleaded with him, while she covered his palms with her own.

  “You want me to let you go.”

  “Yes.” She laced her fingers with his. “I want to believe that you possess honor. That somewhere beneath your heritage lies a man who will do the right thing.”

  She didn’t know. Couldn’t know that he had no choice. He owed her no explanations, for she was nothing but a captive.

  He jerked his hands from hers. “I’m not a man of honor. I kill when my king commands it. I seize whatever I can find upon the battlefield, for that is a warrior’s right.” He rose and tossed her a pair of battered shoes that had once belonged to Jóra. “Nothing you say will change your fate. Prepare yourself, Aisling. For today I will give you over to the king.”

  Aisling voiced silent prayers throughout each mile of the journey. As soon as they stopped to let the horses drink, she would have to make her escape.

  But how? Every plan seemed foolish. Even if she did manage to get away from Tharand, she didn’t know her surroundings. They were north of Dubh Linn, and she had never traveled this far before. The freezing weather made it even more impossible, for there was no shelter.

  You have to stay with him, her mind reasoned. You’ll die if you don’t.

  Was death worse than surrendering to a man’s pleasure?

  Embarrassment flooded her at the memory of Tharand’s touch. She had wanted him to kiss her, wanted his touch. Even now, she could not forget the way he’d touched her upon horseback. He attracted her in a way she’d never anticipated. Her body had responded to him, bowing beneath his rigid strength and evoking unwanted yearnings.

  She rubbed her hands together, struggling to get them warm. “What can I do to win my freedom?”

  “There is nothing.” Like ancient standing stones, he would not be moved.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He didn’t spare her a glance. “Believe what you will. You will be given to him.” But the sharp tone in his voice suggested that there was another reason. He stopped the horse and dismounted, lifting her down.

  “You’re getting something in return,” she predicted. When he still kept his eyes averted, another truth dawned. “Someone in return.”

  At that, his blue eyes pierced her with certainty. “As I’ve said. There is no other choice.”

  Her mind turned over the situation, searching for a way out. The tension in his muscles, the unyielding cast to his face, made her feel even more helpless.

  “Is it a woman?” She took a hesitant step toward him, unsure of how to read his expression. Was he truly a man who intended to use her to his advantage? Or was he trapped, just as she was?

  From the stoic lines in his eyes, the bitterness, she almost stopped short. Tharand’s silence confirmed his answer. A strange heaviness weighed down upon her, to think of him riding this far for another woman.

  Her face flushed, for he’d touched her intimately. The thought of him caressing another woman made her insides twist.

  Why should you care? her mind demanded. He is nothing but a thief and a murderer. A man who cares only for himself.

  But if that were true, why had he not forced her into his bed? She couldn’t see past the cloak of his silence.

  He moved toward her, watching her like a predator. Aisling almost fled backwards, but at the last moment managed to stand her ground. “What do you want?”

  “I think you know.”

  A heartbeat later, his mouth crashed down upon hers. And Danu, his kiss eradicated every thought in her mind. His hands slid up to capture her nape, his lips plundering hers. No longer did she feel the winter’s cold as the heat of his body burned against her own.

  He kissed her as though he didn’t want to give her up, as though she meant something to him, more than just a slave.

  She let him take from her, and before she could realize what was happening, she was kissing him back. She ignored the panicked voices that warned her not to do this. Palming his shoulders, she trailed her fingertips over his muscles, down to the runes tattooed on his wrists.

  His hard erection moved against the juncture of her hips, and she parted her legs slightly. The thick length rubbed her, tempting her to surrender to him.

  Tharand never stopped kissing her, and when his tongue probed the entrance to her mouth, she let him inside. The wet heat mimicked the sensation of joining with a man.

  “You were watching me,” he murmured against her lips. “And I wondered what the taste of you would be like.”

  Aisling’s legs stumbled beneath her, and she clung to him for support. Before she could ask what he meant, he lowered the shoulder of her léine. In the snowy chill, her skin puckered, her nipples tightening.

  “You’re cold,” he said huskily. “And I haven’t tasted all of you yet.” He bared her breast, stroking the nipple with his thumb. Hot blood rushed to her face, and her palm closed over the dagger strapped to her thigh.

  Without taking his gaze off her face, he trapped her hand in place, lowering his mouth to her breast. Warm heat enclosed the nipple, and the sensation made her wet.

  She yearned to be filled with him, to know the weight of his body upon hers. As he suckled, her hands fisted in his hair, the dagger forgotten.

  All of her willpower disappeared, like a snowflake upon warm skin. She wanted him. God help her, she sensed that it would not be like this with another man. Perhaps it was the forbidden nature of being a raider’s captive. Or perhaps she was losing her sense of reason the longer she stayed with him. Whatever the cause, she yearned to feel him inside.


  His hand moved beneath her skirts, and he unsheathed the dagger, dropping it into the snow. A rough palm cupped her center. Using his thumb, he stroked her until a rush of wetness coated his hand.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded. She didn’t want to desire him, and she loathed herself for even thinking of letting him do whatever he wanted.

  Tharand parted her, sliding his finger inside her warmth. Then another finger, until he gently stretched her open. He penetrated her with his fingers, while he conquered her mouth once again.

  The shallow strokes tortured her with the promise of a joining.

  “Your body is awakening,” he whispered, flicking his thumb against her swollen cleft. A jolt of fire permeated her, making her moan against his mouth. His wicked hands were making her ready for him, until she trembled.

  “You are cruel.” Shaking with need, she tried to block out the rising frustration.

  “Yes.” He withdrew his hand, letting her skirt fall back into place. Gruffly, he added, “But you will please the king. That is all that matters.”

  “My feelings don’t matter.” She threw the words back at him, wishing he had never touched her.

  Tharand reached down and handed her the dagger, hilt first. “You might need this, as protection against Magnus’s men.”

  Aisling hid her face as she replaced the weapon. Her mood only darkened as he lifted her upon the horse. Deeply aroused, Tharand had taught her a lesson she’d not soon forget. It was best to shield herself from this Lochlannach, to pretend that he did not even exist.

  For she meant nothing to him.

  Chapter 3

  Tharand’s own mood had soured. Over and over, he reminded himself that Aisling Ó Brannon was a slave, a woman no different from the others he’d captured. And though none could compare to her beauty, he could not lose sight of his purpose.

  Time and again, she’d surprised him. The sweetness of her arousal, the driving need to watch her come apart, was slowly stealing away his mind.