by Sandra Hill
“No need. I am on the pill.”
Now she tells me! He thrust into her so long and hard that her body moved up the wall a few inches. “Did I hurt you?”
Her laughter came out on a gasp. “It hurt so good.” As if to prove her words, her inner muscles convulsed around him.
Has a woman’s channel ever felt this good? He could scarce keep himself from peaking, too, but that would be too soon. “Open your eyes, sweetling. I want to see your bliss.”
Her blue eyes were half-lidded and glazed with continuing arousal.
“Keep your eyes open,” he insisted and began to play with her breasts, watching her reaction the whole time. Massaging them up and around in circles, the hard nipples pressed against his palms. By the time he fluttered his middle fingers against the tips, she had peaked again, and was whimpering. “Please, please, please.”
“Please what?” As if I do not know!
“Please move, dammit.”
Who knew that a woman ordering me about could be so sweet? He reached between them and parted her folds more, so that when he began the short, hard strokes, he kept hitting that special nub of woman pleasure. Her keening accompanied the spasms, which were unending, milking him closer and closer to completion.
But then she put a palm against his chest. “Now you open your eyes. I want to see your climax, too.”
That is a new idea. Can I manage to control my enthusiasm and keep my eyes open at the same time? Bloody hell, I can try. He began to thrust with a hard rhythm into her channel, nigh slamming her into the wall each time. Then he arched his back, and howled his release, pressing himself into her, surely as far as her womb.
Lightheaded and more sated than he’d ever been in his life, he sank to his knees on the floor, and she straddled his lap, his half-hard cock still inside her. They were both panting. Perspiration dotted her upper lip. He was equally affected.
She rested her face against his neck for a moment, then sat up. “Have I told you how much I missed you?”
He could barely breathe, let alone talk. But finally he gasped out, “Yea, you did. And showed me, too.”
“No. I don’t think I did.” She smiled at him then, a saucy temptress smile. Rocking forward and backward, the minx caused his cock to rise to attention. Again.
“You are right, dearling. I am not nearly convinced yet.”
I hope my eyes are not crossing at the sheer pleasure-pain.
The terrible trouble draws closer . . .
Jamal watched the Hartley farm from his hiding place on the hill. He was still rolling up his prayer rug, having completed his evening prayers.
All the men who had arrived at Mill Pond Farm and Green Meadows Farm did not trouble him. The most important thing was that Denton’s wife had arrived. With her and the boy here, everything was now in place. What he had planned would take them all by surprise. If there were others who got killed or injured, so be it. Just collateral damage, as the Americans were quick to say of bombings in his country.
Aware that Denton’s wife had been in the barn, alone, with a man, he was not surprised. She was a whore. If he hadn’t known it before, he did after reading the newspaper article about her teaching wanton dances to women. What good was a woman like that to the world? Just another loose-moraled bitch to tempt men to sin.
The boy was another matter. Killing a child was not an easy thing to do, but he had no choice. An eye for an eye. A child for a child.
When his noble duty was completed, he would make a trip to Mecca in atonement. Allah would forgive.
Only a few more days.
Chapter 16
A regular melting pot in a farm kitchen . . .
There were eleven people seated at the kitchen table, and another three posted outside who would eat later. Lydia’s mother was in her glory.
Her father and mother kept glancing at Finn. They were suspicious of his silver eyes and the instant affinity he had with Mike; they had told her so.
They were also suspicious of what she and Finn had been doing in the barn, as well. Lydia hadn’t realized why ’til she’d gone to her old bedroom and seen in the mirror that her lips were kiss-swollen, her neck whisker-burned, and her T-shirt all wrinkled. Not to mention her eyes, glistening with postcoital satisfaction. Then there was Finn, who looked like a man who had just had the time of his life and was happy that everyone knew it. The louse! The lovable louse, that is.
Also at the table were Geek, JAM, Torolf, Magnus, and one of his other sons. And a babbling Mike, who had attached himself to Finn’s side like a burr, one he welcomed. Slick and two more of Magnus’s sons were outside. If the situation weren’t so serious, it would seem like a joyous occasion. While he talked with Mike on his one side, Finn clasped Lydia’s hand under the table on his other side, occasionally, almost distractedly, using his thumb to caress her wrist, which kept her in a constant state of arousal, probably obvious in her flushed face.
Her mother had made her famous pot roast with dark gravy, potatoes, carrots, corn on the cob, homemade bread and butter, salad, and a red-velvet chocolate cake with whipped cream icing, which had won her a blue ribbon at the county fair three years in a row when Lydia had been in high school. Everything was made in quadruple amounts to what she usually prepared. Pitchers of cold milk, equally cold beer, and ice water were consumed in vast quantities.
Before they ate, her father said grace, which everyone respected, but she could tell it was not a common occurrence. Not with the Vikings, nor the SEALs.
But Magnus soon rid her of that notion. “My mother was a Christian who also insisted on grace afore meals. I lost the habit for many years, but started again when I married my wife, Angela, who was raised in the Catholic faith.”
“Obviously, I am not unaccustomed to prayer,” said JAM, who had once studied for the priesthood.
“Well, here on the farm, we keep with traditional values, ” her father said. His remark seemed to be directed at Finn. Was he hinting that he didn’t want him sleeping with his daughter? Too late for that!
Out of the blue, Mike told Finn, “I saw a cow making a baby today.” He spoke with a slight lisp because of his missing front teeth. The second teeth were already peeping through the gums.
Finn choked on a mouthful of beef and quickly washed it down with water.
“Mike!” Lydia’s father cautioned.
“The breeder guy came and stuck his arm all the way up Lubelle’s butt, then he put a long straw in. There was sea-man in the straw. Betcha doan know what sea-man is.”
“Mike, honey, this really isn’t appropriate conversation for—”
“That ol’ Lubelle was mooin’ and mooin’ and mooin’. I was scared ’cause it sounded like she was screamin’, but PopPop said she was jist tellin’ the breeder what a stud he was.”
“Dad!” Lydia glared at her red-faced father.
“Travis Hartley! How could you?” Her mother walked over and smacked him with a dish towel. “What a thing to show a little boy!”
“I’m not little,” Mike protested. Then, turning to Finn again, he said, “Maybe we can go see the breeder makin’ babies again tomorrow. PopPop sez Vanessa is horny ’n oughtta be in heat by now. That means a cow is hot ta trot.”
"Let me guess. PopPop told you that, too.” Lydia was shaking her head at her father. But she couldn’t really blame him. Life tended to be earthy on a farm, by necessity. She’d seen many a cow serviced by a bull in her day, then inseminated by artificial breeders as the herd grew and modern technology took over.
Meanwhile everyone at the table was laughing now, including her mother. Her adorable son, with his milk mustache and two missing front teeth, was beaming at his audience.
“I do not understand. What is wrong with the usual way of breeding? A strong bull. A willing cow.” This from Magnus, who supposedly had had a huge farm in the old country. “All this science when the old ways work just as well.”
“Too dangerous now,” her father explained. “Bull
s can be mean sons a bitches . . . I mean, they are a danger to other animals and people, too. Besides, there are more accurate results with artificial insemination.”
“When I first came to this country, I would have considered a farm like yours sheer paradise . . . Valhalla, to us Vikings,” Magnus told her father. “To this day, I yearn to return to farming, even with the fancy new methods.”
“Not to worry, father,” Jogeir said, patting Magnus’s shoulder. “I will be the farmer in our family.”
“Then who will take over the vineyard when I am gone?”
“Maybe Marie.” Torolf grinned at his scowling father.
“Marie is only seventeen years old,” he scoffed.
“She won’t be seventeen forever.”
“I would think growing grapes has a lot in common with farming,” Lydia’s father interjected.
“It does. My sons still do not understand that I can take soil in hand and tell if it is good for growing by smell and taste. There is no modern test better than the human tongue. Fertile soil has its own taste.”
Her father nodded.
“Yuck! Do they eat dirt?” Mike wanted to know.
“Betimes.” Magnus reached across the table and ruffled Mike’s hair. He looked warmly at Mike, then Finn, and Lydia knew he saw the resemblance, as her father and mother did, too.
“How about you, Finn?” her father asked. “Do you have any taste for farming?”
“Daaaaad!” She was embarrassed that her father was so overtly thinking that if Lydia married Finn they might ultimately take over Mill Pond Farm, as Dave had never been inclined to do. Finn would probably get the same reaction from Dave’s parents tomorrow.
“What?” Her father played the innocent. “I was just asking.”
“Nay, I will not be a farmer. I hope to become a SEAL.”
And that was that.
Lydia tried to pull her hand from his, but he held on to her, tightly.
“What do you do with all your manure?” Magnus asked her father.
The question stunned everyone.
Except Mike.
"Manure is cow poop,” Mike announced in case anyone didn’t know.
Magnus’s sons just grinned, knowing their father’s obsession with anything agrarian, even cow poop.
“We spread it on the fields. And Mary likes it for her rose bushes and vegetable garden. We have tomatoes big as saucers, and her roses win ribbons at the fair every year.” Her father smiled at her mother, the love apparent between the two of them, even after all these years. That’s what she had thought she would have one day. If it hadn’t been for the military . . .
She snuck a glance at Finn and saw him watching her parents, too.
“Are you a Viking, too?” Mike asked Finn. He must have picked up that word from Magnus’s conversation.
“That I am.” Finn ruffled the boy’s hair, a loving gesture that no one missed.
“I have a book called The Viking Who Cried. Wanna read it with me?”
“Well, I do not know if that is a good name for a story about a fierce Viking man.”
Mike giggled. “It’s not about a Viking man. It’s about a Viking boy who ran away on a longship, and then he misses his mommy. That’s why he was cryin’.”
“Oh, well, then, it sounds like a fine story.”
“Why don’t I take Mikey up for his bath while you people talk about . . . other things,” her mother offered. “I can do the dishes when I come back down.”
“Thanks, Mom, but I can handle the dishes.”
“I don’t wanna take a bath. I ain’t dirty.”
Everyone laughed at that. Aside from his hands and arms, which he’d been forced to wash before eating, Mike had smudges of dirt on his nose, different stains on his T-shirt and jeans, some of which might very well be manure, and his hair was going every which way, with a few sprigs of hay mixed in.
“You can come back down after your bath, honey,” Lydia told him. “Since it’s a special night, you get to pick three books tonight.”
When Mike trudged off behind her mother, grumbling, Finn turned to her. “He is a fine boy. You have done well with him.”
She wanted to say thank you, but all she could do was nod.
After that, she and Jogeir took the plates off the table and began to run a first load in the dishwasher, which did not meet with Finn’s approval, she could tell, but there was nothing he could do about it. Jogeir was a good-looking man of about twenty-five who resembled his father not just in stature but also in love of farming, apparently.
When Torolf came over to help, Finn jumped up to help, too.
Finn said the oddest thing to Torolf while they were jostling each other in front of the sink. “By the by, cousin, your love advice stinks.”
Torolf burst out laughing. “You didn’t! Oh, God, don’t tell me you actually said that?”
Finn shoved Torolf, who almost fell over.
“Wait ’til I tell Hilda what you said about her doing intimate things in front of a mirror.”
“Don’t you dare!” Torolf gave Finn a good shove then, too. Soon they were on the floor wrestling.
While Torolf and Finn behaved like children, Geek took over coffee-dispensing duties, and JAM washed the pots and pans. When everything was relatively cleared up, Lydia sat down at the table with them.
“The FBI wants to meet with us tomorrow morning,” Sly said. “At first we planned to gather at Green Meadows Farm, but there’s too many damn people here now. So, they suggested the conference room at City Hall. They’ll let us in on what they know so far, which isn’t much.”
Lydia had talked to Julie and Herb Denton this morning to tell them that she had arrived and everything was calm at the moment. Although normally Mike would be going to their farm, starting tomorrow, for a week’s stay, they decided to hold off ’til the danger had passed. When she dropped by there the next day, it would be the first she’d seen them since Christmas.
“Well, we’ve already got a few leads,” Geek said, surprising them all. “We figure there must be a connection between Lydia, Mike, Dave, the SEALs, and the memorial service. Who would have a grudge that encompasses all of those?”
“Could it be connected to SEAL missions in general?” Sly asked.
Finn shook his head. “Nay. If that were the case, others would be targeted, too. It has to be one particular mission that has sparked rage in this villain.” Finn might not be a modern soldier . . . yet, but he had the right mind for it.
“Okay, can you have Commander MacLean pull up data on every mission Dave was on?” Sly asked Geek.
“He’s in the process of doing that right now. We should get the faxes any minute,” Geek replied as they all walked to the living room. “But the lead I mentioned . . . the Fibbies got an anonymous call a few weeks ago, which they traced to an Arab doctor in Michigan. He warned about something his brother was planning. It was kind of garbled, but it might have something to do with that last bloody mission of Dave’s . . . the one where the . . . um, explosives . . . I mean . . .” Geek’s eyes darted to Lydia, uncomfortable at the reminder of Dave’s gory death. No one ever spoke of it, but she suspected there were only body parts in Dave’s coffin at Arlington. Dave had once told her about a phenomenon called “pink mist,” which occurred in an explosion involving people. It had needed no explanation. “They’re interviewing him as we speak.”
Everyone was uncomfortable then at the reminder of Lydia’s dead husband and the SEALs’ dead buddy.
The living room looked like a NASA launch headquarters with computers, monitors, TVs, faxes, and a state-of-the-art ear mike system that connected all the SEALs. And probably the FBI and police, after tomorrow.
“Another thing,” JAM said. “Tomorrow a dozen or more of us will spread out and search the wooded areas around both farms.”
“Good idea,” Finn said.
“Are we safe?” Lydia asked.
“Yes. As long as we’re careful.” This from JAM.
<
br /> “Hah!” Finn said. “Anyone who attempts to harm Mike . . . or Lydia will have to do so over my dead body. I protect those under my shield.”
Her father frowned. Whether at Finn’s strange language or his vehemence in protecting Lydia and Mike, she wasn’t sure. One thing was certain. Her father would be grilling her once he got her alone.
“So, Mr. Hartley, it would be best if you and Mrs. Hartley went about your business, as usual. With covert protection,” Geek advised. “The rest of us will get to work in your living room and try to come up with a plan.”
Her father nodded, then looked at Lydia. “Why don’t you come out to the barn with me, honey? We’ll check on the cows ready to calve tomorrow.”
“Oh, can I come help?” Magnus asked, as if it would be a privilege.
“I suppose,” her father said, clearly disappointed that he wasn’t going to get her alone . . . yet. He left through the back door, accompanied by Magnus carrying a huge broadsword, which caused her dad’s eyes to about bug out.
Finn then tugged on her arm and pulled her into the hallway. “Do you want me to speak with your father?” He was tracing a forefinger along her jawline as he spoke.
“About what?” Even as she was alarmed, she leaned into his hand, relishing the soft caress.
“My intentions.”
“What? Don’t you dare. I don’t even know what your intentions are. And none of that matters anyhow, if your intentions don’t jive with mine.”
He just smiled and hunkered down a bit, kissing her softly.
“I mean it, Finn. You and I have unfinished business. Don’t be jumping the gun here.”
“The only jumping I will be doing is into your bed furs, sweetling.”
“That’s another thing. Yikes! Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Touching me there.”
“So, what was the other thing?”
“We can’t sleep together in my parents’ house.”
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Because they wouldn’t approve.”
“Did you and Saint Dave not share a bed here?”