Riveted

by Brook, Meljean

  His lips opened over hers, hotter, harder. Annika met him with a thrust of her tongue that seemed to roll through him, a wave that ended with a rock of his hips into hers. His fingers plucked at her nipple, making her gasp, then his mouth was suddenly there instead, scorching, sucking. Mindless with the pleasure of it, Annika cried out. Her legs wrapped around his lean waist, her back bowing. Her hands grasped for his, to hold on, to entwine herself around him in every possible way.

  He stilled, shuddered. His cheek turned against her breast, his voice hoarse. “Not there. I can’t bear it.”

  Steel, she realized. Her fingers had intertwined with his steel ones, and he didn’t like his prosthetics touched or encumbered. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  She felt his nod, and the ragged breath against the moist tip of her breast. His tongue flicked over her nipple, a teasing taste.

  “Tell me what pleases you most, Annika.”

  This. Everything. Oh, she didn’t know. She couldn’t guess if everything she wanted to do would please her…but she always enjoyed one thing.

  “I make myself spend with my hand. I’d like yours there, instead.”

  He didn’t move. He didn’t respond.

  Annika bit her lip. “Too bold?”

  “No.” A rough denial, followed by a hesitation. “I…Here?”

  His hips rolled. Her inner muscles clenched in response, a tight, insistent ache. Annika closed her eyes in the dark, her lips parting.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  The heavy weight between her thighs lifted. His palm smoothed down her belly, fingers splayed. “Beneath your trousers?”

  “Yes.” But she stilled when a tremor shook his hand. Was he uncertain? “Don’t you pleasure yourself?”

  “Yes,” he said ruefully, and she could easily imagine his grin. “But never with a woman. I’ve never done any of this.”

  But…? “There were two.”

  “It didn’t work out well. I want this to.” His mouth found hers, lingered until her breathing quickened again. His hand slid lower. “Tell me what to do.”

  “You just have to rub.” And not very much. Just thinking of his touch was already bringing her toward the edge.

  Her fingers clenched on his shoulders as he backed away, lifting himself over her. He tugged the ties at her waist, unbuckled the side. His harsh breaths filled the air.

  “Off or on?”

  He wouldn’t need them off; she never did. But she didn’t just want the touch of his hand. She loved the way he looked at her. “Do you want to see me?”

  “God, yes.”

  “Off.”

  She helped him, lifting her hips and shoving them over her thighs, then lay back. Silence. Sudden trepidation tightened her skin. How did she look to him? He’d liked her up top, but now she felt awkward and exposed, with her legs parted and knees bent—nothing at all like the poised and elegant women in New World fashion plates and advertisements. Should she twist onto her side, look over her shoulder?

  Unable to bear the quiet, she whispered, “Should I put them back on?”

  “No,” he said, and that single hoarse word erased her fear. His mouth eased over her lips, parted them with a penetrating sweep of his tongue. His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh. Anticipation trembled through her. He paused, as if waiting for a protest.

  She could only offer encouragement. “Let me touch you, too.”

  “No.” He kissed her again, said roughly, “I’ll make a mess all over you.”

  When he came? “I want that.”

  He shuddered. His hand slid higher. His head lifted. Watching, as his fingers brushed her curls. Desperate for a stronger touch, she raised her hips, bumped up into the flat of his palm. He pressed down, the heel of his hand against her clitoris. Oh, like that. Just like that.

  “Right there, David.”

  He rubbed a small circle. Her back arched on a ragged moan.

  He groaned against her mouth. “Let me hear that again.”

  She couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d wanted to. She cried out again, her hands clenching on his shoulders, her hips pumping against his hand. Need tore a hole through sense, awareness. She only knew the stroke of his hand, the heated thrust of his tongue. He pressed harder, faster. Her body bowed, head falling back, and his arm slid beneath her shoulders, lifting her, capturing her nipple in his mouth. Delicious suction joined the quickening movement of his hand, leaving her writhing.

  David’s pleasured moan reverberated against her breast. Her excitement seemed to feed his, hand rubbing more urgently over her clitoris, drawing out her helpless cries. No finesse, only hunger. She was almost there. Almost there.

  “Inside me,” she gasped. “Your fingers. Please.”

  His hand slowed. “Do you have any women’s oil?”

  Any what? She couldn’t think. “Women’s oil?”

  “To make it easier. My hands are big. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She finally understood. “I’m wet enough. Feel.”

  His muscles stiff with tension, his middle finger slid between her slick folds. His tortured groan matched hers. “You are. God, you are.”

  How could she not be? Never had she been this aroused, this desperate for release. Her body shook with anticipation, with need. The thick glide of his finger paused for an eternity at her opening. Annika whimpered in frustration, raised her hips, trying to urge him in.

  Gently, he penetrated her. She cried out as her body clamped around him, as a shock wave of pleasure rode outward, rocking her against his hand, drawing him deeper.

  “Christ.” He cursed through gritted teeth. “Good Christ.”

  His mouth came down on her breast again, sucking her nipple to a burning point, the thrust of his hand and the rubbing of his thumb sending her flying, flying. Her body locked, shuddered. Her scream caught in her throat, emerging in short, breathless bursts that echoed the clench of her flesh around him. He continued thrusting, rubbing, until she had to push his hand away—it was too much. Too much.

  But so wonderful.

  His chest heaving, David sat up, drew her over him. Her hands cupping his jaw, Annika kissed him hard, delirious with pleasure, her body warm and liquid. The rivets loosened, for a short time. She wondered how long it would be until they tightened again.

  She hoped not long. “You, now. Let me touch you.”

  He became utterly still. What was he thinking? She couldn’t tell—and she’d have given anything to see his expression now. After a long moment, he nodded stiffly against her hands.

  She was still unsure. Was he only agreeing to please her? “Do you want me to?”

  “God, Annika. So much. But not out of obligation.”

  Spoken harshly, there was no mistaking the longing, the need. She smiled against his lips and reached between them. “This isn’t a trade. I’d want this even if you never touched me. But after you did, I was greedy and wanted to go first.”

  He tensed again as she deftly unbuckled his trousers. “And now?”

  “Still greedy.”

  She wanted to see his face as she gripped his heavy length with both hands, but his short, shuddering breath gave her enough. His head fell back. She kissed her way down his throat, longing for his mouth, but greedy to hear the sounds he made, too.

  He was hot against her palms, silky skin over steely flesh. What to do now? She squeezed gently. His hips bucked, thrusting his erection through her grip. His hand covered hers for a brief instant before his fingers clenched on her hip, as if to stop himself from guiding her, to hold himself still. His breathing was quick and rough.

  She licked the base of his throat, felt him shudder. “How do I do this, David?”

  “Any way you like.” He gave a short laugh. “It won’t take long.”

  Then she’d like to please him as much as possible in that short time. “How would you do this?”

  “Up and down.”

  Oh. Like a piston. And now it was easy, so easy to imagin
e his thick shaft working into her as his finger had. Breathless, she pumped her fists. He made a strangled noise, hips jerking, fingers clenching.

  The rivets inside her were tightening again. “Are you watching?”

  “Yes.”

  So he could see the sway of her breasts, the spread of her thighs over his. He could see her slick flesh, so close to her hands, stroking his length as he would stroke into her body. But not as wet as he would be inside her.

  Her mouth could make him wetter—she’d heard the women of Hannasvik talk about how best to lick. The same would likely work for men, too, though everyone in the New World was too proper to talk about using a mouth in that way, except as an insult. What would he think of it?

  She would find out. Slowly, Annika scooted back until she knelt between his legs, kissing the hard muscles of his chest through his shirt as she descended.

  “Annika.” His body stiffened, his voice hoarse. “Annika, no, you don’t have to—”

  She did. She wanted to know his reaction, his response—and she prayed he wouldn’t think less of her for it. Gripping his shaft, she opened her mouth, licked the thick head. A shout, quickly muffled by the clench of his teeth. His erection pulsed beneath her fingers. Oh, his response was even more than she’d hoped. She licked the broad tip again, slower this time, absorbing the salty taste, the unexpected smoothness of his taut skin. His hands came onto her shoulders before falling away. Her flattened tongue swept over him again, and his tortured moan was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard. She licked, licked, then remembered to pump her hands. A memory of the exquisite sensation of his mouth on her breast led her to suck on the head.

  With a hoarse cry, his body bowed, pushing him deeper past her lips. Reflexively, she jerked her head up. Before she could lower her mouth again, he caught her face in his hands.

  “That’s enough, now. That’s enough.” Panting, he covered her hands with his, squeezing. A vicious shudder wracked his frame, and he called out her name. His shaft throbbed against her palms. Wetness slid over her fingers.

  His seed. When she loved him, this would be inside her, too.

  The thought of it warmed her. He’d make a good father. And she wanted this with him every night, every day.

  While he regained his breath, she crawled up over him again, straddling his thighs, kissing his lips. For the first time, she understood perfectly why some women remained with the men they’d chosen to lie with. It simply hurt too much to go separate ways.

  But neither of them had much of a choice.

  Chapter Nine

  Annika had been right about the dogs. By mid-morning, David had seen almost two dozen slinking around the troll—thin, mangy curs that snapped and snarled when another dog came close. Not a pack, he thought. Just drawn by anything that moved, that might smell like food.

  Fortunately, they also scared easily. An icicle hurled their way sent them scattering, tails between their legs. Not for long, though, and even a man with a steel arm and legs felt bludging vulnerable when he had to expose softer bits and relieve himself.

  He finished just as a few of the curs stole into throwing distance again. A tossed handful of powdered snow held them off until he reached the chest hatch. His eyepiece immediately fogged in the warmth of the troll’s hearth chamber. Annika still lay sleeping on the pallet they’d made on the floor, clad only in her underclothes, her head pillowed in her arms. Her thin gray chemise rode up around her waist, exposing the dip of her spine. Pink bows marched down the side her cream linen drawers; a lace ruffle emphasized the swell of her bottom.

  And this was vulnerability. David’s lungs seemed to squeeze in around his heart at the sight of her. God, she had him wrecked.

  He stripped off his coat and glove. Mindful of his wet boots, he carefully lay down on his side next to her. Propping himself up on his steel elbow was awkward, but it kept his right hand free to touch her. For now, he didn’t. He merely watched her instead.

  He’d never slept with a woman before. He hadn’t slept much the night before, either—he’d remained awake, savoring the feel of her against him.

  His breath stirred the curls at her nape. She lay with her face turned toward him, her profile soft in sleep, her lips parted. Her beaded necklace had twisted around, the inscribed bones nestled in the hollow between her shoulder and neck. He read the runes again, the name of each woman who had led to this one. Annika, daughter of Frida.

  Annika, who spoke an entirely different language than he did—no matter that she called it English. Her definitions of “brave” and “bold” were much different than his.

  Last night, she’d touched him without fear. Already skating on the sharp edge of need and love, he’d almost broken when her hand had found his, had all but shattered when her fingers entwined around steel as if there were no difference. As if to her, he was just a man—no more and no less.

  David didn’t know how he’d ever let her go.

  But he would have to; that much was clear. He’d known the very thing that had brought Annika to him—her search for Källa—would take her away, but for a brief time he’d hoped to eventually follow her. When his obligation to his mother was fulfilled, he could help her search.

  Now he realized that the search for Källa wouldn’t take her away; finding her sister would. Annika would return home…and he couldn’t follow her there.

  His gaze traced the fullness of her bottom lip, the hole in his chest stretching like the next year, two—his life, without her in it. Empty, except for her brief visits. When the sun set, they’d be on their way. Closer to Vik. Closer to going separate ways.

  David had never been good at feeling sorry for himself, but he was putting in an effort today.

  Her thick lashes flickered. She met his gaze for a moment. Her lips curved faintly before her eyelids drifted shut again. “Just two more minutes.”

  They weren’t going anywhere yet. “You can have more than—”

  “Shh.”

  He grinned. After a moment, the corners of her mouth tilted upward again, though she didn’t open her eyes.

  “I’m having a good dream. I don’t want it to end.”

  Neither did he. “About?”

  “You.”

  Her spreading smile told him what that dream consisted of. His body instantly stiffened, recalling the astonishing pleasure of her mouth.

  “I intend to rename you Annika the Bold.”

  Her smile faded. She looked up. “Annika the Improper?”

  She knew she had been. So she must be asking whether it bothered him. “Everyone should be as improper. And as surprising.”

  Even knowing she cared nothing of propriety, he’d never expected to feel her mouth on him. He’d never have asked it from her—and wouldn’t have imagined that she would even know to pleasure a man in that way.

  She answered his unspoken question. “I’ve heard it mentioned.”

  “By the crew?”

  “Yes. But anyone who licks someone’s penis…is not thought well of.”

  So that was why she was uncertain now. Though if it offered someone even a fraction of the ecstasy she’d given him, men should be begging for it and worshipping anyone willing to. “But you did anyway, despite that risk?”

  “Some women I know like it very much. I thought a man might, too. I wanted to please you as much as I’d been, despite what you might think of me afterward.”

  “I think well of you. I couldn’t think any better of you.” And his mind was painting images of her again, her body bowed, her desperate cries as she came, the sweet clench around his fingers. He could have used his mouth, instead. He could have known her taste. God, he wanted that. “Would you like it?”

  “Yes.” But she grimaced. “Not now.”

  Still sore from the previous day. Gently, he rubbed the back of her shoulder. She groaned, closing her eyes. He froze. Was he hurting or helping? After a motionless second, she sent him a deathly glare.

  “Don’t stop.”<
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  With a smile, he obediently continued. “So everyone is improper in Hannasvik.”

  “No.” With another groan, she turned her face into the cradle of her arms, straightening her neck. “We’re all perfectly proper there. Everyone in the New World is rigid and absurdly frightened about the most natural things.”

  Perhaps they were. “Were you one of the abandoned children?”

  “Yes.”

  “From where?”

  “Manhattan City.” Her voice was muffled against her forearms. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious.” He wanted to know everything about her.

  She pushed up onto her elbows, looking back at him with a slight frown. “What does it tell you about me?”

  “It tells me where they found you.” And let him picture her better.

  “But about me?”

  “Nothing.” But she was irritated, clearly. David was fascinated. He hadn’t expected this reaction. “Why?”

  “I’ve never understood it. That is always the first thing someone asks: Where are you from. Not ‘What do you like?’ or ‘What do you believe?’ or even ‘What is your mother like?’ which all have more bearing on the person I am. And if I don’t tell them where I’m from, they try to guess. Even though there are other people with my color spread all over the New World, they always assume that I’m Liberé—until they hear me speak. They know by my accent that I’m not Black Irish, and not from Manhattan City—though that is partially correct—and not from Lusitania or Castile or the disputed territories. It drives them mad, as if to know me they need to know where I am from.”

  “I’d like to know where you’re from.” He grinned when she snorted. “You only notice it because no one needs to ask in your village. You all grow up knowing each other.”

  “Yes, but what does my coming from Hannasvik tell you? Nothing at all. What have you found out now? That I want you to lick between my legs. But it wouldn’t hold true for everyone from Hannasvik. Some women don’t like to be licked. Some think it should only be discussed privately, and others think such things are better discussed frankly. Some do not want to lie with women, some do not want to lie with men. Some want to leave, some don’t, some dare to leave, some don’t. Some are brave, some are vain, some are pious, and some of us just speak of the gods and know in our hearts that they only exist in Hanna’s stories. Manhattan City is not the reason I love to sew clothes, and neither is Hannasvik. It is not the reason I love smoked fish. It is not the reason for anything about the way I am.”