The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  He held his body away from hers on his massive arms, braced above her like a great, devouring beast. But his mouth was achingly gentle over her nipples and his sucklings set her writhing softly, erotically beneath him.

  When she could bear it no more, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him down on top of her. “Now, Jorund,” she murmured, feeling the throbbing heat of his great flesh-spear against her woman’s mound. She braced and held her breath, but his shaft merely parted her folds and thrust gently along her moist inner channel. She gasped and pressed against him, meeting each stroke with a motion of her own. And with each perfectly aimed thrust, she felt a frisson of pleasure radiating outward, from the very heart of her.

  “Now, Jorund,” she said with a groan, arching and straining to rub harder against him. But each time she deepened the contact between them, he eased back by the same amount, maintaining that gentle but relentless friction against the core of her sensation. She began to tremble, grew desperate for the weight and force of him against her, for the filling of the hollow ache inside her.

  “I want the lightning . . . make the lightning in me,” she entreated.

  “Soon enough, greedy wench,” he whispered maddeningly into her ear. “Enjoy this first part . . . it is better if you are prepared.”

  Prepared. He was preparing her . . . for a pleasure storm . . . for the rending to follow. She could feel her body responding, could feel the liquid heat swirling, coiling in her womanflesh. A small, lingering anxiety in her melted. She knew what it was to prepare for fighting . . . and now Jorund prepared her for loving. . . .

  She gave herself over to it. It was oddly familiar, this driving, mounting tension that reduced all sensation to broad strokes. Suddenly her whole consciousness focused on a pale halo of hair, a lush mouth, a great, warm weight molding her body, a wild thudding in her veins, and fluid, rhythmic surges of pleasure lapping through her loins. The pace quickened and she felt her blood-heat rising, felt the gathering in her loins . . . she was suddenly launched into a firestorm of pleasure.

  She felt herself expanding and contracting at the same time, as she shuddered through searing blasts of pleasure. Then she felt him pause and draw back . . . and enter her. The sensations of fullness, of parting and opening, were overwhelming. Her untried flesh yielded slowly before his invading force. Over and over he withdrew partway and thrust again, each time deepening his conquest of her until they lay completely joined.

  “Did I hurt you?” he murmured softly into her ear. She could not speak, but shook her head. “There is more, Long-legs. Much more.”

  With her gaze captive in his, he began to move inside her, watching the shifting lights in the depths of her eyes as he filled her loins with his throbbing heat and poured a new tension in her blood. She arched and clung to his shoulders, feeling his shimmering eyes penetrating her soul as he penetrated her body.

  Each long, luxuriant stroke lifted her again along a sleek, tightening spiral of sensation that exploded abruptly, flinging her into a wild, soaring arc through brilliant, uncharted realms of pleasure. She felt him stiffen and shudder, then clasp her fiercely against him as he poured his passion into her receptive depths and launched into those enchanted realms with her. Suddenly they were one . . . joined in light and warmth . . . known and knowing . . . giving and given, without reservation.

  Together they settled back into the smoky warmth of the little bathing hut, lying side by side, their bodies wet from the steamy heat and their eyes glowing like the hearth’s cooling embers. She traced the thick mounds of his chest, lingering over his taut male nipples, and marveled that the shape of his body was so very like her own, and yet so different. Beside her, he was thinking much the same thing, until his eyes fell on the binding on her left shoulder and he touched it gently.

  “Your shoulder,” he said softly. “Is it all right? I forgot about it.”

  “It’s fine, Jorund,” she said, rubbing the furrow from his brow with her fingertips. “All of me is fine. It is wonderful . . . your loving. It was well worth fighting for.” The light in his eyes flickered and she seized his chin and pressed her nose against his. “Promise me you will wield your pleasure-blade against me again.” Then her fierce expression softened to a frown and she bit the inside of her bottom lip. “We can do it again, can’t we?” The brazen sound of her question made her pull back, but he caught her before she moved far.

  “Eager for another taste of defeat, are you?” He laughed softly, then saw the genuine embarrassment in her face and realized that it was the maiden in her, not the warrior, who asked. His tone gentled. “We can do it again, anytime you want . . . as long as you give me a few minutes to rest between requests.” He glanced down his body, drawing her eyes, too.

  His flesh-spear was softer, but still swollen, and she glanced up quickly, flushing a deeper red. Moments ago she had yielded up all her body’s secrets to him . . . and now she felt unaccountably shy. “I don’t mean to . . . it’s just that I’ve never . . .”

  “Done it before?”

  “Everyone knows I’ve never gone to the furs with a man before,” she said, dismissing that as cause for chagrin. She studied the warmth in his eyes and was drawn to trust it. “I meant . . . I’ve never had anyone to ask about such things.” She reddened more, feeling that revelation was somehow more personal than anything relating to her body. “I . . . I have never lived around women, except for my little sisters. And they know even less about such things than I do.” Her voice was small and she could not meet his eyes just then.

  A tender smile lighted his face and he pulled her close, sheltering her in the curve of his body.

  “Ask me your questions, Aaren. I can teach you.”

  Her eyes burned for a moment. Then she did ask . . . about the ways of men with women, about the times for loving and the words that speak of loving. He answered each question in his quiet, authoritative way, easing her embarrassment with warm smiles and tender touches. Women, she learned, thought and spoke of mating in terms of its benefits or its outcome . . . as fur-warming and pleasuring or baby-making and cradle-filling. Men, on the other hand, spoke of mating in terms they knew best: strength and conquest . . . a wrestle in the furs, the sheathing of flesh-blades, fur-sport, or hard riding. There were no set times for loving, except as a woman’s body required, and most loving was done quietly in the sweet darkness of a woman’s furs . . . at a woman’s invitation.

  Then came a silence and he could feel a question working its way up out of her depths.

  “Did I do everything right . . . just now?” she whispered. He might have laughed if the anxiety in her face hadn’t been so real. She needed to know if he had found her truly pleasurable. How very womanly of her, he thought, smiling softly.

  “You did everything wonderfully well, Long-legs. You were perfect.” He ran a finger up the side of her breast, then nuzzled her nipple and continued up her chest to kiss her neck and ear. “In truth—I have never enjoyed a loving more.” Her relief was so visible that it tugged at his heart.

  “I’m afraid I have a lot to learn to become a woman.”

  She was so serious that he pushed up onto one elbow and stared at her in the dimness. Was it possible that she still didn’t understand?

  “What is wrong?” She tensed with alarm and he caressed her cheek reassuringly.

  “Aaren, you don’t have to learn to be a woman or to become one, at all. You are a woman already . . . in every way. Being a woman isn’t a matter of knowing certain things, or doing certain things. Your woman’s body makes you a woman, and your passion, your brave spirit, your tender heart and compassion . . . make you a beautiful, strong, and desirable woman. What more could a woman be?”

  She turned his words over and over in her mind, trying to find a way to make them fit within the maze of her inner thoughts and feelings. “Are you sure? Jorund, I do things no other woman does. I blade-fight . . . and I like it. And I like hunting and fishing and wrestling . . .”
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br />   “Many women hunt,” he insisted. “It’s just that they do it with falcons while you do it with a bow or a spear. And women fight, too. They just use different weapons: their tongues, their claws, and sometimes their silence. And wrestling . . . you really like to wrestle?”

  “I do.” She sat up, nervously watching his surprise. He thought for a moment, then raised his brows and nodded.

  “I suppose most of the women I’ve known wrestle in some way. It’s just that they confine it to their furs. Which—if I have anything to say about it—is exactly what you will do, Long-legs.” He chuckled at her frown and ran a distracting finger up the underside of her breast and around her nipple, wringing an eloquent shiver from her. “And any time you want a match, I’ll be more than pleased to provide it for you.”

  “You!” She blushed and a smile bloomed briefly on her face, then faded. He could see from her expression that she wasn’t convinced and realized that she was struggling to reconcile new thoughts of herself as a woman with the long-held ideas of herself as a warrior.

  Another of her many puzzles was suddenly solved in his mind. There were not two hearts within her breast, there was only one . . . and it was divided. She was part warrior and part woman. And the sum of her parts was something strange and wonderful, a marvel to experience and to enjoy. As he lay back and watched her exquisitely carved features and vibrant eyes, he had to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t something a little god-kissed in the makings of such a being, after all.

  “Jorund?” Her voice brought him back from his musings. She was lying on her side, propped on her elbow and running her toes up and down his shins. “I know now why they call you Heart-balm.” His ears reddened as he reached for her and drew her onto his chest. “You know so many ways to soothe a troubled heart. With your words . . . your smiles . . . your hands . . . your loving.” She ran her fingers back through his hair and suddenly thought of the women’s other names for him.

  “And they call you Silk-hair. And Slow-hand.” She cast a rueful glance toward his male parts. “It occurs to me that it may not be just your hands they refer to. . . .” He laughed and pulled her down so that their mouths were almost touching.

  “Greedy wench—then I must set the record straight. They do mean my hands . . . and the slow way I make pleasure with them.”

  “And Gentle-rider . . . I begin to suspect that has little to do with horses.”

  He ran a hand down her side, brushing the edge of her breast, then in a blink rolled her onto her back and slid on top of her. “But I am good with horses,” he protested. “Always firm but gentle in the saddle.”

  “And Honey-hunter . . . they don’t call you that because you help rob bees.” She could feel the heat from his blushing as he tried to divert her by nuzzling her ear and nibbling her neck. But she was curious now and refused to let him drown her wits in pleasure quite yet. “But Flesh-skald . . . that one puzzles me.”

  He stilled with his mouth by her ear, and cleared his throat as if embarrassed to speak it. “They tease that my fingers write magical runes beneath a woman’s skin . . . and the runes turn to poetry and songs in her heart.”

  She pushed on his shoulders, forcing him up so that she could see his face. In the dimness, her eyes were luminous and filled with new wonder.

  “It is most certainly true, Jorund,” she said tenderly. “For you surely make magic beneath my skin . . . and fill my heart with songs.” Through the sweet silence she became aware of every aspect of his body as it lay along hers . . . so hard and yet so gentle, just like the rest of him. A fierce wave of longing crushed through her chest and eddied downward into her loins. He was a man of a thousand names . . . and every one of them meant pleasure.

  She raised his hand on hers and kissed his fingertips, one by one.

  “Make a new song for me, Jorund . . . now.”

  He smiled and lowered his lips to hers.

  A LIGHT SNOW fell that very night and they awakened to a pristine white world that seemed created just for the two of them. That day and for the several days that followed, they slept and ate and loved according to their desires, which recognized no bounds except those which the impulse of a loving heart imposed. The work of daily living was divided in an equally haphazard way: each simply did what they hoped would make the other pleased or comfortable. Thus, Aaren tended the hearth and repaired her garments and even carried water—when Jorund let her. And Jorund spent more than an hour untangling Aaren’s hair and combing it . . . which led to a long, salty bout of loving on the floor before the blazing hearth. Together they gathered branches for firewood, tended the horses and rode into the next valley, and dropped a hook into the stream for a bit of fish . . . which she cleaned and he cooked.

  By the fire each night they sat and talked . . . trading stories and speaking of Jorund’s village and his travels, and of Aaren’s mountain life and education. She revealed to him the rigors Serrick had required of her in training: the unceasing running, the stacking and unstacking of boulders to strengthen her back and arms, and the intense testing periods in which Serrick demanded that she be ever ready to fight and challenged her without warning. And Jorund shared his knowledge of faraway places and related to her his understanding of the White Christ and told stories of his kinsmen and the village folk. In those precious exchanges, they drew closer in both love and understanding.

  When they returned, half frozen, from a ride one afternoon, Aaren reluctantly donned her padded breastplate once more, for the added warmth it provided, and took it upon herself to fashion warmer garments for the two of them. Jorund’s fleece jerkin had been ruined in his wolf-fight, and the only readily available materials were the sleeping furs and woolen blankets. She planned carefully and managed to make two large tunics from one blanket, intending to line them with marten skins from the thick sleeping pallet.

  Planning and stitching clothing were not among her natural skills, she discovered; needlework was harder than it looked and tedious in the extreme. But the thought that Jorund would wear the garment kept her at it.

  She liked doing personal things for him: mending his tunic, making a special pine-bark tea when he took a sneezing fit, and wiping him down when he bathed. Best of all, she loved combing his hair as he sat by the fire of an evening. A Norseman’s hair was his pride, and Jorund had more reason than most to be proud of his long, flaxen locks. And it did not take long for her to learn that the combing of hair—whether hers or his—was a certain prelude to pleasure.

  Once or twice, she did feel a twinge of concern over her enjoyment of the womanly feelings blossoming in her, the most unnerving of which was the pleasure she took in the size and strength of Jorund’s big body. He made her feel small beside him, which ordinarily would not have been a pleasant thing for her at all. But when she was next to Jorund, she positively loved the feeling.

  She found herself watching him move about the lodge, recalling the way he looked without his garments . . . the way his flat belly tightened, the way his chest muscles bulged as he held his naked body above hers, and the way his buttocks, thighs, and well-muscled calves flexed as he walked and stooped before the fire or lifted armloads of wood.

  “Did you know . . . there is a rip in your tunic,” she said one afternoon as she sat watching him across the fire.

  He looked up from his seat on the hearth, where he was weaving a snare, and frowned, transferring his gaze to the front of his garment. “Where? I don’t see it.”

  “It’s in the back,” she said. “Take it off and I’ll mend it.” She set aside the tunic she was stitching but retained her needle and knife. He shrugged and did as he was bade, then stood to hand it to her. She took it from him with a long, raking glance down his body. “And your breeches . . . Jorund, you must be more careful. You’ve cut the leg.” He scowled again.

  “Where?” He ran his eyes over his legs and—sure enough—there was a small cut in the woolen. “Oh, it’s nothing. When I was carving your comb, my knife slipped.”

>   “Well, while I’m mending . . . take them off and I’ll stitch them, too,” she insisted, clutching his tunic to her breast. He started to say something, then thought better of it and shrugged, removing his sandal-boots, leggings, and breeches, and handing the latter to her. As he stood before the fire, naked and waiting, she feasted on the sight of his wide shoulders, heavily muscled chest, and the taper of his ridged ribs and narrow waist. Swallowing hard, she continued on down his hips and taut, rounded buttocks, to his powerful thighs . . . and the maleflesh that nested in a soft golden haze.

  Her face heated and her lips grew sensitive as she stared at him . . . her inner hollow tightened with longing and expectation.

  “What are you doing?” Jorund’s voice was soft and thick, and there was a knowing gleam in his eye. He came to stand in front of her, his legs spread and his body radiating sensual heat.

  “I am . . . ummm . . .” She faltered and her cheeks flushed. His eyes said that he knew she hadn’t wanted his clothes just for mending. And that he didn’t mind. “I am looking at you,” she confessed, meeting his heating gaze. The flame spreading through her loins flared up into her eyes, as well. “And making honey.”

  He laughed, a deep, entrancing rumble. Reaching for his clothes in her hands, he tossed them aside. Then he pulled her up into his arms and carried her straight to the furs.

  JORUND WATCHED HER adjusting to her new role as a woman, his woman, with abject fascination. He had always loved watching her body; now it became an obsession for him. He took pure sensory pleasure in every stride she made, in the casual flexing of her thighs, the taut movements of her buttocks, and the graceful, catlike roll of her feet. And he measured her with his eyes . . . laying permanent claim to every part of her magnificent frame. Around her he didn’t feel quite so oversized and overpowered, which, he realized for the first time, he had sometimes felt around other women.