by Sandra Hill
He smiled with appreciation of her fantasy telling.
“I love the way you smile. I melt when you smile.”
“M’lady, you are obviously not aware of battle tactics. Telling a man of your vulnerabilities is comparable to handing him a bow and quiver of arrows.”
“You don’t want me to tell you how I feel?”
“On the contrary. I take joy in your openness. Seems to me, though, that you are already melted in certain places.” He smiled some more. A woman could not do too much melting, in his opinion, despite his teasing words. With his eyes still closed, he continued with his fantasy, “Ah, I can feel your woman-dew weeping onto my chair. So much of it comes from your widespread thighs that it drips down to the wood of my chair and rolls down to coat my ballocks.”
“That is so crude, and a total man fantasy,” she said, but she did not sound displeased.
So, he added another crudity. “Later, I would like you to lick my balls. Dost think you could do that?”
He waited for her gasp of outrage.
There was none.
“Maybe.”
He held on to the sides of his chair to prevent himself from lurching at her. Maybe? She might actually do it? It was a jest. Not that I would refuse such ministration. I swear, I will not last to the end of this game. But her single-word reply gave him permission to push the edge of propriety, or so he told himself. “If you do that, mayhap I will put you on all fours, like a mare, pressing your face to the floor, and kiss your arse cheeks, afore licking your woman-channel down to your pleasure bud.”
“What?” she shrieked.
Ooops. I might have gone too far. “Sorry. Forget I said that.”
“Are you kidding? I’ll never forget that. Now shut your eyes and stop interrupting, or we’ll be here all night.”
Is that a promise? “Whate’er you say, dearling.”
“I’m still straddling your lap. My hands are on your shoulders. In fact, for a moment I reach back and caress your wing bumps.”
Huh? “My wing bumps?”
“Those bumps on your shoulder blades.”
“Dost think you should be bringing up angel matters in the midst of sex play?”
“I don’t think of what we do as dirty, or nonangelic.”
“Not dirty. Sinful. Or somewhat sinful.”
“I think your semantics are going to get you in big trouble.”
“M’lady, I have been in big trouble from the moment we first met.”
“Now, listen carefully. We’re going to have real sex, sort of.”
“Sort of. I am developing a whole new vocabulary. Near-sex. Sort-of sex. Fantasy sex. No-touching sex. It all smacks of celibacy to me. With that I am more than familiar, believe you me.”
“Stifle.”
Did the wench actually have the nerve to tell a hardened Viking warrior to stifle? Truly, she pushes the bounds.
“You have to keep your eyes shut. And no touching. Promise?”
He didn’t really understand, but he nodded.
“I’m still on your lap.”
“Are you still touching my bumps?”
“Forget the bumps, and stop interrupting,” she snapped.
He heard the impatience in her voice and smiled.
“And stop smiling.”
He pressed his lips together.
“I’m on your lap. My rump is sitting on your outspread knees. I look down and see your erection sticking out toward my . . . okay, let’s call it fluff.”
He had to smile again, but quickly willed it away. “Is it red fluff?” he asked, knowing what her reaction would be.
“I do not have red hair. It is strawberry-blonde.”
He tilted his head in agreement. “So, my cockstand is waving at your strawberry fluff. Proceed.”
She swore under her breath at his deliberate misspeak. “I take you in both my hands. You’re too big for one hand to enclose your girth.”
Of course I am, he thought, then doused his ever-persistent pride.
“I arrange its head against my slick folds and use it to stroke myself. Can you feel how wet I am? How ready?”
He could not have spoken then if the sky was falling down on them. Which it very well might if Michael got a hint of what he was about.
“There is a drop of semen on the tip of your erection, peeking out. I use it to further lubricate myself, especially my clitoris that is unfurled and aching for your touch. Ah, that feels so good. I can’t wait. Let me help you enter me. See how your mushroom head presses against my entrance. It’s been a long time for me, and I’m tight. So it’s with a little pop that you breach my muscles, which instantly welcome you with spasms of pure joy. Oh. Oh. Oh. You are in all the way.”
Vikar leaned back so that his neck was braced on the chair back and he arched his hips upward. “Am I holding on to your buttocks now? Guiding you. Am I grasping your hips to show you the rhythm I like? In. Out. Twist a little when I fill you. That’s the way.”
Silence ensued then except for their heavy breathing and their one-word markings of what they were imagining.
“In!” he nigh shouted.
“Out!” she said on a long sigh.
“In!”
“Out!”
Over and over their game played until Alex let out a little choking sound and said, “I’m coming. Oh. OH!”
And he let out a roar of utter male satisfaction.
For several long moments, they both kept their eyes closed, panting for breath.
He was splayed out like a wet mop against his chair.
When he finally lifted his heavy lids, he saw that she was splayed as well. And he could swear he saw his man seed glistening on her strawberry fluff.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“I love you,” he said, and stood. Picking her up, he carried her over to the bed and laid her down. Staring down at her, he repeated, “I love you.”
“Your blue wings are out,” she observed drowsily.
He felt his shoulders. There was naught but air.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, holding her arms out for him.
When he lay down himself and wrapped her in his embrace, he used her muddled condition as an opportunity to feed from her. It had to be done one more time. Pressing his fangs into her neck, he drank greedily but not for long. Her blood, sweeter than the finest wine, was almost totally cleansed of the taint now. Oddly, as he sipped, he could swear wings enfolded them both.
Was it a celestial blessing for their “union”?
Or a warning that he was being watched?
Either way, he could not be sorry for loving Alex.
Fourteen
If the castle were a longship, they could call it the Love Boat . . .
Vikar couldn’t stop smiling.
Love was in the air, and he wasn’t the only one feeling the vibe.
“Son of a troll! Do you realize how goofy you look with that fangy grin?” Trond told him.
He and Trond were in Vikar’s office with the door closed, sharing a cold beer and hard pretzels . . . a snack his lovely Alex had sent to them, no doubt to test the enamel on his teeth that she teased him about.
“I can’t help myself,” Vikar admitted. “I’m happy.”
Trond just stared at him for a moment, then asked, “What’s it like to be happy?”
The poignancy of Trond’s question cut Vikar to the quick. He hadn’t realized until now that the VIK life was not a happy one. Mostly, they were led to believe that they were undeserving of happiness. Or mayhap they’d erroneously come to that conclusion themselves. Oh, there was contentment at times, and satisfaction when they’d saved a soul or dissolved a Lucie. Even the momentary delight in some material thing, like a new Ferrari, or in Harek’s case, a computer with all the latest what they called bells and whistles. The machine could do everything except drive the Ferrari.
Vikar fought for words to describe his feelings to Trond.
“It’s peace
and turmoil, at the same time. A wonderful, soothing rightness at being with that one special person, but roiling emotions at the intensity of your need for her.”
The expression on Trond’s face tore at Vikar. The life of a vangel, particularly The Seven, who had been in existence for more than a thousand years, was a lonely one. Brotherly love, even comradely love, was not the same as that between a man and woman. Ironically, Vikar, who had been wed several times before, hadn’t been aware of that distinction, either. Until now.
“Where will it end, though? I mean, is there a future for you with a human?”
“That is the big puzzlement to me. By now Mike should have been hauling my arse on the carpet. Usually he does not let our transgressions go this far. Why is he letting me continue with this relationship with Alex? Why is he allowing it to build and flourish? Is it that he wants my fall to be more painful when he takes her away?”
Trond’s brow was furrowed with confusion. “I agree. ’Tis not Mike’s usual way of handling us.”
“In any case, I decided days ago to let the future be what it may. I am taking one day at a time. If there is no future for us, and I can’t see how there could be, I will at least have these memories.” And a few more, if I have my way. Before Alex left, he intended them to have one night at least of making love, really making love, even if he spent eternity paying for the privilege.
Vikar hadn’t been able to make love, or even near-love, with Alex since that one special night, but they did catch a moment alone together here and there. Enough to sustain them. For now.
In the meantime, Alex was helping Harek, who was moving about on crutches now, with a press release he wanted to send out about the castle no longer being turned into a hotel, but instead a private residence. The news had to be carefully worded so as not to raise suspicions. In addition, Alex spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Miss Borden, mostly writing up grocery lists and ordering online.
Pensively, he and Trond took bites of their hard pretzels, and chomped, loudly. It was like eating sennights-old manchet bread covered with salt, they’d long ago concluded. Not much taste, but a good way to soak up the beer. They would be meeting shortly with all the vangels who remained at the castle to make plans for their attack on the Lucies at the Sin Cruise to be held in a week.
Trond had returned yesterday with some of his underlings, those warriors best trained to fight Lucipires. The best of his other brothers’ fighting men would be here this evening or on the morrow. Fifty in all. Specific assignments were already in the works. In fact, Sigurd and Ivak were in the computer room at the moment with a mostly healed Harek reviewing last-minute changes to Jasper’s decadent event. Mordr and Cnut were in the dungeon gathering weapons to take with them.
Vikar took a long draw on his bottle of beer, then set it down on the desk. When Alex knocked lightly on the door, then entered, he was both surprised and delighted at the interruption.
She was wearing a sundress today. That’s what they called a garment that exposed the shoulders and arms and half the legs of a female in the summer heat. Hers was white with big splashes of colored flowers, yellow, and green, and red.
“You look like a garden,” he said, standing, and walked over to kiss her atop her hair, which she had piled on her head and secured with a clawed comb contraption. He tucked her under his arm and squeezed.
By the runes, just the feel of her against him was enough to turn his bones to butter and set his blood to a boil.
“Do I smell like a flower garden, too?” she replied flirtatiously, as she turned her head to stare up at him. When in flat shoes, as she was now, the top of her head came barely to his chin.
He sniffed in an exaggerated manner.
“Don’t you dare say that I smell lemony.”
“No, you are like a rose now. Or is it a lily. And, oh, look at that gloss on your lips. Dare I hope it is strawberry-flavored, like yesterday?”
“Um, do you two mind? I’m not a statue here,” Trond said with a smile, calling attention to his presence.
“Did you seek me out for a reason, sweetling?” he asked.
“I did,” she said. “Did you know that there are swords and guns piled on the dining room table? Even a machine gun.”
Vikar glanced at Trond, whose face hardened. Did his brother expect him to turn woman-whipped just because he was in love?
“Alex, this is what we do. We have an important . . . um, mission next week, and—”
She waved a hand dismissively. “I know all that, but do you have to put those dirty weapons on the dining room table? The wood will be scratched, and who knows what damage the oil and grime will cause?”
He and Trond burst out laughing. When would he learn to give Alex credit for being more than other women he had known?
“I’ll have them removed right away, sweetling. Will that satisfy you?”
Her eyes lit up at his poor choice of words. Behind him, Vikar heard Trond choking on his pretzel.
“That’s not the only reason I came looking for you,” she said then with a grin that portended mischief.
“What?” he and Trond asked suspiciously, at the same time.
“You have a late arrival. A certain Olrik Jorgensson from Los Angeles.”
Vikar frowned. “That is the ceorl who works under Harek. A stunt person in motion pictures, I believe. What’s the problem?”
“You have to see it to believe it,” she said, with a little giggle. Since giggles did not come easily to Alex, he knew he was in for another problem to solve.
“Where is he?”
“Out in the courtyard.”
He and Trond exchanged puzzled glances as they followed Alex’s swishing hips. A swishing she would pay for later, he vowed silently.
When they got to the open front door, they saw a small crowd surrounding Olrik, a young man he’d met innumerable times before. Except he was different now.
He was orange.
Not reddish orange, like Lucipires were betimes. Nor bronze orange like some Native Americans. No he was orange orange. Like the fruit.
“What in bloody hell happened to you?” he asked before he could curb his tongue.
“Uh, my skin was getting too light without a recent save, and I was out of Fake-O; so, instead of going to a tanning salon, I decided to try one of those spray-on tans.” He shrugged with embarrassment.
Vikar and Trond clicked their gaping jaws shut, then burst out laughing. Everyone else joined in, including Harek, his master, who’d just arrived.
There were times when being a vangel wasn’t all gloom and doom.
Some partings are harder than others . . .
Two nights later, Alex, wearing a demure nightshirt, slipped into Vikar’s bed in the middle of the night.
“Alex! You shouldn’t be here,” he chastised her, even as he lifted the sheet and tucked her in beside him. “We already said our good nights earlier. I have to leave before dawn.”
“I know we did, but I can’t sleep. I’m worried.”
He kissed the top of her head, but said nothing. The silence was telling to her, an acknowledgment that she had good reason to be worried.
“I wish I could go with you.”
“Absolutely not! It’s too dangerous.”
“Not with you there to protect me.”
“I have to focus on my assignment, sweetling. Not be distracted by you. Do not even suggest such a thing.” He shook his head sharply. “You have no idea the things Jasper would do if he got you in his clutches. Depravity and torture beyond your wildest imagination.”
I just have a bad feeling, she wanted to tell him, but she didn’t want to jinx his trip. “Just make sure you come back.”
“Of course. If nothing else, you promised me another bout of no-touching near-sex.”
She smiled against his chest. “I still say, since you’ll be gone for three or four days, I should use this opportunity to visit Ben, and meet with prosecutors in the Mercado case.”
&nbs
p; “I have already told you that I will go with you when I return. I do not want you leaving the castle while I am gone, not even shopping.”
“But—”
“Please. It’s important to me that I be assured of your safety while I am gone.”
“Okay,” she agreed, reluctantly.
“I’ve told Armod to stick to you like glue, to watch over you, but you must watch over Armod, as well. He is a child, really.”
She smiled at the idea of her being asked to babysit a young vampire angel. But she wouldn’t have wanted Armod to go on this trip. The day before, she’d used her laptop to Google “Sin Cruise,” something she’d heard Vikar and his brothers talk about when she wasn’t in the room and hush up the minute they realized she was approaching. She was appalled at what she’d read. Was there really such decadence in the world? This Jasper must be evil personified as Vikar contended. That she could accept, but that people would sign up for such perverted things . . . well, she couldn’t imagine who these people were.
She couldn’t think about those things now, though.
“I love you,” she whispered to him.
But he was already asleep.
She didn’t sleep the entire night, but pretended to be asleep when Vikar arose in the morning, while it was still dark. After dressing and going downstairs, he came back to his bedchamber. She had to laugh. She couldn’t help herself.
He was wearing a wife-beater T-shirt covered with a short-sleeved, hip-length Hawaiian shirt over cargo shorts, the kind with lots of pockets. On his feet were hiking boots. The shirt probably hid weapons. The pockets probably contained ammunition, maybe even grenades, for all she knew. There were probably knives slipped into his boots.
“You find me amusing?”
“You look like you’re off for a vacation at the beach.”
“Are you calling me a surfer dude again, wench?” he pretended to growl.
That’s what she’d called him on first arriving at the castle what seemed an eternity ago. She smiled at the memory and how far they’d come since then. “My very own surfer dude,” she said softly.