That Time She Broke Her Viking's Curse

by Erin St. Charles

  "I'm guessing this is a grown man, right? He can find his own girl." Auntie is irritated, clearly.

  That's right. Let the asshole find his own girl.

  "Hey, hear me out," Jasmine says hastily. "I know you don't like to be set up..."

  "With good reason," Auntie says, which definitely piques my interest. "It's not like I've had good luck with fixups."

  Auntie opens and closes the knee-high row of cabinets behind the counter loudly. This is not something Auntie wants to talk about. However, this is something I am curious about.

  "It's just that I found someone, and I'm so happy," Jasmine says, her face bright with the kind of expression one uses when trying to talk someone else into something they really don't want to do. "I want everyone I know to be as happy. Plus, if you find Mr. Right, we can have a triple wedding!"

  Auntie comes from behind the counter, seemingly to evade Jasmine's matchmaking. She brushes right by me and does not see me. The hem of her long skirt brushes the toes of my Doc Martens, her musky, sweet scent reaches my nose, and it's all I can do to keep myself from grabbing her and kissing her. My hardening cock endorses this idea.

  "Tu found someone," Jasmine says. I know from having lived with Jasmine for a number of months that "Tu" is, in fact, her younger sister Petunia, who must have recently become mated (without my assistance).

  "I'm pretty sure I can find my own mate—er—boyfriend." Auntie stands at the plate-glass window, her back to me and Jasmine, fussing with the clearance items there, and switching the neon sign in the window on. "I don't need help finding a man."

  That's right, I think. She doesn't need a man, mate, or boyfriend because she already has one. Me!

  Auntie turns to say something to Jasmine, and she finally sees me. I watch her take me in from head to toe. If I’m not mistaken, there is a glint of appreciation in her eyes

  "Who let you in?" she whisper-yells, glaring at me. I step forward cautiously. I'm not ashamed to say that given the vein throbbing in her forehead, I'm a little wary of the murderous expression on her face.

  I give her a little wave. Then a little smile. "Hi," I say, injecting a pleasant note into my voice. Of course, while Auntie can see me in my human form, Jasmine cannot. I wonder if she'll say anything about me being here.

  "What are you talking about?" Jasmine asks, sounding puzzled. "You let me in."

  Auntie shakes her head, annoyed. She pinches the bridge of her nose. I inch closer to her, carefully. She gives me a flinty-eyed look.

  "Never mind," she tells her niece. Auntie's shoulders droop. "Look, I don't need a man. And if I change my mind, I'll let you know."

  "You sure? Tu and I were talking about the fact that...well...you're a little tightly wound, you know?" Jasmine leers and waggles her eyebrows in a sinister fashion. "Maybe you don't need a mate, or boyfriend, or whatever. Maybe you just need to get dicked down. You know. A booty call."

  Auntie recoils at Jasmine's words. Her eyes fly to mine, and she renews her glare, which she trains on me and Jasmine by turns.

  Did Auntie need a dick down? Or a booty call? I think, suddenly finding the conversation more than a little interesting.

  Jasmine has her hands on her hips, not at all intimidated by Auntie's bluster.

  "Jazzy," says Auntie. "Don't ever use the words 'dicked down' and 'booty call' around me ever again."

  Jasmine gives as good as she gets. She cocks an eyebrow and hisses, "I will, as soon as you get laid and stop being so bitchy. You could totally use some boom-chicka to loosen you up." She illustrates the concept of "boom-chicka" with a little shoulder wiggle.

  Auntie looks from me to Jasmine, her cheeks flushed. "I am not bitchy," Auntie says, enunciating every word carefully through tight lips.

  "Yes, you are," Jasmine says grinning. "You've been this way for a long time now. Like, over a year. What gives? What the fuck are you so angry about?"

  Over a year? Like, the last time I was here?

  I smile like a jack o' lantern. I hadn't planned to say anything, but I can't stop myself from spilling my guts. "Did you miss me since I left? Sorry about that, I don't have any control of when I get a new assignment. I missed you, too."

  Auntie blinks at me. Squints. She opens her mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again. She rolls her eyes and looks exasperated.

  Jasmine's eyes land on Auntie. She frowns, following her aunt's line of sight to the evidently empty space where I stand. The frown deepens, and she looks at Auntie quizzically.

  "What's going on here?" Jasmine asks.

  "Nothing, except you are leaving," Auntie says.

  "Don't kick her out," I implore. "I want to hear more about the booty calls. I think I can help you with your boom-chicka." I grin and leer at her, leaning heavily on my accent, since apparently Jasmine thinks Auntie likes that in a man.

  "Everyone is leaving," Auntie says brusquely, making shooing hands at both of us. "The store is open. I'll have customers soon, and I don't have time for this nonsense." She takes Jasmine by the elbow to usher her niece out.

  "But—" Jasmine tries, looking at the empty space where I'm standing.

  Auntie, apparently, has told no one of my existence. This doesn't surprise me, but I can't say I’m happy about it.

  Jasmine is ushered out the front door. Auntie turns, gets up in my face, and wags a finger at me. Then she starts poking my chest, angrily upbraiding me, and my grin falters. I am being cowed by a female a foot shorter than me.

  She's pretty angry with me, though, she's cute when she's angry. I shouldn't say so, but I do. I just can't resist.

  "You're so cute when you're angry," I say. "Like an angry, little kitten, hissing and spitting. You're going to be a wild woman in the sack."

  Her eyes widen in shock. Her luscious lips form an O. It's possible I've overreached a bit by saying this, but this woman is my mate, and it's time for her to make peace with this reality.

  "I am never having sex with you!"

  To answer this bold, yet erroneous assertion, I do the best thing I can under the circumstances. Something that will calm her down. Something that will put to rest the notion that there will be no sex between us.

  I plunge a hand into the mass of blue hair, tilt her head back, then plant a juicy, mouth-invading kiss on her astonished lips.

  Chapter Six

  Auntie

  This motherfucker. This crazy motherfucker.

  He's kissing me. Not only that, he grabbed my hair to do it. I guess women of the Viking Age didn't mind rando dudes grabbing their hair? Maybe he feels free to do it because he's just that much of an asshole. Clearly, this fool is used to fair-haired, thin-lipped village females, not black chicks from Ohio.

  I push at his chest and find it is a solid wall of muscle and sinew. My efforts to get him to release me are futile. I realize all my memories of our last kiss, as well as the erotic dreams and fantasies that kiss inspired, are entirely accurate. I had told myself in the many months since our last encounter that my memories of our kiss were overblown, partly due to the dry spell my niece Jasmine mentioned in her tirade. In eighteen months, I had convinced myself that the kiss Gunnar and I shared grew in sensual promise due to him leaving me abruptly. Leaving me hanging.

  I had spent far too much time thinking about this dude, and after eighteen months, the inappropriate thoughts were just starting to decrease in frequency. If they were only inappropriate thoughts of a sexual nature, I would actually be okay with that. That would be normal, after all. I am a hot-blooded woman entering her sexual prime. But my inappropriate thoughts were more of a relationship-building variety. I found myself wanting to know more about him.

  What was it like to live in the Viking Age? What were some of the more interesting matches you've made? Is Gunnar your first or last name?

  The more I thought about such things, the more depressing thinking about him became. Gunnar is the epitome of the Unavailable Male. Having relationship thoughts about him is actually much worse than havin
g sex thoughts about him.

  So, do I offer anything more than a token resistance to his possessive face sucking? No, I do not. Instead, when he does not let me go, the hands that had been pushing him away now grab at his t-shirt to bring him closer. The eighteen months of separation from this man, my own drought in the man department, and frankly, Jasmine's liberal use of sexually suggestive language have created a perfect storm that makes groping and pawing him desperately seem like a reasonable choice.

  A moan hums in my chest and erupts in my throat. My body grinds against his. He breaks the kiss, and I can catch my breath. He whispers in my ear.

  "I know you missed me," Gunnar says, his voice deep and more guttural than usual. "I missed you too, Elskan."

  "You didn't come back," I say. I have no reason to care that he didn't return for more than a year. I sound like a middle schooler with a crush. I had known him for less than a week when he kissed me and told me he was coming back, presumably, for me.

  "You made my heart come alive eighteen months ago," he breathes in my ear. "I told you I would be back for you. There is no better place for me to be. The moment we have a chance, I'm going to fuck you so good."

  My heart flutters with excitement. I should be offended, but his words melt me. Destroy me. They also arouse me. Because this is a man who has roamed the earth for centuries and would rather be with me than anywhere else.

  My body buzzes with excitement as he lowers his head to kiss me again.

  A jingle over my shop door snaps me out of my lust haze, and I instantly become aware of how I must look. With my head tilted back and my lips kissing the air, I know I must look like a lunatic. I push away from him and whirl around to see the curious stares of a pair of obvious out-of-town tourists.

  Had they seen me ardently kissing the air? If so, did it really matter?

  I help them find what they need, which turns out to be toiletries. While I'm ringing them up, more customers appear, and I am busy through lunchtime. Gunnar wears the outfit he wore when I last saw him: jeans, Doc Martens, and a Rolling Stones t-shirt that barely contains the Viking Age muscles he has been blessed with. The entire time I go about my business, I'm aware he follows my every move with keen interest in his honey-colored eyes. It is strange to know that he is openly gawking at me, doing it unabashedly, and he hasn't said a word to me once I started waiting on customers.

  Finally, Gina, my afternoon assistant, arrives at 2 pm. She takes over for me several times a week, and barring an emergency, will close the store today. I walk through the back of the shop, through the tiny break room, and up the stairs to my modest apartment, nervous and excited. I don't have to ask him to come with me. I feel Gunnar's silent presence behind me. I'm as nervous as I can ever remember being. Something momentous is about to happen.

  I worked through lunch. I should be hungry, but maybe my nerves have the best of me, because the only sensations that come from my stomach are fluttery anticipation. When I enter my apartment, I leave the door open as an invitation for him to follow me.

  When I turn to look at him, I suddenly feel shy. Standing in the foyer of my apartment, I look at him and he looks at me. He is so big, so handsome, so rugged.

  "I'm not so sure this is a good idea," I say. It's truth. He makes my body go up in flames when he is near, and he makes my heart beat faster, but he's also taking me to some unknown territory. It's a place I have never been before: love. I live in a shifter town, so fated matings and insta-love are not new concepts for me. Hell, I have facilitated two such matings in the past couple of years. I know the chemical reaction that causes fireworks and intense sexual attraction between true mates is real.

  "We are fated," he says, like he's reading my mind. His amber eyes are intent and blaze with desire. He steps closer to me, eating up the space of inches between us, and takes my face in his hands.

  "I know," I nod, my voice trembling. It doesn't seem like it's worth it to argue with the obvious. We are fated mates, and I don't even know whether Gunnar is his first or last name. We are fated mates, and no one but me can see him.

  He kisses me, not a long, lingering kiss like he gave me downstairs. This time, he plants hot kisses over my face, my nose, my cheeks, the top of my head. A string of guttural words in a language I do not understand tumbles out of his mouth in soft grunts as he holds me and kisses me. He does this with infinite tenderness, holding me firmly as his hands roam over my body. His lips move to my neck, and he grabs me by my ass and picks me up.

  Taken by surprise, I exclaim, "Gunnar!" I wrap my legs around his hips instinctively, throw my head back with abandon, exposing my neck to him. I rub myself against him, desperate for friction. At the moment, nothing matters but the man who holds me in his strong arms.

  My heart tells me that it's not important that I don't know how much time he has with me, nor whether we can have any sort of future together. What matters right now, says my heart, is that I must treasure the man while he is here. I know this to be true and realize I need to honor the mate fate has found for me. With that thought, I am able to throw myself into loving this man. I run my lips over the bit of skin exposed at the front of his t-shirt, tasting him, scenting him.

  "You're salty," I say, stroking him with the tip of my tongue. My voice is hoarse with need. "And you smell like pine and snow."

  A low chuckle escapes his throat. "That is good to know," he says with a smile. He takes confident strides to the bedroom. I watch as he nudges the door open with the toe of one boot.

  My room is small, but my bed is big. The room is decorated to my eclectic tastes. Gypsy curtains hang from the picture windows facing the main street that runs in front of my shop. The bed is covered with a faded vintage quilt.

  I bounce when he tosses me on the bed. I only manage to get my t-shirt off before he's joining me on the bed, his large body eclipsing mine. He wastes no time but begins to devour me hungrily, licking and nipping my neck, chewing on my bottom lip.

  "It's been so long," he says, his hot breath against my skin.

  "Centuries," I say, agreeing with him. My back arches off the bed, and I wiggle to open my legs to receive him.

  "Eighteen months," he says between kisses.

  I frown, not catching his meaning. "What—?" I say, but he's fumbling with the catch of my bra.

  "Eighteen months since I met you," he explains in his gruff, guttural way. "Eighteen months I have longed for you. The centuries did not matter when I met you."

  He stops and peers at me. "I was meant to belong to you, and you to me, so the time before doesn't matter. And now, I am going to fuck you."

  I am swept away with the flood of emotion, despite his crude words. Or maybe, because of them. I am exhilarated, impatient, thrilled by the feel of his warm skin on mine. Nothing else seems to matter in the moment beyond the way it feels to be with him.

  His kisses leave me breathless. He is cradled between my thighs, grinding into me with what is evidently a big, giant dick. My skirt is hiked up to my waist. I stretch my legs wider and rock my pelvis against his. My back arches, and his chest hair brushes my nipples, making me gasp. I need to bring him closer.

  "Please," I say. I pull at his wide shoulders and move my hips desperately. His lips twitch with cocky amusement. He scoots down the bed and draped my legs over his massive shoulders. I notice for the first time the lines of his tattoos. They are deep blue and snake all over his shoulders, upper arms, and the back of his neck. They look like a maze.

  Everything about this man is magnificent. Larger than life. I want to reach out to touch the tattoos, except he chooses that moment to take a long, wet swipe at me. I throw my head back into the pillows and let out a loud gasp. I'm aware that others may hear me, but this is Perdition, after all, and shifter mating being what it is, it's not unusual to hear loud sex noises at unexpected times.

  This may be the only time I have with him, and I'm surprised to discover that I'm all in with being with him in the here and now. If I can't have him
long term, I can, at least, have him now.

  So, I scream and thrash, buck and moan, and Gunnar, the sadist, holds me still with his sinewy arms and uses his mouth to drive me crazy. He is crazy good at this, and honestly, I would not have guessed it from a Viking Age dude. Somehow, oral sex doesn't seem like it would have been popular centuries ago.

  His tongue is rougher than I expect, but he is an expert at finding just the right spots to lick, suck, and press down on. He presses the blunt tip of one finger into my pussy, and I buck violently against the intrusion. I really don't like finger fucking, except, to my surprise, he changes the rhythm of what he's doing and instead of scooting away from him, I find myself rolling my hips to grind against his hand. My eyes are closed, the sensations overwhelming, and I hear him chuckling again. I snap my eyes open to put my eyes on him.

  "Don't…laugh…at me..." I pant as I continue to grind against him like the upstairs girl in a whorehouse. I moan brazenly, slightly horrified at how out of control I seem to be getting. It's like someone gave him a treasure map to all my sensitive spots.

  "I've been dreaming of making this pussy mine since we met," he murmurs. He has the arrogant womanizer look on his face—the same one that probably got him cursed all those centuries ago. The smile makes my heart skip a beat. If he wasn't eating and diddling me at the moment, and if I were still wearing my underwear, my panties would simply incinerate.

  I can do nothing but watch his blond head zeroing in on my pussy like he's a heat-seeking missile and my clit is the target. I should be annoyed at the moment, because laughing during sex is generally not the most flattering thing that can happen. And soon, thinking is the last thing I want to do.