Jerrik

by Felicity Brandon

A throaty groan escaped Brigid’s lips; her body tensed under his attention, and then, all at once, the energy within her seemed to explode. The pleasure gushed from her pussy, and Jerrik lapped up as much of her desire as he could muster. She was absolutely fucking delicious, and now there was no doubt about it, Brigid was more than ready for his cock.

  Brigid:

  What in the name of God had the Viking done to her? It had been awful enough that he had even conceived the idea of using his mouth on her intimate parts, but then, while his tongue had tormented her, something else had happened. The shame and embarrassment Brigid had been brimming with shifted into something hotter and more compelling, and she knew instinctively that it was pleasure. Worse still, she’d lost herself to it, the sensation just too enthralling to ignore, and as she’d buried her hands into the length of his soft hair, Brigid knew her back was arching and her knees were splaying wider. She wanted to invite the Viking in, she needed to, and as though he could read her mind, Jerrik had plundered her with one of his enormous digits.

  Oh Gods!

  Something about the way he filled her drove her wild, and Brigid was vaguely aware of the carnal moans that escaped her lips, but it was too late now. Too late for decorum. Too late for any conscious thought. All there had been was his mouth, his tongue, and those incredible hands. The gravelly sound of his voice met her ears, although Brigid couldn’t be sure what he had said. Once his tongue flicked over the front of her sex again, though, something seemed to ignite inside her. The wall of pleasure hit her, reminiscent of the angry waves of the winter, consuming her every reflex without question, and Brigid was helpless, her body convulsing for him.

  His face appeared from between her legs, Jerrik’s gaze like liquid sin as his whole visage came into view. Whatever high she had reached was still consuming her, but Brigid was vaguely aware of his heat and the wetness of his beard against the side of her neck. The head of his cock pressed at her entrance, but unlike her previous experiences, Brigid found she actually wanted the thing to fill her. Now she was nothing but a hot, empty void that needed to be filled, over and over, by his massive Viking manhood. Brazenly, she pushed her hips up to meet him, inviting him to impale her.

  He thrust between her legs, and she called out, unsure how anything could be this good. Acting on some instinctive reflex, she clawed at his huge, powerful shoulders, though Brigid had no idea why. She didn’t want Jerrik to stop—that much was obvious—in fact, as he possessed her once more, Brigid thought she might never want him to stop. She had not contemplated pleasure like this, but now that she was aware of it, to hell with the crops and the village hierarchy. She needed more of this—more of this hedonism, and though it surprised her to admit it, more of him.

  8

  Brigid

  He was gone before the light of dawn, the departure of his body leaving her oddly bereft. Brigid did not know what the etiquette was for this moment. Her husband was going to battle and could very well never return, and yet they barely even knew one another. Brigid was conflicted by her emotions on the subject as she heard him leave. Would she ever see him again, and would it even matter if the answer was no? Perhaps their coupling last night had been the best of what their union had to offer? Maybe it was better if that was how she remembered him.

  The day passed in a relatively usual fashion after that. Bram awoke, apparently unaware of his mother’s marriage with the Viking, and Brigid decided it was right to leave things that way—at least for the time being. She occupied herself with cooking for Bram, working at her loom, and tending to the crops, also visiting the chicken coop as part of her normal routine. On occasion, her mind flitted to Jerrik, yet still she could not decide how she felt about the man. She’d had no real desire for this marriage, and yet there was no denying it, their carnal union last evening had been nothing short of spectacular. Somehow, the idea that they might never have another night together made her melancholy, although Brigid was more than aware that idea was folly. She had never intended to take another husband and would almost certainly have remained in solitude had Eithne’s plan not come to fruition.

  As the day dragged on, the gnawing anxiety in her belly clenched. Brigid kept herself to herself, hardly in the mood to socialise with the other women. She chatted briefly to Ytha at the chicken coop, but it didn’t help. She didn’t want to talk about Jerrik. She didn’t know what to think about him herself, but somehow, Brigid could never shake that low-lying sense of dread that he might not return at all. There was no news about any of the Vikings, and the village seemed oddly quiet to her after the celebrations of the day before.

  It was unsettling.

  Brigid returned to her small dwelling, preparing Bram for bed in the usual way. She intended to go back to the fire with the rest of the villagers who were awaiting the men’s return, and that was when the sound of raised voices in the distance caught her attention. She knew instantly what the noise was.

  The Vikings!

  The men had returned!

  Her heart raced as the realisation washed over her. Where was Jerrik? Was he with them? Was he injured? Did he need her help? A sudden well of concern surfaced within her chest, and Brigid was forced to acknowledge the truth of the situation—she did care about him. She was his wife now, and it was her duty to care, but it was more than that; she wanted him to be well.

  After checking on Bram, she rushed for the door, pulling it open just in time to run into the wall of muscle that was her husband. His body was dirty, covered in a grim combination of earth and blood, and he looked exhausted, but he was there. He was alive.

  “Jerrik!” His name left her lips in an excited rush, and his mouth seemed to curl in response.

  “My little Pict.” He rested one strong arm on the low roof, leaning over her frame. “This is a pleasant welcome.”

  She swallowed at his words. In her race to go and find him, she had inadvertently stumbled straight into the man himself. Brigid wondered if she seemed weak and desperate to see him, but for the life of her she didn’t care.

  “I was just coming to see you,” she mumbled by means of reply. “I thought I heard the return of your men.”

  Jerrik nodded at her. “Aye,” he concurred. “We are returned in triumph, although my jarl has been injured.”

  “Brandr?” she gasped, thinking of the strong leader she had met only the day before yesterday. “How is he? Will he live?”

  His face blanched as he apparently recalled the wound. “He seemed grave,” Jerrik said in a serious tone. “His fate is in the hands of the gods now.”

  Brigid peered around his enormous body. The centre of the village appeared to be a hive of activity, and there were a number of the women already responding to the crisis.

  “Should I go and offer to help?”

  Jerrik’s large palm appeared at her face, stroking back the loose strands of her hair. “My jarl is well attended,” he assured her. “He has his wife, plus others have already offered to heal him.”

  Brigid sighed. Most likely it was Sigrunn and Ailsa he’d referred to. Their abilities to remedy most wounds was well known in the village—unlike Brigid’s. She eyed the frenzy of activity with some level of envy. She had no discernible healing skills, her only real asset being how able she was at the loom.

  “Wife.”

  Jerrik’s hand tightened at her chin, and the sound of his voice drew Brigid from her self-imposed stupor.

  “Whilst I appreciate your concern for my jarl, I am your husband, just home from battle, and I should like a little of your attention, too.”

  She gazed up at him guiltily. Jerrik was right. She’d spent a lot of the day thinking about him, and now he was here. She could thank God later for his safe return. Right now, her job was to welcome him home.

  “My apologies,” she murmured, retreating back inside the house. “There is still food in the pot. Can I get you some?”

  He closed the door firmly behind him, but she noted how much quieter the effort was compa
red to last evening. “Yes,” he agreed, pulling his weapons from about his person. “I should like that.”

  Brigid served the broth at once, watching him strip in her peripheral vision. She wasn’t sure how, but she hadn’t quite taken in the sheer extent of the man yesterday, and the look of him now almost took her breath away.

  “Here,” she mumbled, offering the bowl of hot broth in the place he now sat. “I hope it is to your liking.”

  Their eyes locked as he accepted the food, and there was just a flicker of something unholy in his eyes—something that told her the broth wasn’t the only thing that was going to be devoured that night. Reflexively, Brigid’s nipples tightened into painful buds at the mere thought of what Jerrik might have in mind.

  “Was it made with your own fair hands?” he asked, raising his face from the bowl.

  She nodded. “Aye, it was,” she confirmed. “It is one of Bram’s favourites. Perhaps it will agree with you, too.”

  Jerrik inhaled the scent of the thick liquid in the bowl. “Smells good,” he said, smiling. “Sit with me while I eat.”

  Brigid sensed that was not a request, and a part of her was disgruntled by the way he seemed happy to order her around—in her own house, no less—but she complied anyway. He was home, apparently in good physical condition, and he had just offered her a compliment, so Brigid resolved she should also respond positively.

  “How was the battle?” she enquired tentatively, taking her place beside his practically nude body. She watched Jerrik lift the bowl to his lips and tip some of the broth into his mouth. “I know nothing of such things, but I know too many of our own men have fought and never come home.”

  Her voice trailed away as she recollected the great many young, fit, Pictish men the village had lost in recent times.

  “They did not have our gods on their side,” Jerrik told her with a wink before he wiped the remaining broth from his lips with the back of his hands.

  Brigid narrowed her eyes at his assertion, but the sound of his laughter dissolved the tension in her belly.

  “I speak only in jest,” he told her in a softer tone. “War is a beast, little Pict—there is no doubt about it. Only real warriors can enjoy the challenge of battle.”

  She swallowed at his words. “And do you enjoy it?” she probed.

  Brigid couldn’t believe that anyone could possibly enjoy such heinous brutality.

  “I do,” he agreed with a nod. “Or, at least, I have done. But I had nothing to lose in the past—no one at home waiting for my return—and now I find that has changed.”

  Those pale-blue eyes sparkled at his sentiment, and Brigid found herself smiling as she considered it. “I’m glad you think that way,” she replied in barely a whisper. “I was concerned for you today.”

  Jerrik shifted the bowl into his left hand and reached across to squeeze her palm. She glanced down at the large, dirty flesh that encased hers.

  “I thought of you as well,” he conceded, swallowing down another mouthful of broth. “And Bram. I haven’t even met the boy yet.”

  She glanced towards the place where her son was sleeping. “You just missed him,” she explained. “He needs a lot of sleep.”

  He chuckled. “Growing boys do,” he responded. “I was much the same. Tomorrow then?”

  Brigid nodded. She had barely given any thought to how she would introduce Jerrik to her son. With hindsight, she should probably have laid the foundation of that meeting today, but Brigid hadn’t even known if her husband would return, and she hadn’t wanted to upset Bram.

  “Yes,” she agreed, forcing a smile to light her face. “You’ll meet tomorrow.”

  9

  Jerrik

  The thrills of the battlefield had still been exhilarating, but it was true that something had changed for Jerrik, and as he drained the remaining broth from the bowl, he was well aware what the difference was. She was sitting smiling at him right at that moment. His mind had been rather more preoccupied today, and that was down to Brigid. Flashes of the curve of her breasts and the smooth skin of her belly had filled his mind throughout the day, and he was forced to catch his breath when he should have been bloodthirsty. It was not an ideal state with a sword in your hand and the lives of your kin at stake.

  While it was not unusual for him to think about carnality, the passion he’d shared with Brigid last evening was unique. After her initial protests about Bram, she’d seemed so soft and pliant, and the mere thought of her hot tight cunt roused his cock.

  “I have some water remaining,” she told him in a quiet tone. “If you’d like to clean up?”

  He could tell by her hesitant tone that the little Pict was keen not to offend him with her comment, but as his gaze fell over his palms, he acknowledged she was right. He was filthy. One of the disadvantages of being away from Skalanes for so long was that he rarely got the opportunity to bathe properly, a fact that Jerrik deeply regretted.

  “Thank you,” he replied, putting the bowl down on the floor beside him. “And for the broth, it was tasty.”

  Jerrik watched a small blush creep across her pretty cheeks. She was obviously pleased he’d enjoyed the meal, and the thought also contented him. He’d never given much consideration to what would make a good wife, but for sure, his top two priorities would have been a woman who could fill his stomach and please his cock, and Brigid appeared to be both. The fact she was also easy to talk to and something of a beauty made the union even more satisfactory.

  She climbed from her place on the floor beside him and scampered over to a smaller pot by the side of the fire. “It should still be warm,” she told him, bending to lift the container.

  “No—let me,” Jerrik commanded, leaping to his feet to join her.

  “I can manage,” she insisted, but her protests were futile.

  Jerrik was already there, his large arms wrapping around the pot as he prepared to raise the thing.

  Brigid sighed. “I have always done this on my own before.”

  The poor woman sounded exasperated.

  “Well, you do not need to struggle on your own anymore,” he told her, carrying the pot back to his place. “You have a big, strong, Viking husband now.”

  He met her eye as he resumed his original spot on the floor, his gaze daring her to defy him. Brigid met his challenge with a coy smile.

  “I am unused to having one of those,” she admitted, moving back towards him.

  “That is understandable,” Jerrik said with a shrug. “But life has changed now for both of us.”

  He plunged his hands into the water, splashing it over his face and chest in an attempt to wash away the evidence of his day.

  “I will fetch some fresh water for us tomorrow,” he assured her.

  Brigid only smiled, as though she had suspected he might say such a thing, but she didn’t offer a reply. Instead, she reached behind him for a pile of furs, offering the top one to her husband. Jerrik took it gladly, drying the excess water from his body.

  “Thank you, wife,” he told her. “That is much better. I may enjoy battle, but I do not enjoy the lingering reminders of the fray.”

  She blinked at him, apparently unsure how to respond, so Jerrik took the initiative. Rising from his place, he carried the pot of dirty water to the front door, leaving it beside the entrance for the morning, before he turned to his wife. Just the look of her swelled his manhood.

  “Time for us to retire,” he murmured, closing the distance between them again, and the expression on her face told Jerrik that Brigid knew exactly what he had in mind.

  Brigid:

  Jerrik followed her into the bedchamber, closing the door behind them. She had already lit a few candles in preparation for sleep, but as Brigid assessed the sinful look on her husband’s face, she had an idea it wasn’t sleep he had come for.

  “How did you enjoy our coupling last night?”

  He was right behind her now, his powerful arms snaking around her waist, his voice vibrating at her nap
e. Brigid squeezed her eyes closed at the heady sensation.

  “It was…” She hesitated, a little unsure what to say. Was it too wanton for a married woman to concede how much she had revelled in the sexual attention of her husband?

  “What?” he demanded in a hot, sensual tone. The muscles at the apex of her thighs clenched reflexively at the sound.

  Brigid arched her back, tilting her head to try to catch his eye. Jerrik was so damn tall, that even from this position, she had to wait for his gaze to lower and meet her own.

  “Not like anything else I’ve known before,” she conceded in an embarrassed whisper.

  He grinned down at her. “I’m pleased to hear it,” he growled in what seemed like more of a playful tone than a threatening one. “Because I am far from done with you, wife.”

  Brigid gulped at the errant expression in those icy-blue eyes, but her sex was wet and ready for him—just like before. Seemingly, there was something about the man that allured her. Of course, he was physically impressive, but surely it was more than that? It was Jerrik’s demeanour that made her core ache with need, the authority in his voice and the way he made almost impossible-sounding demands seem reasonable. Yes, there was definitely something about him…

  “Why are you still dressed?”

  The arms snaked at her waist relaxed with those words, and Brigid gasped, glancing down at her messy day dress.

  “I…” she began. “I did not think.”

  Jerrik circled her body, pausing once they were face to face. “Then let me help.”

  She glanced up at his resolute tone, initially uncertain of his meaning until he swooped, reaching for the hem of her gown and hoisting it up towards her head. Brigid’s gasp was lost in the fabric as it passed over her face, and one swift yank by Jerrik saw it leave her body altogether.

  “Now, that is much better.” He pressed her nudity against his flesh. “Much better indeed.”