Besieged (4 page)

Peggy chewed on her lower lip as she
glanced to the right, absently taking note of the dogsled racing neck-to-neck
with the one she was seated in. Two men were riding in that one, while Peggy,
her captor, and a fourth man she took to be named Aevar were all riding over
the tundra in another one.

All of the men, Peggy noted, had that same
lost-in-time look about them that her original captors had possessed. They were
tall men—veritable giants in terms of their extreme height and brawn. She
accurately guessed that all of them were somewhere in the range of six and a
half feet or better, weighing in at two hundred and fifty to three hundred
pounds of solid muscle mass.

Stranger still was the way they were
dressed. They reminded her of Vikings from old with their long manes of hair,
their intricate arm bangles, and their buckskin clothing and leather boots.

Even the tattoos they sported appeared like
ritualistic markings rather than mere decoration. The man who had captured her,
for instance, the one whose legs she was currently sitting between, was heavily
tattooed on both his back and his left arm. His back, she had noticed before
he’d wrapped himself into an animal skin, was completely covered with intricate
and mysterious markings, the bluish-green pigment expertly woven into his skin.
His bulging left arm carried the design of a dragon, the long serpentine body
snaking up from the wrist, the head making its appearance at the bicep.

It was as if all of these men had been
catapulted from the year 850 in Norway and then thrust into modern day Alaska,
never realizing along the way that the heyday of their people had long since
passed. She wondered how such a noticeably different culture of men could have
gone on so long without being found out by what they would deem to be
outlanders. From an anthropological standpoint, Peggy was fascinated. From a
personal standpoint, she was terrified.

Peggy’s body stiffened as her captor’s
large, callused hands reached under the polar bear furs she was swaddled in and
palmed her breasts from behind. He had done this once before during the trip,
but she had thought he was going to leave her alone when he’d abruptly ended
the contact in order to speak with Aevar in that odd tongue they spoke in.

This captor, Peggy thought warily, was
nobody’s fool. He wasn’t even giving her a chance at thinking she might escape
him, for rather than sitting at the front of the sled with his comrade, he had
chosen to sit at the back with Peggy kneeling before him, her back to his
front.

“I want you to send word to their people,”
her captor said in heavily accented English to Aevar, the man guiding the
dogsled. His hands gently kneaded her breasts, “that they need to collect their
dead.” He paused. “And I want them to know why,” he said in a soft but
commanding tone.

She assumed he was conversing in English
only because he’d wanted her to understand what he was saying, assumed too that
he had been speaking about her original captors, the ones they’d killed out on
the tundra. She swallowed roughly, the memory a portent reminder of what could
happen to her if she tried to escape.

“It’s done, Wolf,” the other man said.
“I’ll take care of it as soon as we return to the village.”

Peggy’s eyes widened slightly.
Wolf
…

The man the original captors had spoken of?
The man who had been hunting her out on the tundra that day Benjamin had gotten
scared?

Shit.

Her breathing stilled when her new captor’s
thumbs rubbed over her distended nipples. She breathed in raggedly, fright and
arousal at war in her body. He seemed to sense her tumultuous reactions for his
forefingers got into the action then, his thumbs and index fingers plucking at
her stiff nipples with expert precision, massaging them again and again from
root to tip.

Peggy blinked a few times in rapid
succession, determined to shake the arousal off. She expelled a shaky breath,
uncertain as to what she should do.

But, of course, there was nothing to be
done. She had no choice in the matter, and her captor didn’t seem inclined to
stop fondling her anytime soon.

He played with her breasts throughout the
remainder of the trip, a journey that was beginning to feel endless. She could
feel his steel-hard erection poking against her back, could hear the arousal in
his thickly murmured words as he bent his head to her ear. “All will be well,
Peggy Brannigan—” She stilled, surprised that he knew her name—”I vow that no
harm will come to you by my people’s hands.” She swallowed, but nodded,
grateful for at least that much revelation of what was to become of her.

He didn’t speak to her again after that,
but his hands continued kneading her breasts and massaging her stiff nipples.
After several minutes of this attention, she found it harder and harder to
fight the arousal, and eventually gave up altogether.

Breathing deeply, Peggy’s heavy eyelids
closed as she leaned her coppery-gold head back on his knees. Her captor seemed
pleased by that, for his mouth lowered to her neck and placed tantalizing
kisses at her pulse while his hands continued to toy with her breasts.

Peggy sighed softly. With her erogenous
zones being manipulated as they were, she began having small orgasms that
couldn’t be stopped. By the time the dogsleds came to a halt that night and her
captor removed his hands from her breasts, he had given her four small orgasms.
A fact that she could tell pleased him immensely.

This intimate play went on for the next
three days and nights. When they would camp for the night, her captor
Geirwolf—Wolf to his comrades—would sleep beside her in the makeshift tent,
fondling her body into orgasm, but never making a move to penetrate her or to
force her to touch him. She knew he was hard the entire time, and yet not once
did he lose control. He brought her to peak more times than she could count,
his hands always roaming about and caressing her nude body.

From both an anthropological and personal
standpoint, Peggy knew that the man’s methods were getting to her.
Psychologically speaking, it was difficult at best to fear a man who brought
you endless pleasure and asked for nothing for himself in return. At worst, it
was impossible…even if that man was holding you captive against your will.

During the days when they were riding by
dogsled, her captor would stroke and fondle her breasts the entire time, giving
her mini-orgasms. Sometimes he would even stroke her pussy, though he never
permitted her to have big climaxes this way.

This method of conditioning served to work
her up, making her body so aroused that by the time nighttime came and they
were alone in the tent together once again, she was less and less resistant to
his touch. He would fondle her in earnest then, not stopping until she came
violently at least twice, whereupon she would fall asleep in his arms, feeling
safe and unnervingly secure.

By the third night, Peggy found herself
willingly spreading her legs for Geirwolf, so he could play in her cunt. His
icy blue eyes raked over her naked body, over her puffed up pussy, watching
intently as she used her fingers to spread her labial lips for him.

It was unnerving—knowing that she was being
conditioned as easily, if not more easily, than Pavlov’s Dog.

“Very beautiful,” he murmured, his hot,
sweet breath close to her cunt. It was one of the few things he had ever said
to her, for he almost never spoke. “Would you like me to kiss you down here?”

Peggy wetted her lips. “Yes.” He’d never
done that to her before. Until this night he had used only his hands. Her
breasts heaved as she expelled a shaky breath, her nipples jutting upward.
“Yes, please kiss me down there,” she whispered.

Her captor lowered his face between her
legs, wasting no time as his mouth latched around her clit and vigorously
suckled it. She groaned, arching her hips, grinding her cunt into his face.
“Yes,” she whispered, her head rolling back and her eyes closing. “That feels
so good.”

He sucked on her clit harder, growling low
in his throat. It was the first time she’d ever heard him express an
out-of-control emotion and she found that it only fueled her own fire. She
shouldn’t want this, her mind rebelled. And yet her back arched as a breathy
moan rushed from her lips, her legs simultaneously wrapping around his neck as
if to draw his face in closer and closer to her aroused flesh.

Peggy gasped as her orgasm approached. Her
breathing grew labored and her hips flared up. She was going to come hard, she
knew. She was going to—

“Wolf!” a man’s voice called out from the
other side of the tent. Peggy sighed, feeling an odd sense of disappointment
when her captor kissed her clit, then raised his face from between her legs.

“Ja?” He drew up to his knees and opened
the tent flap for the other man to poke his head through.

Peggy recoiled, her eyes wide when Aevar’s
head emerged into the tent. Aevar, a grim looking but handsome dark-haired man,
had been quite kind to her these past few days, but she was embarrassed at the
thought of yet another male seeing her naked. Already three had—her original
captors and Geirwolf.

She tried to close her thighs so Aevar
couldn’t see her nudity, but her captor wouldn’t let her. Geirwolf’s large hand
fell to her still-aroused cunt, playing in it as if marking his territory. She
blushed when Aevar’s gaze fell to her exposed pussy.

Neither male paid her any more attention as
they conversed with each other in their preferred tongue. Geirwolf continued to
stroke her pussy in a possessive, branding fashion, but otherwise had his
attention focused on what was being said to him.

She felt calmed once again when it became
apparent that her body was not the focal point of attention. She climaxed with
Aevar’s face still poking through the tent, unable to stop her body’s reaction.
Geirwolf ceased playing with her clit after that, his fingers absently stroking
through her soft pubic hair instead as if petting her for a job well done.

A few minutes later, rather than resuming
the sexual play after Aevar left as she’d assumed he would, her captor fell
tiredly onto his back, his callused hands running through his sunny blonde hair
on a sigh that coming from any other man would have sounded weary. Since his
eyes were closed, she allowed herself to study him for the first time since
she’d been captured.

He was a handsome man, she had to admit.
Very harsh looking with his never-smiling expression, chiseled features, and
icy blue eyes, yet handsome nonetheless. His body was pure muscle—the hardest
and biggest musculature she’d ever seen on a male up close and personal. And he
was tall, very tall. Probably closer to seven feet than six. She was certain
that if he stretched out completely, his legs would poke through the tent flap.

Peggy’s gaze fell to his exposed, and
highly erect, manhood. Geirwolf always slept naked, the same as he made her
sleep, but he never did anything about it. She found herself wondering why. She
supposed he just wanted her to get accustomed to his nudity, accustomed too to
how big his swollen penis was, before he upped the proverbial ante.

She glanced away. Her gaze trailed back up
to his grim, exhausted face. He looked weary and troubled, yet she knew he’d
never tell her why.

She supposed she shouldn’t care why.

Peggy bit her lip, briefly contemplating
the insane thought of lowering her mouth to his stiff cock and latching her
lips around it. To comfort him? To give him pleasure? She hadn’t a clue.

Sighing at her troubled thoughts and
equally disturbing compulsions, she flipped over onto her side, her back to
him, and released a ragged breath. This was ridiculous. What she had
contemplated doing to him was downright obscene given the circumstances.

Peggy’s nostrils flared, anger coursing
through her. She would not succumb to that man ever again, she vowed. If he
meant to rape her, then he would have to do just that. Never again would she
willingly spread her thighs for him. Never again would she allow him to fondle
her without a fight. This was her life, damn it! She wasn’t going to give it
up, wasn’t going to forget who she was, just because it seemed more expedient
at the moment.

Stay focused, Peggy. Stay focused…

“You belong to me now.”

Peggy’s breathing stilled at the sound of
those softly spoken, matter-of-fact words. She bit her lip, comprehending the
fact that he’d never let her go easily. For whatever reason—breeding, sex,
whatever—this man wanted her. And he meant to keep her.

Geirwolf rolled onto his side, his
muscular, dragon-tattooed arm draping over her body. She swallowed roughly when
his fingers found the soft coppery curls between her thighs and began to idly
sift through them.

“I hope you accept this soon,” he murmured
in that Old World accent. He placed a kiss on her shoulder. “I would not have
you unhappy.”

Peggy said nothing, though she felt like
crying. How would she ever escape him? she wondered. How could she ever hope to
elude a man who never left her side?

There was a long silence and then, “If you
would not have me unhappy,” she whispered to him, “you would free me.”

His fingers stilled in her pussy hair. “I
will make you happier than you thought possible, Peggy Brannigan.” The words
would have sounded arrogant coming from anyone else, but from him they sounded
like a mere statement of fact. His fingers resumed their lazy exploration of
her intimate curls. “This is a promise.”

Peggy bit her lip. She thought back on the
customs of the ancient Vikings, particularly about their method for acquiring
brides. Panic bubbled up inside, constricting her throat.

Way back when if a Viking marauder coveted
a woman he simply stole her away, keeping her as a captive until she’d fallen
in love with him and no longer desired to leave him. Only then, when he was
certain of her devotion, was she allowed to roam about unattended, her freedom
semi-restored.