Strokes Vol #3 (13 page)

The next morning,
Inga held up a wrapped bundle of food. “For your journey.”

Torvald took the package and set it his wife’s hands. “My wife thanks you.”

“Yes, thank you, Inga,” Solvi said, adding a dig of her elbow against his ribs.

Torvald grinned at Hahn, careful not to let Solvi see, and then pulled the reins. Lothar, whose eyes were almost swollen shut, still managed a smile as he stared at Torvald who’d refused a second horse although it forced his wife to once more share his saddle. He didn’t understand that Torvald planned to enjoy her discomfort. No matter which way she leaned, she couldn’t escape the ache between her legs. He’d done that. Likely every person in the longhouse had heard her keening cries each time he’d sent her flying toward Asgard.

He whistled as they headed back down the mountain they’d climbed the previous evening.

“Um, Torvald?”

His smile deepened at the husky sound of her voice when she said his name. “Yes, wife.”

“Are we not heading toward my father’s lands?”

“No.”

“So, we aren’t returning for the celebration?”

“No.”

She stayed silent for a moment, shifted again, and then let out a breath. “Are we going to your home?”

“No.”

She leaned away and turned her head to give him a hot glare. “If not to my father’s or to your holdings, then where are we going?”

Torvald couldn’t help himself. He grinned like a boy. His pleasure in his wife had been there for everyone to see that morning. Thor’s balls, he hadn’t been able to keep his hands from her shapely arse throughout their morning feast. “We are taking a journey. Consider it my wedding gift.”

Her frown lessened, and her gaze dipped to his smile then back to his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“Do you fancy Iceland for the summer?”

Her jaw dropped and before he knew it, she climbed awkwardly around until her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms hugged his neck in a surprisingly strong grip. Her kiss was hard and not well-placed, landing on his chin, then his nose, and cheeks, but finally, finding his mouth.

When she drew away, tears filled her eyes. “You would do this for me?”

“I would do this for us,” he said softly. “Soon enough, we will have to face our responsibilities. But first, we will get to know one another doing something we will both enjoy.”

Her radiant smile was beautiful, her ice blue eyes melting with tears. “Thank you.”

Torvald gave her a smug smile. Training a
Skjaldmær
to be a wife was a pleasurable task indeed.

‡

I
held my
iPhone in front of me as far as my arm could reach and took a picture then quickly sent the selfie to my Facebook page.
Yes! I don’t know how Syl managed to talk me into it, but I’m at HardCox!!! Happy birthday, me!

I posted the photo, then slipped my phone back into my purse, which I’d placed beneath the small round table where Sylvia, Heather, and I sat next to the raised stage.

“You took a picture of yourself?” Sylvia giggled and held out her hand. “Give me that phone!”

“No way, you’ll just post pictures of the dancers’ asses.”

“And their
hoses!”

My eyes bugged. “Don’t you even think about it! My mama would be horrified!”

I was already beyond mortified at being here—a male strip club, of all places. Syl didn’t have to add kerosene to the fire burning in my cheeks. Although convincing me to come hadn’t been all that hard. She’d had me at one name:
Johnny Blaze
.

So I had a thing for firefighters. Or, at least, one in particular—who didn’t even know I existed. The picture on the sandwich board outside the club—of a fireman wearing suspenders attached to the hose covering his privates—had been the deciding factor after I’d dug my heels into the concrete sidewalk when I’d realized where she was leading me. His body reminded me of my secret crush. And Syl knew all about my private infatuation. She’d pointed to the board, then, while my jaw slackened, whipped me through the entrance.

Now, she laughed and lifted her Mai Tai, eyes shining with devilment. “See anyone you’d like to take home?”

I eyed the dancer currently on the stage now—“Davy Crockett”—who wore a coonskin hat and a striped, bushy tail covering his parts while he did the helicopter, much to the delight of the audience whooping and hollering all around us.

“Nope,” I said tightlipped. My own gaze followed that twirling tail, hypnotized. It had been forever since I’d seen a cock. To see one with a bushy tail was just bizarre. I raised my voice to be heard over the loud rock music. “How long do we have to stay?”

Syl shook her head and raised a finger in the air to hail a beer-bitch with a tray of Jell-O shots. A blue cup landed on the table in front of me. Rather than fight Syl, I raised the drink and threw it back, gagging a little before gulping it down.

Alcohol never sat right with me. It made me hot. Something I didn’t need now, because my cheeks were already a fiery beet-red. Alcohol, added to the tanned, waxed, buff bodies gyrating so close that splatters of sweat already spotted my blouse, left me feeling completely out of my element. The only reason I was still sitting here was because I had to see Johnny Blaze—not that any stripper would match up to the man of my fantasies.

Davy Crockett raised his arms over his head and did a flip, landing near the edge of the stage, his beaver tail slapping his belly then his thighs.

I couldn’t help where my gaze landed—I wondered how much was furry sock and how much was his pleasure stick. Lord, the man was probably gay, anyway. I slid the napkin from under my drink and fanned my face.

The music stopped. A handsome man dressed in dark slacks and a black leather vest walked to the center of the stage. “Evenin’, ladies,” he said into the microphone he held, his thick Texas drawl sweet as syrup.

The crowd shouted back, “Evenin’, Jason.”

The women knew the announcer by name? Good lord, they needed to get a life.

Then he snagged my attention… “We have a birthday girl in the audience!” The audience erupted in laughter and catcalls.

My eyes rounded. I shot a look at Syl. “
Nooo
….”

Syl smiled slyly back. “You’re only twenty-five once, cupcake.”

Two nearly nude men swished through the curtain at the back of the stage, one a bald white dude wearing a biker’s bandana and leather chaps. The other was a black man with a chest a bodybuilder would cry over.

Jason cupped a hand over his eyes and scanned the audience. “Where can she be?”

Syl and Heather bounced in their seats, arms flying, hands pointing toward me.

I hunched low, wondering if I could crawl beneath the table. The two burly men were coming straight for me.

“Syl, I’m going to kill you,” I said in a harsh whisper.

Her smile was so broad I didn’t know how her face didn’t split in half. “You are going to thank me, baby girl. Just you wait.”

When both men flanked me, I stubbornly kept my gaze lowered, pretending I didn’t see them. But the black guy gripped my elbow and gently brought me to my feet. Then the two very muscular men formed a chair with their arms and pushed the “seat” beneath me, nudging me hard enough to collapse my knees. As they swept me up, I gripped their arms, sure they’d drop me as they climbed the stairs to the stage.

I’m not a little girl. At five-foot-eight and nearly 180 pounds, I gave them a workout—not that they seemed to strain. A wooden chair had been brought to the center of the stage. They stood me in front of it, then the biker pressed me down with a hand on my shoulder.

Knowing I was going to have to go with it or look like a complete coward, I flopped into the chair and folded my arms across my chest.

Jason produced two large white squares and raised high them over his head. The crowd began to chant. “
Hoo-hoo-hoo!
”

Not until he handed them to the biker and both men went on their knees did I understand. “Uh…why do I need knee pads?”

The biker flashed a brilliant smile. “To save your pretty knobs, sweetheart.”

My eyebrows crept up. I wanted to ask why, but I suspected his answer would send me dashing off the stage.

Biker boy slipped off my pump and smoothed a pad up my calf, fitting it to my knee. His buddy did the same, thankfully not at the same time or I’d have wound up flashing my crotch.

I was having serious misgivings about my outfit now—a shortish black skirt that had seemed flirty but demure when I’d dressed at home and a black, short-sleeved button-down blouse. With large silver hoops and a thick silver cuff, I looked “cute but casual,” or so Syl had said when she’d scoured my closet for just the right outfit. Since our destination had been a secret until we pulled into a parking lot, I hadn’t given her choice of wardrobe another thought.

Now I wished I’d worn jeans, something to cover the length of white leg the men were still fondling. Biker dude stood, lifted me to my feet with a firm hand at my elbow, then marched me to the edge of the stage.

With Syl and Heather grinning like idiots, I knew he wasn’t just sending me back to my chair. Behind me, the curtain whooshed again. The crowd drove to their feet, whistles and shouts rising so loud I wanted to cover my ears. I didn’t dare look back.

“John-
nee
! John-
nee
! John-
nee
!”

My heart stuttered then burst into a wild tattoo. Heat burned my cheeks—but also began to pool between my legs. Funny how a little thing like a man with a hose can turn a girl’s insides all weepy.

Biker dude gripped my shoulders and forced me to turn.

Johnny Blaze stood, framed by the curtain, his fireman’s hat tipped low in front, the stage lights gleaming on the shiny top and shadowing his features. His tanned chest and ripped abs were bare except for red suspenders—thankfully, attached to yellow turnout pants. His large feet were encased by black boots. He raised a finger and curled it—twice.

I shook my head, glancing behind me to find the stairs, but gentle pressure on my shoulders forced me to my knees.

“Gotta crawl, Bridget,” biker dude drawled. “All the way on your knees.”

He knew my name? Kneeling, I cut him a quick glance. “I’m in a skirt.”

His smile gleamed white against his darkly tanned face. “I know. Sweet how that worked out.”

And because I knew I’d been set up, and that I couldn’t back away from the challenge now, I bent, pulled my skirt down in the back to cover my ass, and started to crawl on hands and knees toward the fireman who stood stock still, his hands fisted on his hips.

Lord, he looked so much like my inappropriate crush that what had been a trickle became a warm gush against my panties. I imagined it was him, that he had me in my bedroom, crawling toward him and his lovely baggy pants. The things I’d do…

Only the closer I drew, the deeper my suspicions grew.

His chest rose and fell too quickly—not something I’d expect from a guy who hadn’t yet danced his way around the stage. His expression was hidden, but the angle of his jaw, so rigid, so still, reminded me of the new fireman in my hometown I’d been lusting after for weeks.

Rather than contemplate my very embarrassing trek across the stage, I thought about the man who’d been on my mind since I’d first spied him. The reception desk at the library faced the front door, which had wide glass panels looking onto the main street and the fire station on the other side. I’d spent weeks leaning on an elbow and sighing over the new guy, the one Syl said was single and not a player. She’d been trying to hook me up for weeks, inviting me to drop by with cookies for the men—something I’d done in the past, but which I’d refrained from doing since
his
arrival because I didn’t want to seem too eager or desperate.

Besides, what would someone who looked like that want with me?

I kept crawling, but suddenly, two thick legs gripped my waist. Biker dude straddled my waist, but kept his weight from me. With one hand gripping my shoulder, he gave my ass a slap.

“Don’t stop now,” he said loudly, slapping me lightly as I crawled faster, his body hopping to keep pace with me. The problem was, his thighs dragged at my skirt, and soon I felt cool air brushing against my bottom. I tried to reach back, but he was in the way. “My skirt!”

“Don’t worry about it, sugar! Gotta have those birthday spanks.”

My face got hotter; I started to sweat. I crawled, tugging his thighs along with me until I was three feet from Johnny Blaze, who had yet to move.

Biker dude stepped away. I pulled my skirt back over my ass, one cheek burning. A chair appeared beside me. Johnny moved, sat with his legs spread, and patted his muscled thigh.

The gesture was deliberate. I shook my head and glanced up again, seeing his face for the first time. My jaw dropped.

With a flourish, he tossed his hat away, grabbed my upper arm, and hauled me over his lap, face down.

Pushing up, I tried to lean away, but he stuck his elbow in my back, and I collapsed, the undersides of my breasts riding the side of one huge thigh. “What are you doing here?” I whispered harshly.