To Find a Viking Treasure (Norse Series Book 2) (13 page)

Sestra shifted slick intimate flesh against his. The angle pressed him high inside her and she cried out, a high, keening pitch. He slammed his hips into Sestra, her feminine wetness making snicking sounds the faster and harder he pushed. Her slender, sinuous neck stretched long. Starlight framed the riot of curls fallen free.

Sif
… fertile, beautiful, life giving.

Sestra’s beauty overwhelmed him, matched only by the storm of want from pushing into her. She set her hands over his on her hips and moaned her pleasure.

Each primal sound she made captured his heart.

“
Shirin-am
.
”
His throat hoarse, the foreign words wrenched free. “
Eshgh-am.”

His muscles tensed from head to toe. Head and shoulders lifted off the fur. He’d bite her if he could. Craving roiled in a hot ball, shooting through him. He rammed into her. Hard. Fast.

One…more…thrust…

A roar ripped from his throat.

His cock pulsated inside Sestra. He grabbed her braid and she fell onto him, the tight sheath of her body milking him, an intimate kiss from her most secret place. He shuddered once. Shuddered again.

Fulfilled. Sated. Wide open to Sestra.

His hands roamed her back, her hips, the side curves of her breasts. Soothing hands calmed her and the beast inside him. Eyes closed, whispered words spilled from him. He was half-aware, floating in between this world and his pleasured state.

Sestra unseated herself and slumped over to the enclosed side of the hudfat. Nestled against him, her breath tickled his chest. She stroked his breast bone and rested her hand there, his amulet of Tyr under her palm.

A slice of cold air touched the other side of his body. He smiled, a sated wild creature, glad to bear the open side of the sleeping fur for Sestra. Her rose hip nipple pressed his rib while the other poked out from the fur. Sestra’s big breasts drove him out of his mind. Smiling with utter contentment, he pulled the fur up, hiding the pink-red fruit. He could never let Sestra know how much he loved her breasts and her big brown eyes. Or her tantalizing freckles. It’d be too much power. The saucy redhead would easily lead him by the nose.

Tender lips pressed his jaw with a gentle kiss. “My thanks. For today. I’ll never regret this time on the island with you.” 

His heart turned to a lump of clay. He’d guess she didn’t want their togetherness to end. Neither did he.

“You’re welcome.”

She settled her head under his chin. “You saved my life, and you’ve been mostly nice.”

Nice?
He mouthed the word in the dark. The trait wasn’t natural or unnatural, simply unknown. He lived a brutal life. Sestra’s voice, honest and humored, chipped away at deep walled-up places.

He knew Sestra, the thrall who served ale. Sestra, the flame-haired tease warriors sought for a tussle. Tart-tongued Sestra who met him in a battle of words, but what else did he know?

Flesh against flesh, she molded her body to his. “You’re right. Two bodies together heat up fast.”

Quiet laughter gathered in his chest. “After what we did, yes.” He kissed the top of her head, finding comfort in their tangled limbs.

He’d never lain this way with a woman, two naked bodies twined together for the night. Stroking her spine, bone-deep contentment covered him, swept from chest to limbs, spreading like a potion. Staring at the wood poles slanted imperfectly together, knowledge hit him hard. One day alone with Sestra was all it took.
He knew.

He loved her.

All summer he’d fought the saucy redhead’s unexplainable draw. Curt jabs and a surly tone were useless weapons against her appeal.

“You’re a good man,” she sighed nearly surrendered to sleep. “You deserve good fortune building your ships on Gotland.”

Gotland.

He flinched. Sestra had stood before him bare-skinned and fearless tonight. She gave him her trust, the one thing he didn’t deserve. Outside the shelter, he’d swear two ravens perched on the log facing the shelter’s opening. Wind stirred the leaves, whispering Odin’s truth:
There are few tokens of ill than a man not knowing how to accept the good.  

Of his choices, did he know which one was for the good?

Eyes growing heavy, his fingertips drew meandering circles on her back. He slowed on the crest of her bottom and settled his hand on a curve he’d swear was formed for him. He knew how to fight, how to scout, and how to build boats. He knew what to do with a woman’s body.

What was he going to do with Sestra’s trust?

Chapter Eight

Brandr was gone.

She sat up fast, the fur dropping from her shoulders. Island air needled bare flesh as sunshine poured through cracks overhead. The Viking wasn’t near. She sensed the loss of his presence the same as she smelled him on her skin. He’d marked her soul. Shifting her hips, a twinge nipped tender skin between her legs. She threw back the fur.

Her warrior scout marked her secret places too.

She rose gingerly and scooted out of the shelter. The forest floor chilled her feet. Birds warbled sweet morning songs. Her russet tunic and white underdress hung from the same low branch as last night, but the spot beside them was conspicuously empty. Brandr’s weapons and bag were missing too.

His vow…he’d not abandon her.

Shivering, she yanked the linen underdress off the tree and tugged it over her head. She snatched her tunic to her chest and bent low for her boots and the small knife, when her ear caught a sound.

Whistling.
From the beach.

Tunic and boots clasped to her bosom, she trod a careful, bare foot path following the music. When she came to the edge of the grass, her heart lurched.

A perfect male form rose from the water.

Brandr. Of course he didn’t desert her. He stood waist-deep in the channel, his big hands rubbing sand everywhere.

She ducked behind a tree and breathed a prayer. “Bless the Vikings for their need of cleanliness.”

Sand made a natural cleanser for tables and cooking pots. Why not enticing male?

She could go back to the shelter. Wait for him. But water splashed, and his whistling—a strange sound from the surly warrior—begged for another peek.

Did last night’s hearty swiving put him in a good mood? She nibbled her lower lip. No highborn woman with silk sheets gave him satisfaction. She did.

Brandr rinsed himself, and her mouth went dry. Morning light glinted on a hundred water beads meandering down his body. She’d take her time, too, if she were a droplet. With full sun this morning, each water spot shined like a diamond stuck to his torso. Ink black hair sprinkled his chest. A natural crease split his torso down the middle, separating muscle born of hard labor and hard fighting. She followed the furrow to its end in water and pressed full-bodied against the tree.

A nasty, apple-sized bruise flared red and purple on his waist. She covered her mouth. Yesterday, the Viking’s hammer had struck him. Plenty of scars marked his chest and arms, tell-tale signs of his brutal, warrior’s life. A big white scar slashed his ribs. Another thick one snaked over his shoulder. And she wanted to explore each one in daylight.

Rough tree bark abraded her tender nipples and bit her cheek. The thin underdress rubbed bothered skin, places she wished he’d touch…softer with his fingers. Last night was a rush. She’d straddled him, yet Brandr rutted hard, feverish and desperate. Her thighs pressed together at the memory.

The Viking scout liked sex the way he lived—rough.

Finding Brandr in the simple act of washing himself was intimate, as flummoxing as his unexpected kiss last night followed by cruel, confusing threats to promising not touch her. He could have taken her anytime this summer. It was the way of things with thralls.

What went on between them was…different until last night, when
she
made a bold advance.

A kiss was one thing, straddling a man, well, that was entirely another. She smiled and her hand slid between her legs. Through linen, her fingers rubbed damp heat as Brandr dunked in the channel. She could tip-toe back to the camp, and he wouldn’t be the wiser for her gawking.

He emerged, wading toward the beach. She made herself small behind the tree. Hair slicked back, Brandr wiped his eyes, the water swishing around him. Carved hips gave way to powerful, sinuous thighs. Between his legs, black hair and his—

“Morning, Sestra,” he drawled.

She knocked her forehead against the tree trunk, heat creeping up her face. This was so wrong to be caught like a maiden taking her first peek at a man.

Brandr pulled his trousers off a rock. “Did you sleep well?”

She sighed. “Very well. And you?” she called back, her nose on the bark.

“Better than I have in a long time thanks to you.”

Skin tingling everywhere she inched out from behind the tree. He grinned and put one leg in his trousers, facing her in all his male glory. Brandr wasn’t in a hurry to get dressed.

“Pagan Northmen,” she scoffed under her breath.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

Nor did she like how in command he was, how utterly undisturbed at being naked out in the open. She strolled across the beach, her gait stiff. It was pure feminine pride, but she wanted him to be more affected by last night. She certainly was with heavy breasts and craving between her legs. Whistling was a good sign, but she wanted him to pounce on her. Sore or not, she wanted to pounce on him.

She stopped a hands breadth from him, her clothes a barrier. Brandr calmly belted his trousers, the sun shining on his wet chest. The iron amulet of Tyr dangled in the hollow at the end of his breastbone. Tiny grains of sand clustered on black hair encircling his nipples.

One confident finger swiped a brown nib with the barest touch. “You missed a spot.”

Brandr’s nipple shrunk and silvery eyes slanted at her.

She gloated through the veil of her lashes and kept up her delicate assault, tracing the black hair around his nipple. Arms at his sides, Brandr’s chin dropped to his chest. His eyes glinted hot and dark, following her finger. She let her clothes drop.

On the side of his torso, her nails raked the angled trenches his ribs and muscles made. She traced a pale scar and reveled at his body expanding and contracting with hoarse breaths under her touch. Spine straight, her fingers skimmed his midline to his navel. This was what she craved…this sense of power.

He grabbed her hands. “Sestra.”

A storm brewed in Brandr’s tarnished eyes. She loved the way he said her name, his voice thick with need. Were other parts of him thickening?

“This—” He kissed her hands folded in his. “—we can’t.”

“You mean last night was a better time? Exhausted as we were fumbling in your sleeping fur? A squirrel’s nest has more room.”

He laughed, the deep rumble caressing her insides. “The fur is made for one.”

“You should do something about that.”

“You weren’t too bothered last night.”

She averted her eyes. No. Last night she rode him like a horse.

“This morning I’ll make up for it,” he said, resting her hands against his chest.

Standing this close, her heart fluttered. This close in daylight she marveled at the colors of his whiskers. Jet black hair covered his square jaw sprinkled with auburns and browns. His smile widened enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. His vague promise barely registered from the joy writ on his face. Happiness came in short supply for Brandr. How good it was to bask in this moment. Rugged, yet, perfect. Like him.

How could she have thought him too hard?

“Pray tell.”

His gaze landed on her collarbone. “You have dried blood here. From the knife tip at your neck,” he said gruffly, and traced the bone with one finger. “I should’ve taken better care of you.”

“It’s nothing. You vanquished two men and saved my life. Just another day for you.”

Brandr ignored her quip and brushed back curls loosened from her braid. “What’s this?”

His thumb caressed the ridged scar curving around her neck. Few ever noticed it. She didn’t pull away, a baffling thing since the mark embarrassed her.

“From days past in the land of the Franks.”

“What happened?”

Droplets sparkled on his shoulder. He smelled of water and earth, the effect warming her better than the sun. The channel lapped the beach behind him. Birds flew overhead. The people of Uppsala strove to throw off the yoke of war, yet alone on this island with Brandr, they could be an ocean away from the tumult.

“I was required to wear an iron collar to keep me from running away.”

He scowled at the scar. “You never told me about this.”

“It’s not something I talk about.” She tried to smile, but his thumb stroked feather-light touches. “Now you know there was a time I desperately wanted my freedom. Mostly to escape the cruelty.”

“When you were a young girl.”

She nodded, her eyelids heavy. This piece of her past, a truth shared, freed her. Her head lolled sideways, all the better for his hand to explore her neck. “It was after my mother died. I was sold to a Frankish farmer. I wanted to run away. To stay near the place she died. I never thought beyond fleeing my circumstances.”

“What happened?”

A cold shiver, shade from the past, passed over her. “I paid a high price.”

Brandr kissed the scar with a caring, gentle peck.

“Now I want freedom the right way…to purchase it and decide my own path.” She tried to breathe but air came in fits and stops. His lips caressed the scar line, brushing back and forth. The soft tease melted her inside, healing soul-deep damage.

Could a man’s kisses blot out a lifetime of pain?

Hidden places on her body waxed hot. She leaned into him, her legs not willing to hold her up. Brandr’s mouth warmed her with lingering kisses, grazing the slope of her shoulder, hovering a hair’s breadth from her skin as if her nearness was enough. His mouth was in no hurry to reach hers. Both his hands skimmed the length of her back, landing on the high curve of her bottom. Big hands palmed her, abrading linen over tender skin.