Free Malice Striker by Jianne Carlo Page A

repeat the act twice in one night. Another notion made her frown, then grin. Her blindness mattered naught to him. She liked him more and more, this husband. He loved his sister, treated all fairly, and his touch sent her to an ecstatic realm she had never dreamed existed.
     
    * * *
     
     
    Brökk lay awake long after his wife had collapsed into a deep slumber. He had become too at ease with playing the games of royal courts. Too adept at speaking sweet words while he plotted destruction. Too suspicious of innocence not to watch and wait for evil to surface. He had brought Skatha to pleasure thrice more and swived her with abandon each time.
    Not once had he noticed a dubious reaction from his new bride.
    Yet sleep eluded him.
    Her mouth had been magik all eve. He had been loath to stop kissing her and when she had finally been coaxed into returning his caresses ’twas as if her tongue had coarsened and the cavern of her mouth vibrated. And now she curled into him and her entire body contracted and undulated in an intoxicating rhythm.
    His prick engorged when he tried to imagine how her rough tongue and humming mouth would feel around his length. If ’twas what Ali had referred to when he spoke of never wanting another female once a goddess had sucked his prick, then Brökk had found Valhalla indeed. He had not allowed her much liberty of touch, too enflamed with desire to retain control of his climax once sheathed within her puss.
    She rubbed her nose on his ribs, mumbled words he did not comprehend and then two he did: bjartr stjarna. Brökk and Konáll’s fond endearment for their beloved sister.
    The two brothers had oft tested the women on the journey from Sumbarten using Norse to alarm them, but none of the females had reacted. He had assessed her again in the great hall, and she had not understood the name for his holding.
    Had she and the other ladies played them the fools? The Viking language was not an easy dialect to mimic, yet she had spoken like a true Norsewoman. He could not trust Skatha fully, fealty oath or not, until he felt cert she had played no part in Hjørdis’s kidnapping.
    He dozed on and off, the light slumber of a warrior in an unknown encampment, waking oft to listen and be reassured all was well. Afore the first light of dawn streaked through the gaps in the hide covering the window, the fire surrendered its last heat. In no time at all, Skatha’s skin grew chill even though he tucked the furs and his body around hers.
    After he eased off the mattress, Brökk built the fire back to a roaring and snapping blaze, untied a hide, and surveyed the view of Bita Veðr’s rolling hills, the village, and the fjord in the distance. Naught appeared amiss, yet unease coated his nape and shoulders. A movement from the bed drew his attention. He had left the drapes drawn, and he watched bemused as Skatha stretched and the purring noise she made grew louder.
    His balls fattened, the hairs there pulling taut as blood and seed pooled, and his groin tightened. He had taken her four times in all, and his lust should be well sated, yet her slightest move inflamed him. But the same had happened in the past with new lovers, and after the first flush of a new coupling, desire had faded to a controllable ache. Pray Freya ’twould be the same with Skatha for he liked not this fever to mount her.
    Long, slender arms poked up from the furs, and her fingers flexed in a kneading action. She had massaged him oft during their love play and purred and mewled the most delicate sounds. She emitted one of those throaty seductive noises right then, and he hastened to the bed, greedy for her kisses and her puss, his mouth salivating with the need to suckle her breasts, and lick and nibble the pretty, pouting buds.
    He slipped onto the mattress, covered her slender body, and captured both wrists high above her head with one hand. “I bid you good morn, bride.”
    She worried her bottom lip with a pearl-white tooth. “Good