Free Malice Striker by Jianne Carlo Page B

morn, my lord.”
    “Did we not agree to my given name in our lodge?”
    Color washed her throat and face, the black pelts making her flesh a succulent shade of rose. He could not resist nuzzling the pulse leaping at the center of her collarbone.
    “Brökk.”
    “You must still pay the penalty. Kiss me, Skatha.”
    She tipped her chin up, and he brought his lips to hers. In a bold, unexpected move, she licked the seam of his mouth and nipped the fullness in the middle.
    “ Sváss fróðleikr, minn smár köttr.”
    Brökk deliberately spoke Norse and studied her reactions to each word. Her brows did not pinch as they were wont to if he used a word to which she objected in describing her, and he had said sweet magik, my small cat. She liked not being compared to a cat, but her arched stretches and purring reminded him of the sleek black panthers Emperor Tzimiskes kept as pets.
    “What means those words?” She lapped at his chin.
    Her tongue lingered on the cleft, and the rough surface tossed the two days’ worth of stubble back and forth, the sensation akin to a spark dusting his flesh. He swallowed and surrendered to his cock’s demand to thrust. Loosening his hold on her hands, he rolled to one side, whipped the furs away, nudged her thighs apart, and drove into her.
    The peak hit her at once.
    Her puss convulsed around his cock.
    She sank her teeth into his shoulder.
    The pain-pleasure fired his stones’ contraction and his seed erupted with such violence he saw naught but the berserker haze of red that took control of him in battle. He hooked her knees with his arms and held her wide and open to his hammering prick. The climax went on for an eternity. Her sheath sucked him dry, drew out every drop, and even after the hot, jetting stream abated, her puss continued to work him. And every so oft she milked another weak spurt.
    Drained, he rested his cheek below one pink-tipped breast and blew out a long breath. Her nipple budded. And by Odin’s balls his groin heated. She was cert to drive him mad with lust.
    “’Tis another bedsport variation?”
    Ah, he’d come to recognize that husky tone meant she wore a sated, sweet smile, and the violet in her eyes would be all aglow. Mustering a reserve of energy he looked up at her and grinned. Aye. He had pleasured his goddess well.
    “Another of thousands. This eve remind me to tell you a tale I heard at the Caliph’s palace of the Persian Queen Scheherazade and her one thousand and one nights. You fair wore me out, wife. What say I to my men when I am too weak to raise my sword in practice this morn?”
    She cupped his shoulders and massaged his muscles. “These are too wide and forged of iron. Raising a sword will be akin to lifting a paltry feather for you, husband.”
    ’Twas the first time she had called him husband, and he found the term pleased him well. “I give you leave to address me as husband in the great hall and when we are on the dais. This morn I shall play your maid, my lady.”
    She stilled and her mouth canted down. “I have dressed myself from the day after the darkness descended. I have no need of assistance.”
    “Skatha, I meant no affront to your abilities. ’Twould be a delight to slip silk stockings on your fine legs, tie the garters on your sleek thighs, and mayhap take a wee taste of your honey.” He rolled them to a sitting position. “You fooled me and all the holding for two eves and two days. I would learn when and how to help you and when not. ’Tis all.”
    “Lady Gráinne oft says I bristle like a cat when offered succor.” She reached for him and tangled her fingers in his hair. “I have a horror of needing aid with my duties. And my pride is sore injured when I know not what to do or where I am. I knew Sumbarten like the back of my hand. Ten steps to the hallway, ten and seven stairs to the kitchen. None rearranged furniture or common objects without telling me of the move and helping me learn it.”
    Brökk chest