Malice Striker by Jianne Carlo Page A

unexpected. “Lady Gráinne trained me to serve the Lord almighty, not for marriage. Decorating the flesh is a sin.”
    Brökk felt for her small hand, sniffed her wrist, licked the center of her palm, and then set her warm skin to his chest. “I am a sinner then.”
    “How so?” Her fingers trembled.
    He moved her hand to his lobe. “’Tis common with the Jomsvikings to wear earbobs. Feel.”
    “’Tis a ring.”
    Brökk strangled a groan at her tentative tracing of his ear and the gold hoop strung through the edge. “Aye.” He worked on the lacings in the front of her gown.
    “I have heard of the Jomsvikings. Did you serve with them?”
    “For a time.” He nuzzled the crook of her neck. “Apples again, wife. Why do you smell of apples?”
    “The cider we made today necessitates the pressing of many apples. Does the scent offend you?”
    “Nay. ’Tis enticing. I am partial to the taste of apples.” He lifted her hair and suckled her nape. Delighted when she let out a small whimper, he sank his teeth gently on the moistened flesh and traced a path to her ear.
    “How come you to taste of the fruit, here, and here?” He bit her lobe, nibbled the tip, and tongued the whorls.
    She leaned into his caresses.
    “Like you, this?” He tickled the corner of her mouth.
    “Aye.” Her reply came out on a sigh, and she pressed both hands to his arm.
    He sipped at her lips and cupped her cheek. “Kiss me.”
    “I know not how.”
    “Have you not kissed one of your friends? Lady Gráinne?”
    “Aye.” She kissed his cheek.
    “Nay.” He captured her wrist and set her thumb to his lips. “Here.”
    She touched his chin, traced his mouth, and their noses bumped when she pressed her lips to his. A soft, teasing brushing of silky, plump skin. His stones throbbed and his prick burned.
    Brökk hungered too much to go slow and swept in to taste her depths, tangling their tongues and luring her into play. At first she tensed and pushed off his ribs, but then she opened fully into him, and her arms crept up his chest to link around his neck.
    ’Twas Valhalla in Midgard—to her Christian words, heaven on earth. Never had he feasted on any flesh so entrancing. He lost himself in her heat, her moistness, her eagerness to return his passionate gorging. His loins were afire. He bunched her skirts.
    Her pleasure must come first.
    Ali’s words thundered in his head.
    His balls slammed hard and fast against the base of his cock, his seed on the verge of erupting, and he broke away from her seductive mouth.
    “Nay. ’Tis wrong?” She rubbed her cheeks on his.
    ThMrr’s ballocks, ’twas the most righteous torture he had ever endured. He sucked in a deep breath and fought to temper his greedy desires. “I must see to your pleasure.”
    “But ’tis pleasure, much pleasure.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
    She would crucify him with her ardent response. “Nay. ’Twill be now.”
    He pushed the cyrtel up and bared her lower body. Hot, fevered lust had him in its grip. The urge to taste her cream had him salivating. He wedged his shoulder between her slender thighs. Her woman’s arousal swamped him, the blossoming of her spice headier than any poppy seed wine, and he closed his eyes and buried his nose between her folds.
    Slick and wet, and by Odin, she tasted of apples even here. Now he wished for light, for a blazing sun to see clearly the budded nub hidden beneath the hood he knew would be red and flushed. He set his mouth to that spot and thrust a finger inside her clenching sheath, and she arched off the bed. But he held her fast, his arm on her sweet belly as he bit down. She purred her pleasure and moaned. Around his finger, her walls tightened, clenching and clamping in violent spasms.
    He could wait no longer. He tore open her gown and chemise, cupped her firm bottom cheeks, and drove into her. She came apart again, her puss fisting his prick, and he roared his climax, pounding into her contracting