Hiding from me, no doubt. Vikar shrugged, as if he had no idea. “I’ll see you both in the morning.” He rose to his feet, stretched, and yawned loudly. “I’m really tired.”
Even after he closed the door and began to climb the stairs, he could hear their laughter following him. He was fooling no one. They knew exactly where he was headed.
Seven
He was bloody sex on the hoof . . . uh, fang . . .
Transylvania feature, Kelly Page 1
Draft Four
What if there were angels sent to earth to save humans who are on a fast road to Hell? Not guardian angels, but fierce warrior angels who fight demons hell-bent on catching weak mortal sinners before they have a chance to repent.
What if all these angel saviors were former Vikings? No, not the football kind. The sword-wielding, plundering kind who are so good-looking, women stop in their tracks just to gape at them.
In the hills of Pennsylvania . . .
Alex had taken a bubble bath, shaved her legs and armpits, washed and blow-dried her hair, and applied Jessica McClintock body lotion from neck to toes to cover up her lemon scent. Coral Ice adorned her newly enameled finger- and toenails. She was damn well going to have sex, or someone was going to pay.
It might seem like a contradiction for her to have been resisting Vikar right and left, and now to have surrendered without any convincing on his part. Maybe that’s exactly why. Her decision.
For years now, even before Brian and Linda’s deaths, even before she and Brian had separated, Alex’s life had been controlled by outside forces. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d done something totally for herself.
She smiled to herself. This is definitely going to be for me.
They’d eaten dinner hours ago. Since she’d done most of the work preparing the tacos and dessert, she’d left the men to clean up. Dagmar rarely ate with them, for some reason, but Vikar claimed it was her choice.
Alex sat on her bed, legs extended and crossed at the ankles, wearing her favorite sleeping attire: jade nylon running shorts and a white tank top edged in matching green. She would have been nude if she had more nerve, or self-confidence. After all, she was thirty years old and no longer in prime physical shape, mainly because she’d been sedentary for so long. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d jogged or done a sit-up. Can anyone say sagging butt?
Vikar knocked lightly on the door. “Are you decent?”
I hope not. “C’mon in.”
He opened the door, took one look at her, and pretended like he was going to turn and go away. But he didn’t. Instead, he closed and locked the door behind him.
The only light came from the full moon, but it was enough, what with the eight windows arranged in a semicircle around the turret room.
She noticed that Vikar had taken care with his appearance, too.
Be still, my libido.
He’d obviously showered, and his wet hair was tied at his nape with a leather thong. A pure white T-shirt and black sweatpants were his only attire. He was barefoot. He hadn’t shaved, but being blond, even dark blond, he had only a faint designer stubble on his face.
If eyes could speak, his would be saying, I want you. The fangs that were slowly emerging said it for him.
A sex goddess she’d never been before, but now . . . I am goddess, hear me roar! Confidence restored, Alex said, “I hope you brought condoms.”
“I don’t need condoms,” he said, crossing his arms and yanking his shirt over his head. With his gaze holding hers, he unlaced the tie of his sweatpants and let them drop to the floor.
She could swear she heard a drumroll in her head.
After stepping out of his sweatpants, he wore only a pair of black boxer briefs that delineated a high, curved butt, narrow hips, a flat, muscle-striated belly, and a very impressive package. Plus a tourniquet around his upper arm, whose purpose she didn’t want to contemplate.
“You’re prettier than I am,” she observed with mock chagrin.
His eyes scanned her body, slowly. “That is debatable.”
“Why don’t you need a condom?” She scooted her bottom over on the single-size bed to make room for him so that she was on her side with her back to the wall.
“Vangels cannot beget children.”
That was so sad. Alex couldn’t imagine a world without children in it, though she never intended to have any more herself.
“Besides, we are not going to have sex per se.” He lay down on his side facing her and ran an appreciative fingertip from her shoulder to her wrist.
“Per se?” she choked out. Good Lord, does he have some kind of sexual energy coming out of his fingertips, like a laser pointer?
“Have I mentioned how much I like your freckles?”
Forget freckles, I’m still stuck back on magic fingers. She shook her head to clear it. “Per se?” she reminded him.
“We are going to have near-sex. Everything except penetration.”
Sex games? Jeesh, I get turned on just hearing him say the word penetration. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic! “Why? I mean, why no intercourse?”
“I am hoping that my punishment for near-sex will not be nearly as great as full-blown swiving.”
He doesn’t mince words, that’s for sure. “You’ll be punished for being with me?”
“For a certainty. Sex outside of marriage is a no-no, as compared to near-sex, which I am hoping is a venial sin.” At her frown, he quickly added, “Not to worry, sweetling. I get punished for many things. Methinks Mike is fonder of me than he pretends, and he wants to keep me around as a vangel until the Apocalypse. My original penance should have ended in 1550, but I keep having years added on, as do my brothers. Sore hard it is for a Viking to be good all the time.”
“Isn’t that sort of like St. Augustine, who supposedly prayed, ‘Dear God, help me to be good. But not yet’?”
“Auggie gets a bad rap,” he contended, then smiled at her, and, oh, his smile was a lethal weapon.
“I like the sore hard part.”
“You are naughty,” he said, tapping her on the chin playfully. “I like it.”
I aim to please, sweetheart. “Near-sex has a certain appeal, actually. We’ll be like teenagers again. Making out like crazy. Kissing. Petting. Everything but going all the way. At least that’s how it was when I was a teenager. Men tend to go more wham-bam, whereas boys have to work to make it as far as third base. Of course, today teens are more advanced. Friends with benefits. Rainbow parties and all that. Oh, for the good old days!” She paused. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“I’m as nervous as you are.”
She doubted that sincerely.
“When I was a teenager—they didn’t use the term teenager, by the by—boys of twelve were expected to act as men. In truth, I started with ‘going all the way.’ Definitely wham-bam, thrust-and-peak, as an untried youthling.”
She felt oddly pleased that she could stand out in some way from all the women he must have had over the centuries. Assuming she believed the time-travel-Viking-vampire-angel-demon story. “So this will be a new experience for you?”
“Yes, it will. Can we start with me counting your freckles? Harek says I need to practice my math skills.”
“I hate my freckles,” she said, even as she arched her back to aid in his removing her top.
Leaning on one elbow, he studied her body, and not just her breasts. He surveyed her arms and legs, as well. “I prefer to think of them as sex dust. There for my personal pleasure.”
Okay, she knew that was a load of crap, but she would never look at her body again and fail to remember his words. And, really, all the experts said that a woman’s biggest impediment in enjoying sex was her insecurity about her body. This guy was halfway around the bases, just by making her feel good about herself.
Was it a learned art, or was he sincere?
Right now, it didn’t matter.
“Ah, I see my two favorite freckles,” he said, g
ently flicking one nipple, then the other.
She gasped, not at his silly words, but at the sheer, exquisite pleasure of that slight touch.
His fangs were recessed now, so he appeared normal when he leaned forward and licked each of the distended “freckles.” If she weren’t already lying down, she might have fainted from the pleasure. But there was more to come. Way more!
Arranging himself atop her, braced on his elbows, he spread her legs with his knees, his erection prodding her inner thigh. Only then did he begin to kiss her. Long, slow, drugging kisses. Feathery and exploring. Deep and tongue-thrusting. Every time she got used to one pattern or pace, he changed. At the same time, he stroked her breasts with his coarse chest hairs by swaying from side to side.
She kissed him back and was pleased when she could draw a deep groan from low in his throat, or when he would nip her in pretend punishment. Her hands and legs could not remain still. She caressed his back and waist and buns as far as she could reach. And she used her feet to rub against the backs of his calves, occasionally wrapping her legs around him.
And he talked, too. Low, husky murmurs of appreciation and encouragement:
“Oh yes, like that.”
“Open wider. Let me in.”
“I have ne’er been this aroused.”
“Your touch turns my blood afire.”
She was already wet down below, so it was no surprise that, when he moved up slightly so that his erection touched her clitoris, she began to climax, keening her pleasure.
“Shh, not yet.” He drew back and through glazed eyes she saw that his fangs were fully extended now. She should have known what was coming next, but her sex-muddled brain was on hiatus. As he began to thrust and withdraw his lower body against her, his head lunged forward and he buried his fangs in her neck.
Every nerve in her body was titillated and she began a fast climb to the most excruciatingly long climax of her life. On and on and on her inner muscles spasmed, yearned for him to be inside her. Every time the head of his penis hit the bundle of nerves in that one spot, ripples of electric shocks ran across her body. There wasn’t a speck of skin or a sinew of inner muscle that wasn’t affected. This was a full-body orgasm, if there ever was one. She screamed when it became too overpowering and arched her neck back and her shoulders off the bed.
She had no idea how long he sucked on her blood, or how long her orgasm lasted, but when she was finally able to lift her head, she whispered, “That was incredible.”
He raised his head and kissed her lightly. She could taste her blood on his lips. She should have been repulsed, but she was oddly satisfied.
“Are we done?”
He chuckled. “We have just begun, dearling.” With that, he rolled over onto his back so that she straddled him. That’s when she saw that he had cut his wrist. Blood was seeping out.
“No! Oh no, I can’t do that again. Let’s just—”
He clasped the back of her head with one hand and forced her mouth to the cut wrist of his other hand that he held near his neck. She tried to turn aside, but he wouldn’t allow that. “Drink, Alex. You must drink to become clean.”
To distract her, or because he hadn’t yet climaxed himself, Vikar began to undulate against her. Soon she gave herself up to sipping him, especially when he distracted her by sliding a big palm inside her shorts and cupping both buttocks, setting a pace for her moving hips. And then his long fingers reached forward between her legs, stroking her.
When she realized that he, too, was extremely aroused by her mouth at his wrist and her movements against his penis, she gave herself up to the ritual; that’s how Vikar had referred to the cleansing at one point . . . a ritual. She rode him, stem to stern, sliding her now damp shorts over his briefs until he arched his hips up against her and let out a roar. She could swear she felt his semen spurting against her folds, despite the separation of two fabrics.
She hurtled into another mind-blowing orgasm.
For a long time afterward, he held her cradled against his neck, running his palms in a comforting fashion over her bare back. His heart hammered against hers, a pleasing counterpoint to hers. She could tell that he was equally stunned by what had happened.
“Is it always like this?” she asked finally.
“It is never like this,” he said, kissing the top of her head, then rolling over to sit up and take off the tourniquet. Glancing down at his wet briefs and her equally wet shorts, not to mention the damp sheets, he shrugged sheepishly. “We are a mess. Should we go shower and change the linens?”
“We could,” she said hesitantly, “or . . .”
“Or?”
Alex was usually not so uninhibited, but when would she ever get this kind of chance again? So she said saucily, “Or we could do it again.”
Vikar laughed so hard she had to kiss him. Then she kissed him . . . just because she could.
Do angels have halos there? . . .
Vikar didn’t need to be asked twice.
He stood and turned, lifting a surprised Alex by the waist, and set her in the middle of the room. Her small squeal of protest did not deter him in the least.
“Don’t move,” he ordered.
He would like to take a minute or an hour to appreciate Alex, bare from the waist up and the thighs down; he’d give special attention to her breasts . . . uptilted half globes of pure temptation. And freckles! There were freckles everywhere! But first he needed to set the stage for the next step in their near-sex lovemaking. As any warrior would tell you, it was all in the planning.
He yanked the top sheet and blanket off the bed and laid a clean towel over the center of the bed.
“I like your butt.”
Whaaat? Leaning over the bed, one foot on the floor and a knee on the edge of the bed, he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. Alex was indeed staring at his arse. He had to smile at the directness of modern women. “My front side is even better.”
“Show me.”
Yes, directness. “In a moment,” he said, standing to lean back against the wall. “First, release your hair.”
Her green eyes snapped saucily at him. Would she balk at being given orders? No, she would attempt to turn his order on its face, he soon realized. Holding his gaze, she reached up and unclipped a claw-like ornament that held her hair atop her head. With arms still raised, she combed her fingers through the shoulder-length strands that were wavy from her recent bath. Her posture caused her breasts to lift more. Noticing his no-doubt gaping mouth, she arched her back slightly.
The minx!
“Happy now?”
A part of my body certainly is. “Not quite.”
“Really?” The wench’s right eyebrow arched as she noted the longboat straining against the cloth between his legs.
“Lose the short breeches.”
“How about you?”
“ ’Twould be best if I kept mine on.” Who knows what I might do when in the midst of a peaking? “You could say these Hanes are my version of cloistered virtue, just like the short hair I told you about before that Mike forbade.”
“Pfff! I don’t think boxer briefs are what John Milton had in mind.”
He flicked his hand toward her lower half. “Continue.”
She put her hands inside the stretchy waist and lowered it to just above her nether hair, exposing all of her hips, the curve of her stomach, and a pretty indented navel. Then she tugged the waistband back up with a snap. “Oops,” she said.
“Tease,” he countered. I have not had so much fun with sex in centuries. How can something that feels so right be wrong? He shrugged. That was the problem with sin, he supposed. There was no clear-cut dividing line.
She did it again, this time shimmying so that the material, once past her hips, fell into a puddle at her feet.
He inhaled sharply. Her woman’s fleece was indeed like reddish-blonde dandelion fluff. Would it be as soft to the touch? Would it smell of summer grass and sunshine? “Do it again,” he choked out.
“Slower this time.”
At first she didn’t understand. Then she did, if her soft gloating smile was any indication. She would pay for that later. Bending over so that her breasts spilled forward, she pulled the garment back up. Then, very slowly, she inched the sides down, wiggling her arse a little, before dropping the garment to the floor.
“Again. But this time face away from me.”
“You’re very domineering, aren’t you?”
“Next time you can be domineering.”
“You want me to be a dominatrix!”
“Bloody damn hell, no! Do you deliberately missay me?” Vikar had seen a porno film or two, which incidentally earned him a goodly penance, and he knew what being with a dominatrix entailed.
She grinned, having known all along what he meant.
“Keep it up, wench, and you may find out exactly what a ‘master’ can do in those kinds of games.”
“Promises, promises,” she challenged. But she turned and began the slow de-briefing again. This time he got a good look at what had to be the world’s loveliest female arse. It was lush, and soft, and—oh, my sorry self!—covered with freckles. This would be the first time in his long history that he would willingly kiss someone’s arse.
“What are you chuckling about?” She turned to face him again. “Are you laughing at my body?”
He could see the insecurity on her face. Before she attempted to cover herself, he said, “Never! I was laughing at myself and how much I want you. I am happy.”
She smiled then, a glorious expression of joy that had his heart nigh melting. And was that not a flowery sentiment for a hardened Viking? His brothers would make mock of him for days if they knew.
Truly, he got such pleasure just looking at her. Why had he never taken the time to appreciate this part of lovemaking before?
“Your turn,” she said.
He pushed away from the wall and without any particular finesse dropped his shorts. Well, drop was a stretch, since his rampant enthusiasm stuck out and fought the fabric on the way down. An enthusiasm was the Viking male word for an erection. His erection was very enthusiastic.