“Francesca,” Ben said through what seemed to be gritted teeth as he lunged somewhat wildly now, his aim, given the fact that we were now both soapy and wet, not as good as could be hoped for.
“What?”
“Too much talking, not enough helping me.”
“Oh.” I could help? I released one arm from where I’d been clutching his shoulders. He moved his hips back slightly so I could snake my hand down between us, positioning him where he would be assured success. “Sorry. I’m new to this.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware of that,” he said, groaning again as he sank into my welcoming flesh. “And no, not because you’re doing it wrong. You’re very tight, Francesca. So tight it makes my head spin. No, don’t try to help. Just tilt your hips up slightly . . . Ahhh.”
It was my turn to moan in pleasure as our bodies moved together despite the awkward position and confined space (and my concern that holding me up would give Ben a hernia).
“Dark Ones . . . don’t get . . . hernias . . . ,” he grunted, his voice and breath rasping in my ear as I gave myself up to the pleasure of his warm, wet body sliding against and inside mine. I felt the need in him for more, to take blood from me, to join us together in a way unique to his kind, and for a moment, I thought about just doing it.
His mouth burned on my wet shoulder.
If you want to—I started to say.
To do so would mean we were Joined forever. He turned his head, his jaw tightening as he leashed the almost overwhelming urge to drink from me. I will not force it upon you.
Inner Fran pointed out that there wasn’t any force involved, but I said nothing, just gasped out his name as my climax claimed me.
“That may have been fast, but it will remain in my memories as a high point of my sexual experience,” I said a few minutes later, as Ben let my legs go, his chest heaving against mine, the water, now tepid and heading for cold, pouring over us both. The need for him to feed from me still rode him hot and hard, but he controlled it with a desperation that touched me deeply.
He kissed me. “I think it’s safe to say there will be many others to join that one.” He turned off the water, which was now starting to get uncomfortably cold. “We must get you dressed quickly. I will take you back to your mother’s—”
The shower vibrated with the noise and force of the trailer door banging. I widened my eyes as Ben swore.
“Stay here. I will get her out of the trailer,” he growled.
He opened the door the bare minimum, stalking out of the shower. Stark naked, I couldn’t help notice. Through the thin walls of the shower I could hear Naomi haranguing him. Or at least I assumed she was—she spoke in French, a language I didn’t understand beyond a few tourist phrases.
I stood there for a moment, indecision gripping me as Ben’s deep rumble danced around Naomi’s higher, strident screech. Inner Fran opted to stay in the shower until the coast was clear, but as she should have known, I’ve never been one to be told what to do. At a particularly vicious-sounding tirade from Naomi, I opened up the shower door and calmly grabbed my sweatpants and T-shirt, pulling them on despite being wet.
Naomi had Ben backed almost to the bedroom. She spun around at the sound of my movements, her face going from irritated to furious at the sight of me. Ben glowered behind her. I was pleased to see that he’d managed to don a pair of jeans. “You!” Naomi screamed, her hands fisted.
“You have a really big capacity water tank. I’m going to tell my mother to get one. Makes taking a long shower really nice,” I said before smiling over her head at Ben, blowing him a kiss. “Later.”
I think Naomi might have tried to jump me as I left, because I heard her squawk as if Ben had grabbed her to keep her from attacking. She was clearly furious, but I didn’t let that bother me.
“She has no idea about what a stupid idea it is to mess with a Beloved,” I growled to myself as I returned to my mother’s trailer, my fingernails once again digging into my palms.
“You have decided to Join with the Dark One?” a voice asked as I passed one of the chaise longues set out in the common area.
Isleif lay sunning himself in what looked like a garment better suited to a beach in Rio. It was more or less a pouch into which he’d stuffed his genitals. I gaped at him for a few seconds, wondering if there was anything on his backside, quickly deciding I really didn’t want to know.
“No, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet.” I hesitated, then sat down on the lounge next to his. “Things are a bit confusing.”
“You are wet.” He handed me a towel, which I used to towel off my thankfully short hair. “And confused? That sounds like you need advice. We are most good with advice. We will counsel you. Eirik! Finnvid!” He gave a deep battle cry. “The goddess needs advice.”
Eirik emerged from my mother’s trailer, a bowl of granola in one hand, a half-eaten banana in the other. “Advice? Did you say advice?”
“Aye, the goddess is having man trouble.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t need advice. I can work things out on my own, although it is very considerate of you all to want to help me.” I didn’t point out that I noticed they’d dropped the title of virgin, feeling the least said about that, the better.
The door to Imogen’s trailer was flung open, and a naked Finnvid stood in the doorway, grasping either side of the doorframe. “The goddess needs us?”
An arm reached across him, stroking his chest and the biceps of one arm. Finnvid looked to the side, grinned, and allowed the arm to pull him out of view, thankfully shutting the door behind him.
“There are just some sights that I really wish I could expunge from my memory,” I said softly, watching with foreboding as Eirik set his breakfast on Isleif before pulling over a chair.
“What is it the goddess needs help with? The Dark One?” he asked, reclaiming his bowl, but losing his banana to Isleif’s seemingly never-ending hunger. This morning, Eirik was clad in a pair of green and gold paisley men’s silk boxer shorts, and a sleeveless T-shirt promoting the local opera competition.
“You’re not planning on wearing that outfit in public, are you?” I asked, distracted by the thought of him wandering around in his underwear.
Eirik looked surprised. “Aye. I bought the short breeches yesterday. They’re silk. The sales slave said that was most desired by women.”
“They’re also underwear, Eirik.”
He blinked at me.
“I don’t know the word for Viking underwear, but it’s something you wear under your clothes, not in place of them. You can’t wear them around town. It’s too impolite.”
“I am a Viking. I do not care for such things as politeness,” he said scornfully. “Besides, my arse and rod are covered.”
“Which is more than I can say for some people’s outfits,” I murmured, sliding Isleif a look. He grinned and adjusted his pouch. Hastily, I averted my eyes, only to have my gaze fall on Eirik.
“They may be covered when you’re walking around, but when you sit, they . . . er . . . gape open.”
Eirik looked down at his crotch. The fly of the shorts was indeed gaping open, allowing the casual passerby to get an eyeful. “Aye, so they do. Handy, that, don’t you think?”
I ran my hands through my damp hair, trying to fluff it up so I wouldn’t look like a wet seal. “Moving on, let’s talk about today’s plan. I’m not quite sure what we should be doing next to find—”
“First,” Eirik interrupted, burping and setting down his now empty bowl. “We will deal with your Dark One problems.”
“I don’t have problems—”
“Was he too rough with you when he bedded you? Were you concerned because you bled?”
“No, that’s not it at all—”
“All virgins bleed, goddess. It is the way of things. One of my wives, the second, I think, was convinced I had torn her up inside, but it was just her maidenhead. Took her three weeks before she’d let me bed her again, and although I don’t approve of you allowing the Dark One to rut with you, you have chosen to do so, and thus you should not keep him from your bed for three weeks because of a little maidenhead blood.”