She felt it coming from a long way off, like a wave at sea, building momentum from somewhere deep and unseen, inexorable. Their bodies were slick with a light sheen of sweat, both of their chests heaving now as if there were not enough air in the world, let alone this tiny cabin. He withdrew until only the tip of his cock was inside her. He was trying to prolong it for her. Sweet. But wrong.
“Galen,” she moaned.
He pulled away from their kiss, his brows drawn together in concern. Could he possibly mistake that moan? How could she make him understand what she truly wanted? Needed.
“Fuck me, Galen.”
She’d never said that word in her life. But it must be Saxon all right. Because his eyes darkened and he thrust inside her, his eyes never leaving hers. And now they watched each other’s faces as the wave was there again, more urgent, more powerful for the pause. She saw his eyes glaze over.
And then the wave crashed over her, drawing her under. Every muscle in her body contracted. Her eyes squeezed shut and a shriek, coiling up from her loins, was squeezed from her by the weight and the power of the wave. Through it all she felt Galen’s own orgasm take him. He didn’t scream, but a series of grunts matched the spurting she felt inside her. They were under the wave, no breath, no air, just the immense sensation squeezing them, squeezing them . . . until they popped to the surface.
Bobbing on the subsiding sensation, she gasped for air, and Galen did the same. Galen looked into her eyes for a long moment, blinking, as she did the same. The moonlight through the line of ports near the ceiling was cool and kind, bathing them in a silver iridescence. There was a breeze inside the room, from somewhere, nowhere, because the ports and the doors were all shut. It cooled their sweat and felt . . . comforting. That’s what it was. The room was filled with comfort and rightness.
It was almost frightening.
“What the hell was that?” she whispered. She had never had an orgasm like that.
He gave a tiny, dazed shake of his head and swallowed, hard. “I know not, Lucy.” It had been different for him, too.
He was still inside her and that felt right as well. Her breathing began to steady, as did his. The moonlight was just . . . moonlight. What had she been thinking? And there was no breeze in the room. How silly was that? It must just be that orgasm had unhinged her there for a minute. What an orgasm. She hadn’t known it could be like that. And that spooky feeling of rightness . . . well, that is just the lovely afterglow of sex.
Isn’t it?
“Lucy,” he breathed, and kissed her head, cradling it against his shoulder.
Stitches! “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Nay, Lucy. I am okay. Very okay.” He lifted her chin. “Are you okay?” He looked contrite. “I was . . . I know not the word . . .” He switched to Latin. “Crude? Rough?”
“You were wonderful. Just what I wanted.”
“You are what I want also.” He kissed her hair again. “I like frfeaxen. You are beautiful.”
She looked away. She wasn’t beautiful. Red hair and freckles and way more curves than were fashionable. “I bet you say that to all the women.”
“Nay. The other women know they are beautiful. There is no need to say it.”
Great time to remind her about all the other women in his life. And that they were beautiful.
He must have felt her contract, in spirit if not in body. He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to his so she could not help but look into his eyes. “You are the one for me. Do you not feel it? I want you, Lucy. The night wants us together. You know it is sooth.”
God, but she needed that to be true. The night might be the only thing that wanted them together. He was from another time. And both their former lives were lost to them. What were they doing here, waiting on this boat, for what they did not know? He rolled to the side, keeping her with him, still inside her. She scanned his face, her doubt in her eyes.
“This was always the thread of the Norns.” He said it solemnly. He meant their joining was preordained. That was his explanation for why it felt so right. Tragedy could be preordained, too, though. Maybe this was just the taste of what could be before it was all jerked away from her in some cruel twist of fate.
“Do you believe in fate?” she asked.
That look of shame flickered over his face, and the peace that had hung heavy in the air was torn a little more. What made him look like that? She wanted to help. Whatever he had done, he could get past it, and so could she. No matter how horrible. This was Eostre’s night. And wasn’t Easter all about forgiveness, at least for Christians? Lucy had felt the goodness in him. She wanted to be part of his healing. She knew very well that she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with. But she put her own feelings aside. She wanted to know all of him as she had known him physically in the last moments. She wanted to help him. Taking her courage in her hands as she took his face, she turned it up. A man like this would not give up the secrets of his soul easily.
“Why do you look like that?”
He shook his head. The look flashed across his face and was suppressed. “I do not understand you, Lucy.”
“Don’t give me that. You understand.”
He eased out of her. The peace in the room ebbed a little farther. He looked around, as though he felt it, too. He scooted up to sit against the teak headboard. “It is of no matter.”
She felt the loss of his body inside hers so acutely it was almost pain. She wanted to sidle up under his good arm and curl against him. But she didn’t. She wanted the peace, the feeling of rightness again, but it had to be about more than just fantastic sex. It had to be about who she was, not just that she was close at hand. That was the only thing that could make up for not being the most beautiful woman he knew. And that meant it had to be about who he was, too. She looked at him. He swallowed. Would he bare himself to her in more than body?
“Your will is as thick as a priest of the Christ Cult,” he complained.
“Is it bad to want to know you?”
He closed his eyes. “What is cannot be . . . otherwise.” His eyes opened. They were bleak.
She wanted to comfort him, but such a man couldn’t bear that. So she said, “But the burden can be shared. Burden?” she asked in Latin.
He looked away but not before she was sure he understood her.
Another time, without the waft of sureness still hanging in the moonlight, she would have backed down. But not now, not when she had a dreadful feeling that there was only this night to bind them together and that this night was one of few they might have together.
“Now or never, Galen Valgarssen. Whatever makes you look like that, I will always think you are mighty and smart and honorable. You might even have a sense of humor.” She didn’t stop to explain. He might not have gotten all of it. But he got the challenge and the gist. Pain flitted into his eyes again, and now she could not resist. She scooted up and curled beside him, head on his chest, listening to the thump of his heart and feeling the peace seep into her with his warmth. His arm slipped around her and held her tight against his side.
“My mother was a mighty wicce,” he said above her after a moment. She heard it as a rumble low in his chest. “She was from the Old Ones of the west, though she lived among the Saxons. She served the goddess of horses, Epona. She speaks to horses. Nay, spoke,” he corrected himself. “And other beasts. She is dead now. Her kind always had only daughters. But she loved my father, a Viking warrior, against the law of her kind. On Sahmain night in the circle of stones he got her with a lytling to be the priest of Epona after her. But it was a boy. My brother, Eric. The kin of my mother thought he was a sign from God and he would be a mighty priest, perhaps the most mighty, to lead them against their enemies. But Eric died. My mother cursed the goddess. My father mourned him. Later, I was born.”