Death Blow by Jianne Carlo

deep curiosity clutched at his heart. “Lemons are prevalent in the east and along the coasts where we Vikings trade. They are egg-shaped but twice as large and have a color akin to pale daffodil. When my friend and ally, the trader Ali H’malik, visits us later in the year, I will bid him bring us the fruit and a small tree for us to plant.”
    “You have seen so many lands and have such a wealth of knowledge. Pray tell, what do lemons taste like?” The expression of yearning in her wide eyes hitched his breathing. He vowed to take his wife a-Viking, to shower her with lemons, oranges, and all the exotic fruits he had tasted.
    “Sour and tart.” He pursed his lips and trailed a finger through her pubic curls. “Whilst your woman’s fleece is the same hue as a lemon, your taste is of clover honey and spice.”
    Nyssa’s loud gasp made him peek at her.
    “Taste?” Eyes wider than an owl’s, brows scraping her hair, mouth turned down, she looked horrified.
    “Aye. Has Mús told you of the coming war ’tween the Vanir and Æsir?”
    She shook her head. “What has that to do with my taste?”
    Konáll could not help it, he chortled.
    Her color deepened. “Nay. I did not say that aloud.”
    “You did, mìlseachd—”
    “Why call you me, mìlseachd?” She had forgotten about her lack of clothing, Konáll realized.
    “’Twas the first thing I thought when I saw you. That you were a delicate light in the dark of the cave.” He handed her the linen square and sidled onto the pallet.
    She glanced at the damp cloth and then to him.
    “Your turn.” He waved at his flaccid, sticky cock.
    Her lips thinned, but she dabbed at his sex. Ignoring his thickening organ, he reiterated Mús’s tale of the threatening war between the two sets of gods.
    “Will you stop jerking? I cannot clean it if it twitches and changes size constantly.” She pursed her mouth and glared at him.
    Konáll laughed until his sides ached. “My cock is well pleased at your compliments.”
    “Complimen—”
    He hauled her into his embrace and kissed her lustily. She stiffened, but when he lapped at her pressed lips, she sighed and opened for him. E’en her mouth tasted of clover honey and spice. The heat of her, the sweetness, went to his head. What started as a quick kiss lengthened into a thorough exploration. He discovered she melted into his chest when he tickled the roof of her mouth, that she mewled when he tangled their tongues, and that her nails dug into his ribs if he nipped her bottom lip.
    “Lord Konáll.” The deep male voice came from the far end of the tent.
    She dragged her mouth from his and looked over her shoulder. “Who calls?”
    He flicked her chin. “’Tis the platter from the feast.”
    “Oh.” She reached for the sheet.
    He stayed her hand and called out, “Leave it there and depart. My thanks.”
    Konáll rose, made his way to the tent’s entrance, and opened the flap enough to gather the tray. The wrapped platter was still warm and mouth-watering aromas wafted to his nose. He turned around to find her sitting up and sniffing.
    “Venison.” Nyssa’s eyes lit up, and she licked her lips. “I have had naught but cockles and seaweed since escaping from the sirens. How I have longed for meat.”
    “Would that you reacted to my cock the way you do to venison,” Konáll declared as his ever hopeful pecker engorged. He carried the platter to the pallet and sat. “However, though I am starved for more of your sweet puss, the food is warm, and my stomach, empty. Come, handfast wife, sit on my lap, and let us both feast.”
    She rolled her eyes. “’Tis not necessary for me to be in your lap to eat.”
    “’Tis an absolute necessity if you want a morsel of this hot and tasty venison.”
    For a long moment their stares met. Then she said, “I vow you are e’en more of a trial than Mús.”
    When he had her arranged sideways across his thighs, the sheet draped to warm her back, Konáll relaxed against the