Wet and Wild by Sandra Hill

From the Publisher

A very confused Viking finds himself hurtled through time to face the rigorous ordeals of the Navy SEALs. Yet while his brawn allows him to easily adapt to the military, he's no match for one of the most difficult challenges of all-the modern-day woman.

Publishers Weekly

Heavy on sexual shenanigans but light on substance, Hill's newest Viking time-travel romance (after A Tale of Two Vikings) holds a few chuckles but is more often a cause for serious eye rolling. Like an oversize puppy, Viking Ragnor Magnusson is so good-looking and dopey that it's hard not to smile at his swaggering arrogance and lustful ways, even when he exhibits a startling lack of intelligence upon being yanked out of the 11th century and landing in a 21st-century Navy SEALs training camp. Ragnor takes the change in stride and proceeds with the SEALs training, though his surroundings are shockingly unfamiliar and everyone thinks his name is Max. Even beautiful navy doctor Alison MacLean (whom he mistakes for a "dock-whore") calls him Max. Unfazed, Ragnor launches a campaign to get Alison into his "bed furs" and helps guard her against a stalker who may have terrorist ties. The presence of the stalker/terrorist plot thread in a screwball comedy such as this is jarring, and the subplot lacks suspense. Many of Hill's attempts at humor also fall flat (for an example, one need look no further than the inane subheads littered throughout: "She who hesitates is laid... uh, lost... uh, same thing..."). This book brings new meaning to the word "lightweight," but those who relish sex scenes involving sugary condiments may find some enjoyment. Agent, Meredith Bernstein. (Oct.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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Wet & Wild

Dorchester Publishing

All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-8439-5159-1

Chapter One

In, out, in, out, in, out, ho, hum. He barely stifled a yawn.

On the other hand, Inga Sigundottir, young widow of a Norman
jarl and daughter of the Danish King Svein Forkbeard, said,
"Oooh, Oooh! You are soooo good, Ragnor, but must you go so
fast? I want this to last forever."

Of course I am good. But fast, you greedy wench? Forever?
Hah! I have been plowing the field betwixt your thighs for an
hour at least. Bloody well reach your peak already, m'lady.
That is what he thought, but what he did was slow his strokes
to a snail's pace.

Inga's eyes rolled back in her head.

No surprise to Ragnor. He was an expert at the bedsport when
he chose to be. After all, he was a Viking.

Then, whilst Inga moaned and writhed beneath him, even as he
did his in-and-out exercise, he scratched his buttock,
wondering idly if there were fleas in the royal linens. Then
he squeezed one of her nipples, knowing it was expected of
him, thus producing more moans and writhing. Then he pondered
whether there might be any roast boar left from the evening
meal down in the castle kitchen. Yea, a slice of boar on a
piece of manchet bread, washed down with a horn of ale, would
go over nicelyabout now, even though it was well past
midnight. But, alas and alak, he had work yet to
complete ... bed work.

For a brief moment, Ragnor entertained the notion that he
might be getting old. He was only seven and twenty. That was
too young to lose the enthusiasm for coupling? Wasn't it?
But then, he'd lost enthusiasm for just about everything these
days ... a-Viking, trading, running the royal estates at
Norstead, even fighting. That last was particularly alarming.
He was born and raised to be a warrior. If not soldiering,
what?

It had all started when his comrade in arms, Skorri Leifsson,
died last year in battle. Ragnor had held his best friend in
his arms while sword dew flowed steadily from the neck wound
delivered by a Saxon blade. Nay, truth be told, Ragnor's low
spirits had begun long before Skorri's death. There had been
a hole in his heart and in his life since the death of his
father Magnus Ericsson and nine siblings in a ship wreck more
than ten years past. Before that, he'd lost his beloved
uncles Geirolf and Jorund Ericsson, Geirolf's wife and twin
daughters, and his grandparents Lord Eric Trygvasson and Lady
Asgar. So many deaths!

"Why did you stop?" Inga asked peevishly.

With a jolt, Ragnor pulled himself back to the present. He
smiled down at Inga, her blonde hair spread prettily about the
pillow, her blue eyes staring up at him with a mixture of
concern and arousal and impatience. She wrapped her long legs
about his hips, not about to let him escape. Her lips were
red and swollen from his earlier kisses.

His manpart was buried in her sheath. He may have lost the
"enthusiasm," but his cock had not. In fact, it twitched.

She smiled up at him, as if he'd just paid her a compliment.

He waggled his eyebrows at her. It was not her fault he'd
lost the "enthusiasm." She deserved better.

Lifting her legs over his shoulders, he began to pound at her
then. Short, hammering strokes that brought her to her peak,
and then beyond.

Inga nigh screamed with pleasure.

Seconds before he reached his own peak, he withdrew and
spilled his seed upon her stomach with a long sigh of
satisfaction.

"Noooooo!" Inga shrieked and grabbed his wilting staff in both
hands, trying to jam him back into her body.

"Huh?" His eyes bulged at the agony as she squeezed him hard
and pulled. Every man knew ... and every woman of experience
should know ... that a sensitive organ, such as a cock, deserved
better treatment after being the instrument of milady's
pleasure. Quickly, he pried himself out of her vice grip. If
he hadn't been wilting afore, he would be now. The pain was
excruciating.

On her knees, she now whacked him about the head with her
pillow. "By your leave, milady, have you gone demented?" he
asked in between whacks. Sex affected people in odd ways
betimes-once Ubbi the Ugly claimed he broke out in boils
afterward, but perchance that stemmed from another cause.
Ragnor had ne'er heard of it turning a woman demented, though.
Some men, yea, but that was usually from lack thereof.

She still reached for him, trying to pull him back inside of
her ... which was ridiculous, really. Trying to put a wilted
lily back in a slick pod was like ... well, putting an egg back
in the chicken. Impossible.

He laughed, which made her even more angry. Baring her
perfectly white teeth at him, she snarled, "You bastard! You
cur! You lying, cod-sucking, too-charming son of a whore!"

Have a caution, Inga. Your true character is showing. "I
never lied to you," he proclaimed indignantly as he grabbed
her in his arms and lifted her, feet dangling off the rush
floor. "Stop squirming, Inga, and tell me what this is all
about."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Why? Why would you not give me
your seed? Am I not beautiful enough? Was I not pleasing in
the bed furs? By the gods, my father will thrash me for
failing. And he will thrash you, too, for compromising me."

"I don't think so." Ragnor was referring to the thrashing, as
well as the compromising. But then he went stiff with
alertness. Setting Inga down, he backed up a bit. "Your
father ... he sent you to my bed furs?"

"Of course," she wailed, swiping at the tears which now
overflowed and ran in rivulets down her cheeks. "Dost think I
would dare such scandalous behavior without his blessing?"

Hah! 'Twas not me who made your virtue forfeit. Ragnor had
heard of her "scandalous behavior" with several other men; she
was no untried virgin. Understanding dawned slowly. It had
been a trap, set by the wily Danish king, ruler of all
Jutland. Ragnor was not a king in his own land, but he was of
noble birth ... a chieftain of wealthy estates left by his
grandsire in Vestfold, the rich southern region of Hordaland.
Forkbeard schemed to join their families in wedlock ... lock
being the key word. He wanted to ensnare yet another Norse
family into his spider web of intrigues.

But Ragnor was no fool. Ever since he lay with his first maid
at age thirteen, he had tried to be careful not to breed babes
hither and yon, and as far as he knew, he'd been successful.
He had been taught a harsh lesson about the perils of virility
by his father who beg at thirteen children. Children who gave
him no end of trouble, himself included.

Ragnor grinned and gave himself an inward pat on the back for
his near escape.

"You dare to find mirth in me?" Inga narrowed her eyes at him
and looked as if she might punch him in his mirthsome mouth.

"Not in you, sweetling. Do not take it personal."

"And why not? Would it be such a horrendous thing if your
seed took root in my womb?"

Yea, it would. "I do not wish to wed ... yet."

"Yet?"

Not ever. "For years and years."

"If your father were here, he would force you to marry ... to
carry on his line."

If my father were here, he would not need me to carry on his
line. He would have any one of my six half-brothers to do the
deed. "My father would understand my reluctance," he
insisted.

But would he? Ragnor mused. Or would he tell me that family
is everything, and it is time for me to start my own?

"Well, if you will not wed with me, you had best do me a
favor," Inga declared. "You owe me that at least."

Ragnor had to laugh at her turnabout. They were both standing
there, stark naked. She no doubt wanted to couple with him
again.

Torolf, where are you when I need you? Where that thought
came from, Ragnor did not know. His brother had been dead
these many years ... the last time he'd seen him, they'd both
been rogues to the bone and both sixteen years old-born a
mere sennight apart to the same father but different mothers
in different locales. Often folks mistook them for twins so
identical was them appearance, except his hair was black and
eyes blue, while Torolf's was blonde and his eyes brown.

Their mischievous personalities had been the same, too. He
recalled more than one occasion when the two of them had taken
one lusty lass into the bed furs betwixt them. That's what
Inga needed now. Two men to satisfy her needs. Torolf would
be "up" for the game ... he just knew he would, his brother's
preference oft times being for blonde-haired women, while he
preferred the rarer red. He liked his women to have a brain,
as well, whilst Torolf had claimed it took no brain to spread
one's thighs. By the gods, you can make me smile, Torolf,
even when you are in far-off Valhalla.

He glanced at Inga, standing afore him in all her blonde,
naked glory, a pensive expression on her face. Nay, his
brother would not have said her "Nay." Nor would he.

Inga stamped her small foot in the rushes to mark her
impatience.

For the love of Frey! She does want me to swive her again.
Can I? He glanced down betwixt his legs. Turned out the lily
was not dead after all. Turned out he did not need his
brother after all.

Still, he thought, I miss you, Torolf. Even after all these
years.

"About that favor, Ragnor," she said sweetly.

Yea, she wants me again. Oh, well! A Viking's work is never
done.

But then, Inga surprised the spit out of him.

"Dost think there is any leftover boar down in the kitchen?
Could you bring a little late night repast for me to sup on?"

He laughed. What else could he do when his lady friend was
more interested in meat than ... well, meat?

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Wet & Wild
by Sandra Hill
Copyright © 2004 by Sandra Hill .
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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