Chapter 47 #2
Not his, though. I gasp his when he hooks my thighs on his shoulders and licks that wondrous spot that ignites the soul and inflames the heart.
He pulls his head back but only to thumb my folds open like a book and stare at my sex as though considering what words to tongue upon it tonight. He must make up his mind, because he leans in and begins to draw featherlight loops.
My thighs drum as heat builds hard and fast in my core. Release crashes over me so precipitously that a cry tears, not from the lining of my throat but from the fabric of my soul. One made up of two syllables—his name. The very first word I learned when I arrived in the land of ice and wolves.
Nordin teases hoarse moans out of me before pulling his mouth off me to ask, “You like that, love?”
“No.” I slap my forearm against my eyes, attempting to recover. “I fucking adore that.”
“Lucky us,” he murmurs around a pleased breath that scores my wet sex, threatening to unravel me once more. “Because I could live off the sound and taste of you coming undone.”
“Such a sweet talker…”
“No, Zas. A truth talker.”
When he slides my legs off his shoulders, I peek past my arm. A furrow plows the spot between his eyebrows.
I sit up. “Did something happen?”
“What?” He reaches for the jar of blubber and scoops out a dollop.
“You seem…distracted.”
“You mistake distraction for concern and eagerness.”
“What are you concerned about?”
“Causing you pain.”
I lift onto my knees and steal the greasy blob from his hand, rubbing it between my own before slicking it over his very eager appendage.
His breathing becomes so labored that I can’t help the smile bending my mouth. Especially since none bends his.
When he finally glances away from my shiny fingers and spots my delight, he relaxes. “Turn.”
I do.
“On all fours, love.”
I oblige him, peeking over my shoulder at him.
He seizes my waist, attention pinned to my raised ass. With a swallow, he pumps himself, then slathers me from ass to clit. When he slides one finger into me, I moan. His gaze jerks to my face, apprehension twisting his features.
“Again,” I say, so he understands I’m not in pain.
He indulges me, but not with his finger this time—with something far, far larger.
Though tight, my walls bow to him, modeling around his taut, silken flesh. He returns his hand to my waist, sucking in air like a man who’s been deprived of it for weeks. A flush streaks his cheeks, which sink and puff in rapid succession.
“Do you want me to—pull out?” he rasps.
How I ache, not between my legs but in my chest. As though my rib cage were stretching, straining to contain the infinite immensity of my love for him. “No. Never.”
“Never?” A tiny smile cracks through his concentration. “Careful what you wish for, because my cock could merrily dwell inside you for the rest of its Fenrir-given life.”
“Might prove awkward out in the open.”
His lips curve some more as he burrows in deeper and deeper, not once looking away from my face.
His smile flickers when the head of his dick hits the end of me. “Zas…?”
When he starts to pull back, I moan and rock against him. He hisses, his thumbs sinking into the flesh around the base of my spine.
My back arches. “Fuck me, my Wolf.”
For a heartbeat, he just stares down at me in absolute rapture, but then his hips buck and his thumbs sweep, and holy Gods, it feels nothing like it did the first time.
He growls, groans, curses. I think he’s about to come when he folds over me to reach between my legs. He rubs my clit as he thrusts. The intensity of the orgasm that rocks through me buckles my elbows, sending me hurtling onto my forearms.
I spasm around him, which makes him curse louder…
growl harder. I think he tries to say something, but his teeth are so clenched that all I hear are incoherent mutterings.
The male is wild yet vigilant, unhinged yet gentle.
The duality of his nature—part beast, part man—has never been so pronounced as in this moment.
He draws to an abrupt halt, cranes his neck, and unleashes a bone-deep roar of ecstasy.
I suddenly recall what I wanted to tell him earlier, what Mor said about my valkyrie womb possibly being hospitable, but bite my tongue, for what if it panics him?
Better early panic than a belated surprise, I reason. As Nordin comes down from his high, face lambent with bliss, I blurt it out.
His lashes reel high, then low, and then he’s drawing his spent cock out of me and taking a seat on the cot with his back pressed against the wooden headboard. “Come here.”
I press onto my knees, then relocate myself atop his thighs. “I should’ve told you earlier. I’ll take the tonic first thing tomorrow. In case it’s too late, I’ll—”
“Zas, love, stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop thinking that I might not want to create life with you, I do.” Fingers pacing along the seam of my bent legs, he adds, “But I don’t want you dwelling on this because I’d hate for you to be disappointed if it didn’t take.”
Hope makes more beats scatter. “But you think it might?”
“All I think is that I love you.”
I roll my eyes and grip his shoulders.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Miss Stormsson,” he says, bending forward to snatch a kiss.
When he leans back, his eyes gleam with something dark and troubled. Something that’s made him cease caressing my skin.
I start to think that he’s just received troubling news through the Alpha link—perhaps Nika’s father refused to expulse Tyron?
—when he adds, “I’d like to think I could be the kind of man who could let another give you what you desire, but the mere thought of you with someone else shreds me.
I’m not built for that kind of jealousy. ”
I slap my hand over his mouth to hush him. “Nordin Stormsson, how dare you even deliberate over such a thing?! I’d never lie with another to grow a babe.”
He kisses my palm before slipping it off his lips. “Good. Saves me from soiling my claws with more blood.”
A vision of him dripping with Havrik’s scores my lids. What does it say about me that it makes my core clench instead of my stomach?
“As for the tonic…” Nordin resumes sketching the sides of my legs. “I understand if you want to take extra precautions, but don’t forget that I can smell when you’re in heat.”
I’m dripping with his seed, yet a blush warms my cheeks. Go figure.
Nordin smiles at my discomfiture. To rid him of his self-satisfied smirk, I roll my hips. His eyes instantly fill with that preternatural light that reminds me he’s closer to a God than to a human.
When his length stirs, nudging against my ass, I lift up to guide him between us, then grind my center against his. With each stroke, his pupils dilate, and his jaw sharpens, which is a good thing, given how the building pressure feels downright intoxicating.
“I wish you could see yourself right now, Zas. How godsdamn sexy you look getting yourself off on my dick.” His abs flex as he moves his hands to my waist to deepen my reach and hasten my rhythm. “My sin and my salvation.”
The ridged drag of him, paired with his praise, makes stars explode behind my lids—galaxies, auroras, whole constellations. I plunge into them, then float there, boneless, until my wolf draws me back to earth with a long, guttural groan of his own.
His swollen crown spills thick, hot ropes that stripe his abs and glisten in the grooves between his muscles.
“Gods above, we’re filthy,” I say around a sated smile.
His palms settle on my ass. “Nothing that comes from your body, or that you coax from mine, could ever be filthy.”
Yet he sweeps his feet off the bed and carries my love-wasted body to his perpetually filled, perpetually warm bath where we take turns gliding the bar of soap over one another.
“What happens if Klovir aligns with Ulf?” I ask, circling his sculpted pecs in pine-scented foam.
“I still gift Gustafson to the vampyrs.”
The soap plops in the water between us. “Can you? We’re no longer part of the same clan.”
As he retrieves it, he says, “I can, for he hurt one of my wolves, so I get a say in his fate.”
“Ty spared you from killing Taeric yourself.”
Nordin glides the bar between my breasts, then around them. “He could wipe out every vampyr in existence, and I would still see him cast into Helheim for the hurt he dealt you.”
He bears down so hard on the soap that he smooshes it as though it were wet clay. Or Tyron’s neck.
“I was going to end his life sooner or later. If Klovir votes like my father, then Tyron dies at my hands. If Klovir votes like me, then the backstabbing cur dies at Vaelen’s. The end result is the same: Gustafson will die before the next moonrise.”
Guilt digs in, leaving no room for relief.