Chapter Nine #2
He pulled away from her, stripped off his jacket and then unbuttoned his shirt. Then he cast both onto the floor, before getting off the bed momentarily to take off the rest of his clothes. Her eyes went around, her focus going immediately to his cock.
She bit her lip, her reaction much more so one of interest than of nerves.
She rose up on her knees, her dress pooled around her like a golden puddle, her hair falling forward. Divine. Pagan. All at once.
She leaned in, and pressed a kiss to his hip.
A short grunt rose up in the back of his throat.
“I told you—”
“And I told you that this was my choice. So let me have what I want.”
She leaned in, sliding her tongue along the length of his arousal. And then she parted her lips, taking him in, a feminine gasp escaping her lips as she released him a moment later. And then she went back, teasing him, tormenting him, lavishing him with attention.
He gripped her hair, watching as her mouth slid up and down on his rod, watching as she took her pleasure by giving him pleasure.
She made whimpering sounds, sweet, tormented noises that told him she was delighting in this as much as he was.
“Good girl,” he growled.
Her cheeks went pink as she continued to suck him, and he felt himself reaching the end of his composure. The end of his control.
“Enough, my Freya. Or I will deny you the loss of your virginity by losing myself.”
Her lips curved into a smile, those wicked lips, swollen now with need. “So you liked it?”
“If I liked it any more, then this would be over.”
“I’ve never done it before.”
“I assumed. But not because it wasn’t good. Only because… You are mine, aren’t you? Entirely? You have never kissed another man, never touched another man. You’ve never even wanted one, have you?”
It was suddenly imperative that he know that. That he be absolutely certain that her need was for him, and for him alone.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You are the only one.”
“Good.”
Everything in life that had once been his had been taken from him. In some way, it healed him to know that she had come to him, and she was his. It was that simple.
And in two years if she went her own way, and went to another man, he would still have been her first.
And right now, she was his. It was all that mattered.
She reached behind her back, as if she were reaching for the zipper of her dress. “No,” he growled. “That’s my task to complete.”
He lifted her up, and repositioned her so that she was sitting on the edge of the bed.
Then he gripped one of the straps of her dress and pushed it down, so that it fell, loosening her bodice.
He did the same to the other side. The diaphanous fabric was still covering her breasts, but had exposed more of her ample cleavage.
He left her just like that, her hair a wild tangle, the image she made that of a feral, gorgeous creature.
Then he got down on his knees, and pushed up the hem of that skirt, exposing her slim ankles, her calves.
Pushing the skirt up until he could see her thighs, until he saw the sheer panties that she had on beneath the dress.
He could see the shadow of dark curls beneath the diaphanous fabric, and his body throbbed in anticipation of having her.
But no. He would not claim her like that. He would not sink himself into her without preamble no matter how badly he wanted it. He had to bring her to pleasure first. He had to give her everything. And then some.
He hooked his fingers into the sides of her underwear, and pulled them down her legs, opening her thighs so that he could see her glistening folds.
She was art, this woman. And he would worship at her altar, above any other.
How could such pagan beauty exist? Someone so strong, resilient, regal and yet hewn from the earth.
He would never have thought that a princess would appeal to him like this. He would’ve thought that he was the kind of man so lost to the civilized world that he could not want a woman like her, and yet. It was as though she had been brought forth from the forest just for him.
He leaned in, inhaling the scent of her arousal before he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh.
She gasped, and he pressed forward, licking her right where she was wet and needy for him.
She gasped, her hands going around his hair as he began to devour her.
How long had it been since he had tasted a woman? It didn’t even matter what the answer was. Because no woman had ever been her. No woman had ever appealed to him in this way.
No one had ever reached the heart of him. But she did.
Like she had reached up into the sky and brought the stars down among them. Like she had made magic between them with nothing more than the wave of her hand.
He kissed her there. Teased her, tormented her, and then he pushed a finger deep inside of her tight passage, stretching her, trying to prepare her for what came next.
But what came next didn’t matter. What mattered the most was what was happening now.
What mattered the most was him giving her all the pleasure that she could ever receive.
He pressed a second finger inside of her, and she moved her hands to his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin.
He sucked her clit deep into his mouth, as he continued to thrust his fingers within her, and she gasped his name, tightening her thighs on either side of his face as she came explosively against his mouth.
He kept going. Because there was no reason for him to stop. Because there was no reason she couldn’t have more.
Because she had been given so little in her life, because people had shown so little care for her feelings. For what she wanted, and him among them. He owed her penance. He owed her pleasure.
And he would forfeit his own desires for this, any moment.
Every day.
Her back arched up off the bed again, a second orgasm tearing through her as she curled her hands around the bedspread.
“Yes,” he growled, lifting his head and kissing her thigh again.
“Beautiful.”
He looked up at her, and she touched his face, her eyes gone dark, like the deepest part of the forest.
“Ragnar…”
“You are mine,” he said. “This body is mine. But only to do as it pleases you. That is my calling. It is my right. To claim you, but in the way that makes you scream my name.”
She was trembling when he stood, his body so hard it hurt now, and reached around to undo the zipper on her dress. She reached out and gripped his shaft, squeezing as he let her dress fall around her waist, exposing her breasts.
They were beautiful. So much lovelier than he had even imagined they might be.
“They would’ve written songs about you,” he said. “Back in the conquering days.”
“Would they have also stolen me from my home and brought me to a strange land?”
“That is what I did. I can hardly expect the barbarians of old to behave any differently.”
“But the song is supposed to be the consolation?”
“The song is attribute. An offering. To a goddess.”
“Oh.”
He reached out and took her hand, had her stand, and her dress fell to the floor. She was completely naked in front of him, wearing nothing but her gold shoes now. He knelt down, and began to undo the buckles.
She watched intently as he did. “Because two things can be true,” he said. “I can claim you, but you can claim me. I might be the king. But I will be on my knees before you.”
“And will you take me?”
“Yes.” He stood, and wrapped his arm around her, brought her up against his body so that they were pressed together, totally naked, holding onto each other. And he kissed her just like that, luxuriating in the feel of it. The decadence of being there, being naked, and having time.
To kiss her all over. To take her as he wished.
As she wished.
“No, my lady,” he said, picking her up and wrapping her legs around his waist and then climbing onto the bed, laying her on her back at the center of the mattress. “I will have you.”
He put his hand between her thighs, pushed two fingers in her again as he felt how wet and ready she was.
Then he kissed her mouth, her neck, lowered his head to take one nipple into his mouth and sucked hard.
She arched up off the mattress and then he positioned himself at the entrance of her body, and thrust deep inside of her in one smooth stroke.
“Ragnar,” she cried, her internal muscles pulsing, tightening around him. She did not seem to be in pain. Rather she seemed to be having the aftershocks of another release. He began to move, not allowing that trembling to subside as he staked his claim over and over again.
Her wet heat drove him to the edge. Made him feel more beast than man, but for a better reason than ever before. Not because he was being stripped of every comfort, every bit of humanity, but because he was acting only on instinct. Only on need.
He could feel her getting close. Another orgasm building within her. And his own was about to steal every last bit of his control. He put his hand between them, brushing his thumb over her clit as he continued to thrust inside of her.
A short cry escaped her mouth, and he drove himself into her quickly, chasing his own satisfaction. And when it hit, with all the force of a pack of wolves, gripped him around his throat and left him gasping for air, he cried out her name: “Fern.”
His Fern.
“Mine,” he growled, resting his forehead against hers.
They held each other for a long moment after.
Then he moved away from her, and tucked her against his side. He pushed her hair away from her face. He had never done this before.
Never held a woman in the aftermath of pleasure.
“Why is there sadness in Freya?”
Her voice was soft, in the silence of the room.
“She’s sad because her husband left her. He’s roaming the earth, and she’s waiting for him back home. But he isn’t there.”
“My husband is here,” she said, putting her hand over his.
He felt as if he had been stabbed, clean through the chest.
The sweetness, the softness of her words nearly unmanning him.
“Yes,” he said. “I am. I will never leave this place.”
In truth, in the future, he would be more like Freya. Tasked with guarding a particular place, and unable to follow her as she went on to make her choices. To live her life.
But she could be unburdened of all of this. She could be free.
And he would rejoice for her.
He hadn’t cared at first. Not at all. He hadn’t seen her as a person, just as she had said. She had been an ideal. A symbol. Something that he had thought might be useful.
But not a person.
She had in this short space of time become the person that he knew best. She had become someone who mattered. And he couldn’t remember the last time a person had mattered to him. An idea, yes. People as a group, yes. But not a person. One that he wanted to know. To touch, to kiss, to keep with him.
“I guess I’ll always know where to find you,” she whispered. Then she leaned in and kissed his hand.
“Yes,” he said. “You will.”