Chapter 26 Enemies To Lovers #2
For once, I don't argue. I just tug him closer, letting the anger transform into something else entirely—something just as dangerous but infinitely more pleasurable.
I'm not fighting the current this time. I'm surrendering to it.
His hands, impossibly warm against my skin, travel up my sides as his mouth returns to mine.
The counter is cold even through my pants, a sharp contrast to the fire burning between us.
When his fingers trace the edge of my sports bra, a question in the touch, I make an impatient sound against his lips.
"Yes," I breathe, moving back just enough to meet his gaze. "Touch me."
Something wild flashes in his golden eyes, predatory and possessive.
In one smooth movement, he slides the sports bra up and over my head, leaving me exposed from the waist up.
His gaze immediately fixes on a point just below my collarbone, a strange expression crossing his face as he reaches out, fingers hovering momentarily before touching my skin with such tenderness it makes my heart stutter.
"What is it?" I whisper, confused by his sudden reverence.
He doesn't answer, just traces an invisible pattern beneath my collarbone, his touch sending waves of warmth radiating through my chest, different from the electric current between us—deeper, more intimate.
"So beautiful," he whispers. "Perfect."
I should feel vulnerable, exposed. Instead, I feel powerful. Desired. His gaze travels over me like a physical caress, making my skin tingle and flush. I lean back slightly on the counter, a deliberate invitation.
"You've imagined this," I say, watching his reaction. It's not a question.
"Every night since I found you." The raw honesty in his voice sends another jolt of electricity through me. "But reality is far better than imagination."
His hand cups my breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak until I gasp. Then his mouth replaces his hand, hot and demanding, drawing a moan from deep in my throat. My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him closer as my back arches into the contact.
"Fen," I gasp, the sound half-plea, half-demand.
He lifts his head, eyes nearly black with desire, only a thin ring of gold remaining. "Tell me what you want, Astrid."
"More," I manage. "Everything."
His mouth captures mine again, hungrier now, as his hands continue their exploration of my body. One large palm slides around to the small of my back, yanking me closer to the edge of the counter, until I'm pressed fully against him, feeling exactly how much he wants this—wants me.
The evidence of his desire makes me bold. I rock against him deliberately, swallowing his groan as the friction sends sparks of pleasure through both of us. My hands drop to his belt buckle, fumbling in my eagerness.
"Wait," he says, catching my wrists gently. When I make a sound of protest, he presses his forehead to mine. "Not like this. Not on your kitchen counter when you're still angry with me."
"I am angry," I confirm, nipping at his lower lip. "But I also want you. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me where our bodies touch. "I've noticed." His expression turns serious. "But I want to do this right."
"Right?" I repeat, arching an eyebrow. "Is there a Viking seduction protocol I'm unaware of?"
That draws a genuine laugh from him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Nothing so formal. But..." He traces a finger along my collarbone, sending shivers down my spine. "I've waited centuries for you. I can wait a little longer for... everything."
Centuries? How old is this guy? Before I can ask, he scoops me up, as if I weigh nothing at all. My legs wrap around his waist automatically, arms looping around his neck.
"What are you doing?" I ask, though I'm not complaining about the display of strength or the way his hands support my thighs.
"Compromise," he murmurs, walking us through my apartment with unerring accuracy, despite having only been here once before. "I'm not stopping. Just relocating."
He pushes open the bathroom door with his shoulder, setting me on my feet inside. I glance at the mirror and I'm suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look—half-naked, hair a tangled mess from his hands, lips swollen from his kisses.
"Shower," he says, his eyes never leaving mine as he reaches behind me to turn on the water. "It’s been a long day. You're exhausted. And..." His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. "I want to take care of you."
The words should trigger every defensive instinct I possess. I don't need taking care of. I don't need anyone. But the way he says it… not as if I'm incapable, but as if I'm precious. It disarms me completely.
Steam begins to fill the small bathroom as the water heats.
Fen kneels before me, and I blink in surprise.
For a heartbeat, I don't understand what he's doing.
In my experience, men don't exactly rush to perform acts of service.
But then his hands go to my boots, unlacing them with careful precision, removing them and the thick socks one by one.
The tenderness of the gesture catches me off-guard, sending an unexpected ache through my chest that has nothing to do with desire.
His hands move to my tactical pants next, undoing the button and zipper with deliberate slowness, giving me every opportunity to stop him.
I don't. Instead, I help, shimmying out of them and my underwear until I'm standing completely naked before him.
This vulnerability should terrify me. I've spent years building walls, but somehow, with him, it feels like strength.
His breath catches audibly. "Exquisite."
I should feel self-conscious. I don't. The way he looks at me makes me feel like a goddess myself, powerful and desired. I step closer, my hands returning to his belt.
"Your turn."
This time he doesn't stop me. He watches, golden eyes burning, as I undo his belt and push his jeans down his powerful thighs. He steps out of them, toeing off his boots in the process, until he's as naked as I am.
I take my time looking at him, appreciating the sheer magnificence of his body. He's built like the warrior he claims to be—broad shoulders, powerful chest tapering to narrow hips, strong thighs. Scars mark his skin here and there, telling stories of battles I can only imagine. And his arousal...
"Impressive," I murmur, letting my gaze linger deliberately.
A flash of amusement crosses his face. “I’m pleased you approve.”
I swallow and nod. I have no words at this moment.
He guides us under the spray together, warm water cascading over us. It feels heavenly after the long night, washing away the grime of industrial areas and the stress of the past hours. Fen stands behind me, his body a wall of heat at my back, and reaches for my shampoo.
"May I?" he asks, his voice low in my ear.
I nod again, not trusting my voice. His fingers work the shampoo through my hair, massaging my scalp with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands so large and powerful. A moan escapes me at how good it feels, tension melting from my shoulders under his touch.
"You like that," he observes, satisfaction in his voice.
"Don't sound so smug," I murmur, but there's no bite to the words. I'm too busy enjoying the sensation of being cared for, something I've allowed so rarely in my life.
He rinses my hair carefully, then reaches for the soap, working it into a lather between his hands before running them over my shoulders and down my back. Each touch is both soothing and arousing. He’s cleaning away the day and setting my skin alight with need.
When his hands slide around to my front, cupping my breasts, I lean back against him, head falling to his shoulder. His mouth finds my neck, kissing and nipping as his fingers work their magic, circling and teasing until I'm gasping.
"Turn around," he murmurs against my ear, and I comply without hesitation.
Water streams between us as we face each other, droplets clinging to his eyelashes and running down the planes of his chest. I reach for him, tracing the definition of his muscles, learning the topography of his body with my fingertips.
He watches me, allowing the exploration, his breathing growing heavier when my hands drift lower.
When I wrap my fingers around him, his eyes close briefly, a groan escaping his throat. "Astrid," he warns.
"Yes?" I reply innocently, enjoying the power I have over him in this moment.
His eyes open, dark with desire. "Two can play that game," he says, and before I can respond, his hand is between my thighs, finding the center of my need with unerring accuracy.
I gasp, my grip on him tightening reflexively as pleasure shoots through me. His mouth captures mine, swallowing my moans as his fingers work magic, circling and stroking until my legs tremble.
"That's it," he encourages against my lips. "Let go for me."
The tension builds, his skilled touch and the hot water and the current between us all combining until I'm teetering on the edge.
When his thumb presses just right, I shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash over me.
He holds me steady through it, murmuring praise and encouragement in my ear.
As I come back to myself, his mouth trails down my neck, across my collarbone, lower still.
The aftershocks of pleasure still rippling through me, but instead of satisfaction, I feel a hunger growing stronger.
He drops to his knees before me, looking up through water-spiked lashes, his golden eyes asking a silent question.
"Yes," I breathe without hesitation, one hand bracing against the shower wall, the other tangling in his wet hair. The last of my professional walls crumbles beneath the intensity of his gaze. I want this—want him—with a fierceness that would terrify me if it didn't feel so right.