9. The Claim
The Claim
Valerie & Sigurd
By the time the ceremony gives way to the feast, the formal order of the wedding has disappeared.
Guests crowd around the long emerald table, passing platters between them as wine flows freely.
Roasted meat and unfamiliar spices mingle with the last traces of frankincense still clinging to the mountain air.
At the head of the table, Rakan’s and Iris’s high-backed chairs have been empty for several minutes. I nod toward them and lean a little closer to Sigurd. “They actually managed to slip away.”
“Rakan operates on his own schedule,” he replies, reaching for the silver pitcher between us. “The politics of the feast can wait. He has his mate.”
His sleeve pulls tight across his forearm as he pours, and my attention follows the movement before I can stop it. I take a drink before he notices me staring, though the wine does very little for my suddenly dry mouth.
Maren’s words managed to sour almost everything yesterday. They didn’t kill my attraction to Sigurd, no matter how hard I tried to bury it beneath common sense. Sitting beside him now, with nothing demanding my immediate attention, makes that painfully obvious.
A chair scrapes against the floor at the far end of the table. Maren Dahl rises with a crystal glass in one hand and waits for the nearby conversations to quiet. She taps one long nail against the rim, sending a clear chime through the hall.
“I have a surprise for everyone tonight. A gift of joy for the new couple.”
I glance toward Rakan’s and Iris’s abandoned chairs. “A gift of joy? They aren’t even here.”
Sigurd doesn’t answer. The ease has vanished from his face, and all his attention has shifted to Maren. I murmur his name, but he stays focused on her as she lifts the glass higher.
“Let the mountain hear us.”
The first note vibrates through my teeth and travels into the table beneath my hands. A heartbeat later, the song fills the hall, impossibly sweet and powerful enough to blur every other sound.
My carefully ordered thoughts begin to loosen almost immediately.
Saltweather still matters. Solveig still matters.
The contract still exists, and I remember every reason I should be cautious around Sigurd.
None of those things disappear, but they lose their grip on me as desire rushes in to replace them.
Heat gathers beneath my skin and settles low in my body. The emerald silk suddenly feels too heavy over my thighs, and every breath makes me more aware of the man sitting inches away.
Sigurd’s hand closes over mine before I can move toward him. The chill of his fingers cuts through the feverish warmth and sends a sharp rush up my arm.
“Valerie.” His voice has gone rough, and the blue markings beneath his collar flare brighter. “Don’t listen to it. Try to block the song.”
I know I should listen. I can see the warning in his face and understand exactly what he’s asking of me, but I no longer want to resist what the song has dragged to the surface.
I pull my hand free. “I don’t want to block it, Sigurd. I want you.”
His focus shifts completely to me, but he keeps his hands away from my body. The effort shows in the rigid set of his shoulders and the tension running through his arms.
I push out of my chair and cross the narrow space between us. The emerald silk rides higher along my thighs when I swing one leg across his lap and settle astride him.
Sigurd catches my waist before I can lose my balance. A rough sound breaks from deep in his chest, but his hands hold me where I am instead of pulling me closer.
“Valerie, you’re lost to the song.” His fingers flex against the silk at my waist. “I’m trying very hard not to take advantage of that.”
I brace my hands on his shoulders and lean toward his jaw. A faint tremor runs beneath my palms, so slight I almost miss it.
“You’re shaking.”
This ancient kraken can stare down billionaires, monsters, and his own terrifying mother without blinking. Right now, he’s trembling because I’m sitting in his lap.
“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says, and the strain in his voice only makes my pulse jump harder.
I slide my palms down his chest. The crisp cotton between my hands and Sigurd’s skin has become intolerable, so I catch the front of his shirt and pull.
Several pearl buttons snap loose and scatter across the table. Sigurd sucks in a breath when the fabric parts beneath my hands and exposes the gray-blue skin of his chest.
I press my mouth to his throat and taste salt beneath something sharper. His head tips back enough to expose the line of his collarbone, and I follow it with my lips before sliding one hand into his dark hair.
“I know what I want, Sigurd.” I bring his face back toward mine. “I don’t care about the song. Stop holding back.”
I kiss him before he can answer, pouring all the need burning through me into his mouth. Sigurd holds himself rigid for one long moment, but the restraint finally gives way beneath my hands. A guttural sound tears from his chest, and his grip shifts from holding me back to dragging me against him.
He rises with me in his arms as though my weight means nothing. I cling to him as he turns toward the table, and one sweep of his forearm sends plates, platters, and half-empty decanters crashing to the floor.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he groans against my mouth.
He lowers me onto the cleared stone and straightens above me. The emerald surface presses hard against my back as Sigurd tears the ruined shirt from his shoulders and lets it fall beside the shattered dishes.
His tentacles uncoil behind him and spread into the open air. One slides over the table near my hip, while another curves beside my shoulder. Their restless movement is nothing like the careful control he usually keeps around me.
Sigurd steps between my knees and catches the neckline of my dress. He pauses long enough to look down at me, leaving the choice in my hands despite everything the song is doing to us.
I lift myself toward him.
He pulls the silk over my shoulders and arms, leaving the dress gathered around my waist. Mountain air sweeps over my exposed skin, but the heat running through me barely allows me to feel it.
I drag him closer until my palms meet the hard planes of his chest. Two tentacles curl around my wrists and guide my arms above my head, their grip firm without hurting me.
Sigurd bends over me until his mouth is close to mine. “I need to know you’re here with me. Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“You have me.” My fingers curl around the tentacles encircling my wrists, their cool surface almost painfully good against my skin. “And I want more.”
His mouth moves down my body. The first sweep of his tongue over my breast sends a hard shiver through me, and he follows it with another, slower pass.
He circles the sensitive peak before dragging his mouth over my ribs and stomach, stretching the anticipation until the ache between my legs becomes almost unbearable.
By the time Sigurd drops to his knees, I’m straining against the tentacles around my wrists.
His broad shoulders press my thighs wider, and a third tentacle glides along the inside of my leg.
The ridged underside brushes sensitive skin as it traces higher, stopping maddeningly short of where I need it.
Sigurd presses a kiss to my inner thigh and looks up at me. “You’re so beautiful. So fucking perfect.”
His mouth closes over me before I can answer. The first stroke of his tongue tears a cry from my throat, and my wrists pull instinctively against the tentacles holding them.
He licks through the wet heat between my legs with slow, deliberate strokes. Whenever my thighs tighten around his shoulders, he adds more pressure, drawing out every reaction until my body begins moving toward his mouth on its own.
The third tentacle slides higher and curves against my clit. Its ridges begin a slow rhythm while Sigurd’s tongue pushes inside me, and the combination drives my hips off the stone as far as his hold allows.
“Sigurd, please.” My voice breaks when the tentacle presses harder. “Please, I need you now.”
He gives me one last slow lick before rising over me. His body fills the space between my thighs, and the thick length of his erection presses against my soaked entrance.
“Tell me you’re mine.” His voice has dropped into a rough growl that sends another shiver through me. “Tell me, Valerie.”
“I’m yours.” I arch toward him as much as the tentacles allow. “I want this, Sigurd. I want all of you.”
The coils loosen from my wrists, and I immediately wrap my arms around him. Sigurd grips my hips and begins to push inside me. He stretches me slowly despite the urgency burning through both of us.
The first inches force my body open around him with a pressure that borders on pain. I cling to his back until the sharpness begins to ease. Sigurd pauses before pressing deeper, giving my body time to adjust instead of forcing the pace.
By the time his hips finally meet mine, the initial burn has melted into a heavy fullness that makes me tighten around him. I breathe against his neck and let myself settle around his cock. One of his tentacles slips between my thighs.
The tip brushes over the sensitive skin of my anus. I jolt hard enough to clench around him, dragging a groan from Sigurd as the tentacle pauses without pressing farther.
He waits, and I shift my hips toward the touch.
The tentacle returns with deliberate pressure and eases past the tight ring of muscle. A sharp breath leaves me as it stretches me. Sigurd stays deeply buried inside my pussy while the tentacle works gradually deeper.
The fullness is almost overwhelming. Every small movement makes my muscles tighten, and Sigurd gives me time to take the new stretch before moving his hips again. The first burn slowly gives way to something deeper and more intoxicating.
“More,” I whisper, digging my fingers into his back. “I can take more.”