Page 29 of Vargan

"There," I gasp against his mouth. "Right there. Don't stop."

He growls, his pace increasing, the controlled restraint of earlier giving way to something more instinctual. "Never," he promises, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I’ll never stop wanting you."

The second orgasm hits me without warning, crashing over me in waves that have me clawing at his back and crying out his name. He follows me over the edge moments later, his release triggering aftershocks that leave me trembling beneath him.

For a long moment, we lie tangled together, breathless and sweat-slicked. He's careful not to crush me with his weight, but I pull him closer, wanting to feel the solid reality of him against me for as long as possible.

Eventually, he rolls to his side, taking me with him, keeping us connected. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back as our breathing slows, our heartbeats gradually returning to normal.

"That was..." I trail off, unable to find words adequate to describe what just happened between us.

"Yeah," he agrees, a satisfied rumble in his chest. "It was."

I trace one of the tattoos on his chest—intricate linework forming what looks like a constellation. "Tell me about these," I say, fingers exploring the map of ink on his skin.

He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "You sure you want to hear my life story now?"

"I want to know everything about you," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. "While I have the chance."

Something flickers in his eyes—sadness, maybe, or regret—but he nods. "This one," he says, guiding my fingers to a symbol over his heart. It's angular and bold—sharp runic lines intersecting to create something that resembles a stylized axe head with three distinct points, surrounded by what looks like mountain peaks. "It's my name in the old language. Vargan—the name of my father, and his father before him, passed from father to firstborn son for so many generations we've lost count."

My fingers trace the bold, powerful lines, feeling tiny ridges in his skin from where the ink was embedded deeply. "It's beautiful. What does it mean?"

"Mountain guardian," he says, his voice softening. "In the old days, my ancestors were tasked with protecting the mountain passes of our homeland."

I trace the symbol again, memorizing it. "A protector. That suits you."

"What about you?" he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Is Savvy short for something?"

"Savannah," I admit. "But no one called me that except my grandmother, and only when I was in trouble."

His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Family name?"

"No." I smile at the memory. "Well, kind of. My parents met on a school trip to Savannah. They always said they'd name their first daughter after the place they fell in love. But when I turned out to be too high-spirited for such a feminine name, Dad shortened it to Savvy. Said it suited me better."

Vargan's lips quirk in a half-smile. "It fits you. Strong. Smart."

A comfortable silence falls between us, and a question I hadn't considered before drifts into my mind. Was I his first human? The thought makes me both curious and strangely vulnerable. I almost ask, but something holds me back—fear of the answer, perhaps, or not wanting to remind us both of the differences between us when, for this moment at least, they don't seem to matter.

Vargan's eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. "What are you thinking about? You got quiet all of a sudden."

"It's silly really. Nothing," I say, dropping my gaze.

His finger gently lifts my chin until I'm looking at him again. "Don't start keeping secrets from me now. Not after what we just shared."

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I meet his eyes. "I was wondering...you know...if I was your first...human."

Instead of being offended, Vargan smiles - a genuine smile that softens his entire face. He pulls me closer, his lips against my hair as he whispers, "Yes. My first and my only."

The simple declaration sends a wave of warmth through me, more powerful than I expected.

We lie together as the afternoon fades into evening, his fingers combing through my hair, my head resting on his chest where I can hear the steady beat of his heart. “Tell me about your club?” I ask, just wanting to hear his voice so I can memorize the sound.

"The club saved me," he says, his voice low as he describes finding his brothers. "After the military, I was lost. Angry at everything. The Ironborn gave me purpose, gave me a family again."

I tell him about growing up in Shadow Ridge, about my parents, about my dreams before life forced me to be practical. I confess how I'd wanted to go to culinary school, maybe open my own restaurant someday, not just run the local diner.

"Still could," he says, tracing patterns on my bare shoulder. "You're young. Talented."

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