Page 90 of Left-Hand Larceny
It’s not.
It’s intimate. Devastating.
And God help me, I like it.
Too much.
My thoughts get slippery and indecent before I can stop them. Because he’s been on his knees in front of me before—not only for footwear—and now my pulse is thudding against my ribs like a warning bell, because who gets turned on watching a man tie a shoe?
Me, apparently. I do.
I’m a sick puppy. Certified. Put me in obedience school and pray for my soul.
Howl noses between us like he knows exactly where my head’s at and disapproves. He huffs, then circles Ragnar once and bumps against my hip like he’s trying to herd me into something. Saving me from myself.
“Thanks,” I say, voice too breathy, too soft.
Ragnar glances up and my stomach flips. His eyes—clear and bright and unfair—lock onto mine, and for a second I forget what day it is. What season. What I said about this being just one night.
He finishes the bow, pats my knee, and rises in one fluid motion.
“You’re going to freeze,” he says simply, eyes skimming my bare legs.
I roll my shoulders like I don’t feel the chill creeping up my spine.
“I’m good.”
He doesn’t argue. Just disappears down the hall toward his bedroom, leaving me alone with his very judgmental dog and the echoes of every wildly inappropriate thought I’ve ever had about this man.
Howl noses my hand, then sits like a little sentry at my feet.
“Well,” I whisper. “Looks like your human’s determined to ruin me.”
Howl lets out a quiet woof. I take that as tacit agreement.
“Well, aren’t you a traitor?” I murmur, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Letting me fall for your human like this.”
He pants happily, tongue lolling, big white paws stepping on my foot in what I assume is affection.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper. “It was supposed to be one night. One. But he listens, and he says stuff in Icelandic that makes me want to kiss him stupid even when I don’t know whatit means and he makes me,” I pause, narrowing my eyes at the pup. “How old are you, anyway? That last one is probably not fit for your ears. And now he’s fetching me a sweatshirt like some Nordic Disney prince.”
Howl sneezes. Possibly in judgment.
“Okay, yeah,” I admit. “You’re right, but in my defense, who wouldn’t have a crush on your dad?”
Ragnar comes back into view, tosses me a hoodie. I instantly recognize the soft navy cotton with white block letters spelling THE ARCTIC across the front.
“It’s clean,” he says. “Might be a little big.”
I tug it on before I can think better of it. It swallows me whole. It smells like laundry detergent and pine and something I’m not ready to name. It smells like Ragnar.
I don’t look at his bedroom door.
I don’t look at his hands.
I pull the hood up over my head and pretend I’m not memorizing the sound of his voice when he says, “Ready?”
God help me, I nod. And I follow him out the door.
