Page 31 of Blood of Wolves

She snorted. “Until Hilda walks in on us.”

“You…” He sighed, and the sound was laced with such fondness that she tucked her face into his throat as he continued on, toeing her door open and sweeping her inside.

A lantern glowed, over by the window, its light faint and soft.

Bjorn laid her gently on the bed, went to shut the door, and began lighting candles.

She pushed up on an elbow to watch him, once again admiring the deft movements of such large hands. “You don’t have to do that,” she said, as he moved to her mantel, and the candelabrum there.

He lit candles steadily. Then, spill still burning, glanced back at her over his shoulder, his regard bold and shiver-inducing. “I want to see you,” he said, roughly. And. Oh. Gods.

She sat up straighter, and regarded her legs, stretched long and strong before her, as he continued to fill the room with warm candlelight. Her mother had been slender and refined, a Southern lady through and through. But she’d always favored her father’s bloodline, sturdy, made for battle and child-bearing – two of which she’d had, more than twenty years ago. How would hereallysee her? Would she fail to measure up? Was he hoping for the youthful girl who’d married his friend instead of him?

The mattress dipped before her, and she glanced up to find him there, on one knee, gazing at her in a way that had her legs opening automatically, and hands reaching as he lowered himself over her. He’d doffed his coat, clad only in his sleeveless tunic, now, and bore her down to the mattress, lips landing on hers.

He kissed her and kissed her, until all her doubts had fled. So that, when he tugged at its hem, she sat up and drew her tunic off herself. He breathed open-mouthed and restless, as he reached to unlace her corset, and part its halves. His hands trembled, faintly, as he hooked his fingers in her leggings and drew them down and off, along with her stockings.

Then she was bare before him, and he stared. And stared. His eyes traced slowly all the way down to her toes and then back up, his pupils wide, black pools, cataloguing every detail.

It was enough to make a lady feel rather special. It certainly stoked the heat in her belly, and she needed him to do something about that – sooner rather than later.

“You can touch, you know.”

He reached – and she stopped him with her foot in the center of his chest, grinning. “Not so fast. I showed you mine. Don’t you want to return the favor?”

The smile that broke across his face was slow and wolfish, teeth glinting in the candlelight. “All right.” He climbed off the bed and peeled off his tunic.

His arms she’d grown used to; it was easy to admire them and their faded-ink tattoos given that he rarely covered them. His chest, though, was an unseen wonder. He was muscled in the thick, padded way of the best warriors, just as a Northern man should be. Not trim and willowy like a Southern prince – like Oliver – butstrong. Solid.

The silver hoops in his nipples had her brows lifting, though.

But then he shoved his trousers down, and her breath actually caught. Oh. He was…oh.

Whatever her face did, he chuckled in response, kicked his trousers the rest of the way off, and rejoined her on the bed. He settled between thighs that had spread in automatic invitation, hands planting on the mattress either side of her head, caging her in; she felt the hot, heavy length of his cock against her belly, and couldn’t help but squirm in anticipation. Gods, he was going todestroyher.

He leaned down as if to kiss her, but brushed his nose against hers, instead, lips ghosting at the corner of her mouth when he said, gently teasing, “You can touch, too. Love.”

She wondered if that nickname would stop devastating her, at some point.

“Yeah,” she breathed out, shaky. Hungry. She touched his waist, shocked by the heat of his skin, of its softness over iron-hewn muscle. She petted her way up his stomach, raked her nails through his chest hair, cupped the heaviness of his pectorals – and hooked her fingers in the silver hoop piercings on his nipples, tugging lightly and earning a little grunt in response, his breath huffing across her chin. “These are fascinating,” she murmuring, smiling, tugging again.

“You like them?”

“Hm. Yes. Also wondering why you have them.”

“A man’s got to entertain himself while he’s waiting,” he said, tone teasing, but gaze, as he pulled back a fraction to look at her better, heart-meltingly earnest.

Her next planned smart remark died in her throat, and she flattened her hands against his chest. “Bjorn. Tell me you’ve been with a woman before.” If he’d been waiting incelibacythis whole time, she was going to feel guilty forever.

He grinned. “Aye, I’ve had enough practice.” He ducked down to kiss her again, slow and filthy. Whispered: “You going to let me show you?”

“Please.” It came out more desperate than she intended, but he kissed her again, and she didn’t care. She could be desperate with him – could be needy and unraveled.

Damp lips trailed down her throat, and she gripped his biceps as he kissed down, down, down her body until he cupped her breasts and drew a nipple into his mouth.

The pleasure spiked so sharp, and so sudden, heat washing across her chest, pooling in her belly, gathering between her legs, that she couldn’t stop the choked sound she made.

“No need to be quiet, love,” he murmured against her now-damp skin. “I want to hear you.”

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