Page 59 of The Viking in the Vault
I should be relieved. I should be grateful that he didn’t push further, that he didn’t make me clarify whatever the hell I meant.
Instead, I feel…unsettled.
Because now there’s only one thought left circling in my head as we leave the restaurant and step into the cold, snow-laced air, Fenrik trotting along between us.
What happens when we get home?
22
ELENA
The walk back to the cottage is spent in intense, awkward silence.
The streets of Snowveil are still alive with light, the glow of ice lanterns casting shifting colors against the snow. The distant hum of conversation and music filters through the air, but I barely hear it over the sound of his footsteps beside me.
Ragnar.
Neither of us speaks—which is weird, because we can finally communicate and I have a million things to say to him, to ask him…but I can't figure out how to broach any of it. Hey, Ragnar—awkward, I know, but I'm kind of a virgin and I'm really nervous. Hey Ragnar, you're about two feet taller than a normal guy, are you sure it'll even fit? Hey, Ragnar...
I swallow hard, trying not to think about it.
We reach my door, and I key in the code with slightly unsteady fingers. It slides open with a soft hiss, and Ragnar follows me inside. He has to duck to get through the front door, antlers nearly scraping the ceiling.
Fenrik immediately trots in and makes himself at home in front of the fireplace, curling up with a disgruntled huff as if I'm not moving fast enough to turn it on. Meanwhile, I’m too awareof Ragnar behind me—his warmth, his breath, the way his gaze pins me in place before he even says a word.
I shuffle toward the small closet near the kitchen, forcing normalcy. “I'm going to make some hot chocolate,” I say as I take off my coat to hang it up. “Do you…”
I trail off when I feel his looking presence behind me—his hands coming to my shoulders, thumbs hooking on the neck of my sweater. I shudder as one hand glides up my cheek, fingers brushing against my lips.
Oh…oh my gosh.
“You never answered my question, fenvarra,” he murmurs, voice rumbling in his chest.
“What question?” I squeak.
“What do you like…” he starts. “How do you want me to touch you?”
I shudder as one big hand slides over my chest, toward my breast?—
And I turn around, pressing my hands to his abdomen, pushing myself away.
“I like hot chocolate,” I blurt out, eyes darting up to his.
I can see the rejection there, and it almost physically aches—which is exactly why I need to be careful. I want to please him. I want to satisfy him. But I’ve also never been impulsive, and everything with Ragnar has just been impulse impulse impulse.
Ragnar stiffens, gaze never leaving mine. “You are saying…” he starts, “that you wish for a sweet drink, instead of my hands on you.”
I wince. “Well, it’s not really like that.”
He drops his hands to his sides. “You don’t want my hands on you?”
I flail. “That’s not?—”
“You don’t want my mouth on you?”
Oh my goodness, I want his mouth on me very, very badly, actually. I want his hands on me, I want it all, and his lips curve as the thoughts race through my mind and he inhales deeply.
Jiminy Christmas. He’s smelling me.
