Page 62 of The Viking in the Vault
He smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me…and I’m sure he does.
“I’m going to go put on something more comfortable,” I say, putting my foot in my mouth yet again. “Not…not something sexy, just comfortable.”
“Anything you wear is ‘sexy,’ my fenvarra,” Ragnar rumbles.
“Oh,” I say, my voice much too high for someone who’s completely calm. “Well, um…if you want to change, you know where all your stuff is, right? The stuff we got for you?”
He nods. “I’ll be waiting.”
23
ELENA
Iam fully losing it.
I shut the door to my bedroom and immediately brace my hands on my knees, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
Okay. Okay. This is fine. I can handle this.
I straighten up and look at myself in the mirror, and—yep. That is the expression of a woman in distress. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are too wide, and my hair looks like I just got caught in a windstorm of horny thoughts. Which, to be fair, I kind of did.
I press a hand to my face, groaning.
I want him. I really want him. I have never wanted anyone like this before. And yet—I also know myself. I don’t just throw myself into things without thinking. I don’t make impulsive decisions. And Ragnar is a lot—all towering, muscle-bound devotion and absolute certainty, and I…
I’m terrified.
Not of him—never of him. But of the weight of this. Of what it would mean. Of how much it would change me. Because once I give myself to Ragnar, there’s no going back. Not just because of who he is, but because of who I am.
I groan again, turning in a circle like that’s going to help me figure this out.
Just put on pajamas, Elena. That’s all you have to do.
I yank open a drawer, pulling out a pair of soft, loose sweatpants and one of my favorite oversized sleep shirts—a well-loved, faded thing with an old university logo on the front. It’s the least sexy thing I own, which is exactly what I need right now.
I slip into the pajamas as quickly as possible, dragging my hands through my hair and forcing myself to calm down. It’s fine. He’s going to be wearing normal clothes too. We’re just drinking cocoa. Everything is normal. Just two people, sitting by the fire, drinking cocoa.
I suck in another breath and open the door.
And immediately regret everything.
Ragnar is sitting on the rug in front of the fire, legs stretched out, looking like he was sculpted by some ancient god of indulgence. And he is not wearing a shirt.
He is, however, wearing the gray sweatpants we picked up for him in town—and only the gray sweatpants. They sit low on his hips, clinging entirely too well to his body, and his muscles shift and flex as he reaches for a mug of cocoa, totally unaware of the absolute catastrophe he’s causing me.
I clutch the doorframe like I’ve been physically struck.
He looks up at me, and damn it all to hell, he smiles.
“I thought you had changed into something comfortable,” he says, voice deep and warm like the firelight flickering across his skin.
I make a helpless noise in the back of my throat.
Because here’s the thing: he is comfortable. That’s the problem. He’s just existing, completely at ease, utterly unbothered by the fact that he looks like the single most indecent thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
I am not fine.
“I—uh—yes,” I stammer, willing myself to move before I just pass out in the doorway. I shuffle over to the couch and sit down with the least amount of grace possible, nearly missing the cushion. “This is—yep. Very comfortable.”
