Page 63 of The Viking in the Vault
Ragnar watches me, his lips twitching slightly, like he knows exactly what’s happening in my brain and is choosing to let me suffer. Slowly, he picks up my mug and hands it to me.
I clear my throat. “You, uh…you didn’t want to wear a shirt?”
He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I run warm.”
He looks warm, I have to admit—hot, even, and extremely inviting. He seems to sense what I’m thinking, because he reaches for me. “I have no expectations,” he says, “but I would like to hold you.”
I bite my lip. Yeah…I can do that.
“I would like that,” I say.
I set my cocoa down on the coffee table, feeling the heat radiating from the fire—and from Ragnar. He’s still watching me, waiting, his massive frame stretched out on the rug like some kind of ancient king waiting for his tribute.
He lifts an arm, a silent invitation.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before giving in, crawling off the couch and settling beside him on the thick, fur-lined rug. Fenrik glances over at me from his other side, not bothering trying to cuddle up when it’s clear something is about to happen, even if I’m not sure what that something is. Ragnar shifts, adjusting so that I can press against his side, and when his arm comes around me, pulling me into the cradle of his body, I let out a breathy sigh.
I fit against him perfectly.
It shouldn’t be possible, given the sheer size of him, but his warmth, his presence, his steady, grounding weight—it all feels right, like my body was meant to curve against his. His barechest is a furnace beneath my cheek, and when I glance up, I find him already watching me, something soft in his eyes.
I clear my throat, feeling suddenly very aware of every inch of my body touching his. “So,” I say, trying to sound normal. “This is…nice. Very, um…cozy.”
His fingers flex against my hip. “Cozy,” he echoes, his voice like a slow drag of silk. “So this is all you require tonight? Warmth. Cocoa. Cozy.”
I swallow. “That’s what we agreed.”
He hums, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Then cozy, we shall be.”
I let out a breath of relief—until I realize his fingers are still resting on my hip, his palm warm and firm, his thumb making slow, idle sweeps along the fabric of my PJs. The touch is innocent. Barely anything.
And yet it sends heat curling deep inside me.
I reach for my cocoa, needing something to do with my hands, and take a sip. The rich chocolate is sweet and soothing, but it does nothing to temper the growing warmth in my stomach, the pulse of awareness in my skin where Ragnar is touching me.
His hand shifts, fingers tightening just slightly, and I swear I feel the heat of his breath at my temple when he murmurs, “You are tense, fenvarra.”
“I—I’m fine,” I say quickly, taking another sip.
Another small, idle stroke of his fingers, barely there but devastating. “You were tired,” he muses, voice like warm embers. “But now, you seem…restless.”
I freeze with the mug halfway to my lips.
He’s not wrong.
The heat between us is thickening, turning heavy, and I can’t tell if it’s the fire, or the way his body is so close, or if it’s just Ragnar himself—his presence making me literally hot andbothered. I shift again, trying to subtly move away, but Ragnar only makes a pleased sound deep in his chest. “You move against me like you do not realize what you do,” he murmurs, his fingers flexing on my hip.
I choke on my cocoa.
Ragnar moves then, reaching for his own mug with a slow, deliberate ease, as if nothing is happening. He takes a sip. Licks a drop of cocoa from his lips.
And I…
I can taste the way he would taste. Warm, rich, spiced with heat. I can feel the heat of his mouth against my temple. The ghost of pressure where his lips could be against mine.
I take a shaky breath, staring into my mug like it holds the answers to the universe.
Ragnar’s fingers slide up, over my ribcage, his touch still so light, still so careful, but now distinctly not innocent.
