Page 67 of The Viking in the Vault
“Ragnar,” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair, my nails raking lightly over his scalp, desperate for something to hold onto.
He groans, the sound deep and reverent. His fingers press deeper, curling inside me, his tongue flicking against my still-sensitive clit, coaxing my pleasure higher, pushing me toward another crest before I can fully come down from the first.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
I whimper, and he lifts his head slightly, his mouth slick and his eyes molten with hunger. “You are still shaking, fenvarra,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “I can feel it.” His thumb replaces his mouth, circling my clit in slow, lazy strokes. His fingers inside me move deeper, filling me, stretching me, and his other hand smooths up my belly, grounding me.
He watches me as he works me open, his pupils blown wide in those devastatingly blue eyes, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “You are so beautiful like this,” he rasps. “Soft. Open.” His fingers curl, and I keen, my whole body tensing. “I could spend all night between your thighs, drinking from you.”
I will die. He is going to kill me.
His tongue returns to me, dragging slow, devastating circles, his fingers thrusting with precise, relentless purpose, like he’s memorizing what makes me fall apart.
And I am falling apart.
The pleasure builds impossibly fast, higher than before, sharper, hotter. His tongue flicks. His fingers curl. His hand presses against my stomach, holding me down as I writhe, and then?—
I come again.
This time, it hits me so hard I nearly sob.
Ragnar growls against me, working me through it, letting me ride every wave, every tremor, until I’m limp beneath him, panting, spent.
He finally slows, placing one last kiss against my inner thigh before withdrawing his fingers, sliding up my body until he’s hovering over me, his weight braced on his forearms.
I blink up at him, still lost in the haze of my release.
His eyes are burning.
“Are you all right, fenvarra?” he asks, his voice low, rough, wrecked.
I let out a breathless laugh, my hands drifting up to cup his face. “I—” My voice is hoarse. I swallow, trying to find words. “I’m…very all right.”
His lips twitch. “Good.”
He brushes his nose against mine, his warmth surrounding me, his body still tense, still hungry. But he doesn’t push. He just waits.
I thread my fingers into his hair, sighing against his mouth. “You didn’t?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss, slow and deep, like he’s savoring me all over again…and I taste myself on his lips, and it’s so dirty and so divine that it makes me question if this is even real. When he pulls back, his voice is thick with amusement.
“Tonight was about you, fenvarra.” His fingers trail down my side, soothing, reverent. “And I am a patient male.”
I feel the proof of his patience pressed against my thigh—hard, hot, aching.
Something in my chest tightens.
I kiss him again, slower this time. Softer. He hums into my mouth, his body still thrumming with tension, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand.
And when I pull back, I’m confident that I’m making the right choice.
“Take me to bed,” I whisper.
His eyes widen, his breath catching…and somehow, I know he’ll still ask when the time comes. Maybe we won’t have sex tonight…but I want to touch him. I want to taste him like he tasted me.
