Page 22 of Valkyrie Confused

I motion at the table as I climb to my feet, and the dishes are transported to their respective places in the kitchen, squeaky clean. “Right about now.”

“If you wanna have a drink, for old-times’ sake…”

“My room has a better-stocked bar.” I know even as I say this that we’re not just going to share a drink. We’re going to fuck. But we’re big boys, and hate-fucking totally is a thing, and I am the god of orgies, for fuck’s sake—though not officially—so I’m not going to turn down some no-strings-attached stress-relief.

He follows me to my room, and I head straight for the bar. Mortal alcohol doesn’t do much more than burn my throat, and the situation calls for something harder, so I dig up a flask of the wine I refused to leave behind when I saidgoodbyeto my old life. Made from Dionysos’ vines, it packs a punch even I can feel.

I twist the cap off and tilt it over my lips. Squeeze a long stream of the shimmering liquid into my mouth and swallow, then hand it to Arnlaug.

He sniffs it, the beast, and makes himself comfortable in the only armchair in the room, to guzzle down a few long gulps.

When I reach to take the flask back, our fingers touch. Electricity zips through me at the fleeting contact. I want him as much as ever, and the taste of his desire coats my tongue.

The bulge in his cargo pants calls to me. We came to my room to fuck. So why am I stalling?

He doesn’t let go of the flask, so I nudge his legs apart with one of mine and lean closer, to let him pour wine in my mouth. He misses, and it drips down my chin and onto my shirt. This is why I don’t wear a shirt when I can avoid it. They stain easily.

I straighten to take it off, but Arnlaug is faster. He drops the flask, grabs my shirt with both hands, and rips it open.

Startled, I lose my balance and clasp his legs to keep from toppling forward.

Using his grip to pull me closer, he presses his mouth to my chest and licks the wine off my skin, before following its path up to the corner of my mouth with his tongue.

Our lips are millimeters apart. His breath is hot against my skin, and he lets go of my tattered shirt to skate his palms down my abs. It would be so easy to kiss him. To let my power wrap around him, amplify his need, and unleash the full potential of his desire.

So easy to have him undo my pants and take me in his hand or his mouth.

To lose myself in him.

But fucking Arnlaug is about control as much as it is about pleasure, and I want to make him squirm.

Reining in my power, I step back, push his legs further apart and drop to my knees between them. Holding his gaze, I unbuckle his belt and pop open his fly, and he lifts his ass to help me free his cock.

When I lick my lips, it’s not for show. It’s because they’ve gone dry at the sight of his shaft. I’d forgotten how long and thick he is—almost as big as me. The tip glistens with precum, inviting me to taste it, and I don’t hold back. I run my tongue over it, and when he groans, suck it inside my mouth. There’s no way I can fit all of him in, so I wrap one hand around his girth and pump while I suck hard, twisting my head from side to side and adding teeth in the mix for that hint of pain he likes mixed with his pleasure.

The armchair creaks, and I pause to look up. He’s bent an armrest out of shape.

I let him plop out of my mouth, and still pumping, tut. “Don’t damage the furniture, please.”

He grunts a curse word in his native language and digs his fingers in my hair, to steer my head back down. The jolt of pleasure when he rubs the pads of his thumbs across my horns makes my cock press painfully against my zipper, but I dig the fingers of my free hand into my thigh instead of doing something to relieve the pressure. I don’t want to jerk off. I want to come inside his ass, and I want him to beg for it.

I suck and pump harder. Faster. My head is light from his touch on my horns, my need mounting with every thrust of his cock in my mouth as he rocks his hips.

His grip on my hair turns painful, but I enjoy the sting as much as he does. Still fisting him with one hand, I wedge the other beneath his balls. Cup them. Tug gently.

Arnlaug groans and pushes into my fist, and I inch the tip of my finger between his ass cheeks, to graze his asshole.

His body jerks, and I drop my other hand from his cock, to take as much of him into my mouth as I can—thank Chaos for no gag reflex. I swallow around him and push my finger deeper into the tight hole, enjoying the thrill of making him putty in my hands.

He’s coming, and it’s thick and salty and more than I can swallow at once, but I try, and I keep pumping until he lets go of my hair and whispers a gruff, “Enough.”

Power thrums in my veins. Buzzes in my temples. “Oh, it’s nowhere near enough—” I lick the wordbabyfrom my lips and swallow it down with the last traces of his spendings, before climbing to my feet. “Turn around.”

“Make me.” He’d sound a lot more defiant if he could raise his head from where it’s resting against the back of the armchair.

I can fuck him like this, too, but I don’t want him to be looking at me while I do. I don’t want him seeing how much he still means to me, the fucker.

“You owe me,” I say.

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