Page 51 of Valkyrie Confused

I groan. “Everywhere.”

He palms the key I’ve barely managed to grasp, throws me over his shoulder, and lets us into my apartment.

He closes the door behind us and strides to my bedroom in his usual confident way. This isn’t how I envisioned him taking me to bed, but he’s gentle as he lays me on the mattress.

I lean forward, to take of my boots, but he pushes me back with a firm hand on my shoulder and removes them himself. “Take off your top and lie on your stomach,” he says.

When I gape at him, he rolls his eyes. “I won’t look.”

Where’s the fun in that? I don’t ask aloud, because this isn’t about sex. Nothing in his approach saysseduction. “It’s okay. I’ll take some paracetamol and sleep.” Though, can I take a painkiller after the wine?

“Take off your top and lie on your stomach,” he repeats, eyes closed.

I relent and do as he says. “Okay. You can look.”

He’s quiet too long. When I glance over my shoulder, he’s in my bathroom, perusing the bottles around the sink. How can a man his size move so quietly?

He picks up the baby oil I use after shaving my legs and returns to sit beside me. “Can you unhook your bra?”

Pfft.I’ve only been doing it since I was fourteen. I reach behind me to unclasp it, and pain grips me once again. “No.” It’s part-word, part-cry.

His knuckles are warm where they brush my skin, as he undoes the back strap. The next moment, I tense as cool oil drips between my shoulder blades. “I forget you’re not a warrior yet.” He works his hands in circles over my shoulders, spreading the oil. “I'll be more careful with you next time.”

Though he’s not blaming me for something, his words make me feel small and weak. “I know what my body can take. I should have—“

“I’m the one with fighting experience. I’m supposed to think of these things.” He works the strained muscles in my neck and shoulders with his fingers, then repeats his ministrations applying more pressure. It hurts, but in the best way possible. “You’re my responsibility.”

That’s what it comes down to, after all. His responsibility.His duty.

He massages my arms until they feel made of Jell-O, and then moves his hands lower, thumbs dragging down the sides of my spine. His palms are huge, the fingers long and agile.

“Mmm… you know what you're doing,” I say. And then, because my mouth has a freaking mind of its own, “Why did you and Pan break up?”

“He forced me to make a choice.” His voice drops, and his touch falters. “I didn’t choose him.”

I know that much; I saw it. What I don’t get is— “Why? You obviously still have feelings for him.”

He drips more oil on me. Smooths it into my skin. “You can’t control feelings. You can only decide what to do about them.”

I roll my shoulders. “And you don’t wanna do something about it?” The ache is subsiding, allowing for wider range of motion, but I don’t want him to stop yet.

“I am doing all I can afford to.” His gruff tone says the conversation is over, so I stop talking and sink into the soothing motions of his hands.

It doesn’t take long for pleasure to mingle with the pain and slowly nudge it out of the way. His breathing sounds more labored, as he asks if I can undo my jeans.

I can do—willdo—anything he asks for. As long as he keeps touching me.

Arnlaug pours more oil down my spine and massages widening circles across my lower back, all the way to the dip above my butt cheeks. This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced, and for him, it’s just a chore.

“Feeling better?” he asks.

I nod against my pillow. “Much. Thank you.”

But he doesn’t stop. He keeps massaging his way from the back of my neck to the bottom of my spine, varying the pressure he applies and pulling moans and sighs out of me. If I thought I wanted him before, desire is now threatening to drown out reason.

I swish my hips, to get some friction where I need it the most.

Doesn’t work.

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