Page 68 of Scornful

I lead Geirolf to a booth in the back, sliding in beside him instead of across. "Whiskey?" he asks, and I nod.

He signals the bartender, ordering two doubles.

When our drinks arrive, I take a healthy sip, letting the burn steady my nerves.

"So," he says, his voice filled with amusement, "want to tell me the details?"

I give him the condensed version of my conversation with my father, watching his eyes widen with each detail.

His hand finds my thigh under the table, fingers tracing absent patterns through my jeans.

"I told him I was done hiding," I finish. "That he needed to accept that I'm with you now."

"Shit," he breathes, shaking his head in wonder. "Standing up to your father like that... You know he could have?—"

"What? Grounded me? I'm not sixteen anymore, Geirolf. And I'm tired of being treated like I am."

His grip on my thigh tightens. "You're fuckin’ incredible, you know that?"

"Just tired of hiding what we have."

"Me too," he murmurs, leaning closer.

His breath fans across my cheek, and I have to resist the urge to kiss him right here. "I wanted to claim you in front of everyone weeks ago."

"So, why didn't you?"

"Because I respected your wishes. Wanting to keep things under wraps." His thumb strokes along my inner thigh, and I have to bite back a gasp. "But fuck, Astrid, watching you stand up to your father like that... it does things to me."

The hunger in his eyes makes my breath catch.

We've been dancing around this for weeks, stolen moments and interrupted encounters.

But now, with everything out in the open...

"Take me home," I whisper, and his pupils dilate.

He throws back the rest of his whiskey, tossing bills on the table before pulling me from the booth.

The ride to his cabin is torture, every vibration of the bike sending sparks through my body.

His muscles tense under my hands, and I know he feels it too—this need, this desire.

By the time we pull up to his cabin, I'm practically trembling with how bad I want him.

The second he kills the engine, I'm off the bike, helmet hitting the ground as I reach for him.

"Inside," he growls, catching my wrists. "Now."

We stumble through the door, hands everywhere, mouths crashing together desperately.

I push him against the wall, and he’s too focused on getting his hands under my shirt.

"Bedroom," he manages between kisses, and I don't argue.

We leave a trail of clothes down the hallway—his cut carefully placed on a chair, my shirt tossed aside, kicking our shoes off in the process.

By the time we reach his bed, we're both down to our underwear, hands roaming desperately over skin.

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