Page 29 of Blood of Wolves

She swallowed with difficulty. “It can’t be comfortable down there.” Too late, she realized how suggestive the words sounded – even if her tone didn’t, wooden and flat. “It feels better now,” she added. “Thanks. You can stop.”

His hands continued to move a moment longer, and when they stilled, he lifted his head with slow deliberation. Firelight danced up the side of his face, threw his broken nose in shadowed relief across his far cheek. Caught all the deep ochre and gold striations in his eyes – eyes that were big, and soft, and heated, and pretty, when you really looked at them…when he was really looking at you, the way he looked at her now.

The coals hissed and cracked in the grate. Revna’s pulse drummed in her ears.

Bjorn held her gaze, and said, voice a deep rumble, “Do you want me to stop?”

Time seemed to slow between one breath and the next; he shifted to put one hand on her other thigh, rested it, and the moment stretched out like poured syrup.

A different kind of exhaustion swamped her: she was so very,verytired of holding herself together. Of denying herself. Of getting swept up in responsibility, and old grief, and the fear that she couldn’t give Bjorn what he wanted – which was everything.

Gods, she’d been so stupid.

“No,” she said, and it was the first honest thing she’d said all evening. “Don’t stop.”

Saying it was a weight lifting off her shoulders, her chest; admitting it was taking her first deep breath in days. In, perhaps,years. “Yes,” she said again, voice going deep, and sure. She’d been breathless the first time Torstan kissed her, all those years ago, but now her lungs were full of air, and her heart started up a new, steady rhythm. “I want you to touch me.”

He held her gaze another moment, making sure, and his pupils expanded when he saw that she was serious, that she was sure. Then he ducked his head, clenched his hands tight on her thighs, and let out a groan like a dying man.

She gripped the ruff of his coat in both hands and clenched until her knuckles popped. Her breath stirred his hair, where fine strands had slipped loose of the single, tight braid he wore down his back. No beads, she noted – had always noted. He put a single, fat silver bead at the end, where he tied it off, one that marked him as Erik’s right hand, his shield brother. But there were no tokens of love nor family; no glitter of gems, no small, ornate braids curving over his ears from a lover, or a daughter.

It’s always been you.

Forty-three, and he’d never taken a wife, because he’d been waiting for her. Only her.

His hands slid up her thighs, bunching her tunic, until he gripped her hips, thumbs pressing in the juncture there, in a place where she hadn’t been touched by anyone inyears. An innocent touch, in truth, and over her leggings, but she couldn’t stop the whimper than built in her throat.

“Rev,” he murmured. “Revna.”

She smoothed down the fur of his coat collar, and it was soft, and plush, but it wasn’t what she wanted at all. Hands shifting inward, she finally found the hot skin of his neck – and the strong, throbbing pulse that beat just beneath. A war drum rhythm just for her.

Only her.

Revna curled forward, and rested her forehead against the crown of his head, where his hair was cool from the outdoors, and slick with oil. She could have had this yesterday. Could have had it years ago.

She took an unsteady breath, and the tears she’d been fighting off finally broke through. She blinked, and tears slid down her nose, flicked off her lashes. She wasn’t making any noise, but she was properly crying, now, unable to stem the tide.

Bjorn’s fingers, hooked in the waistband of her leggings, petting slowly back and forth across the sensitive skin there, stilled. Then withdrew, as he carefully sat back, forcing Revna to uncurl.

She tried to turn her face away, wanting to hide the tears – but he caught her chin with careful fingertips and held her still. His thumb swept over her cheek, smoothing across the tear-track there, and catching the next about to fall.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His lifted his other hand, so both framed her face, and he wiped the tears on that side, too. His brows drew together. “For what, love?”

She leaned into the heat of his palm. His skin was rough, his touch gentle – reverent. Her voice came out trembling, watery. She hated it, but…but maybe it wasn’t weakness. Not now, not with Bjorn. Maybe, in front of him, it was all right if she let herself fall a little. “For making you wait so long.”

A smile touched his mouth, achingly tender. “I don’t mind waiting.”

But she did, now. She couldn’t take it anymore. As fresh tears welled, she slid down out of the chair so she straddled his knees, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

His lips were warm, and faintly chapped. He held still, at first, in the initial moment of contact: lips against lips, her chest pressed tight to his, her thighs around his waist. He huffed a startled breath through his nose, warm against her cheek, but otherwise didn’t react.

Even now, he hesitated.

She supposed when one waited long enough, the waiting became second-nature and automatic.

Revna drew back far enough to see his face. Her pulse was a wild throb behind her breastbone, and all of her ached – she wanted him, wanted this, wanted to feel wanted and precious and safe for a little while – but she wasn’t prepared for the sight of him.

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