Page 66 of The Viking in the Vault
And then he stops.
I whimper, reaching forward to grasp his antler again as if I’m strong enough to drag him where I want him.
He chuckles, low and dark. “Impatient,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to my thigh, this one dangerously close to where I need him most. “You were so shy before, fenvarra. Now you are trembling for me.”
I am trembling. I don’t know how to stop.
He flattens one broad palm over my stomach, just below my navel, pressing me down, holding me steady. “I will take my time,” he says. “You are to be worshipped. Savored.”
His mouth moves lower.
I gasp as I feel the first soft drag of his lips over my most sensitive skin, the hot breath he exhales against me, the deep, satisfied sound he makes when he tastes me for the first time.
“Sweet,” he rasps. His grip tightens on my thighs, spreading me further, his breath shuddering like he’s barely holding himself together. “So sweet, fenvarra. Let me have you.”
That’s exactly what I do.
I lie back as Ragnar starts to lap at me, tongue dragging up and down my folds, finding my clit and sucking. I press my headback against the rug, my breath leaving me in a sharp, broken gasp.
“Oh—” The sound is barely more than a breath, but Ragnar hums in response, the deep vibration rolling through me, making my thighs twitch. He suddenly grasps my thighs and drapes them over his antlers, giving him better access to me, holding me against him. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes, learning me, savoring me.
I can’t think.
I can’t do anything but feel.
The fire crackles beside us, casting warm light over Ragnar’s golden skin, his antlers catching the glow as he worships me with his mouth. His beard is soft against my inner thighs, the heat of his breath sending fresh waves of pleasure spiraling through me as he licks, sucks, teases.
I fist my hands in his hair, my fingers curling around the thick strands, and Ragnar groans, the sound sinful, raw. His grip tightens on my hips as if he wants to drag me closer, bury himself against me, devour me whole.
“Ragnar,” I gasp, my back arching as he focuses on my clit, his tongue circling, flicking, sending sparks of sensation racing up my spine.
He growls against me, the sound reverberating through my core. “That’s right, fenvarra,” he rasps, his voice thick with hunger. “Say my name.”
I do. I say it again, over and over, breathless and desperate, because the pleasure is building, winding tighter and tighter, the heat in my belly threatening to spill over.
Ragnar feels it—knows it. His pace quickens, his tongue pressing firmly against me, working me with devastating precision. One of his hands slides lower, his fingers brushingover my entrance, teasing, before slowly, carefully, pressing inside.
I cry out, my hands shooting forward to yank at his hair.
“Your species,” he says as he thrusts his finger in and out slowly, slick with my arousal. “Can you orgasm more than once?”
Oh, oh gosh, who asks that question? But I nod, unable to speak.
Ragnar chuckles. “Good.”
Then he starts to lick me again.
He groans against me, his tongue never stopping, his fingers moving in slow, curling strokes, coaxing my pleasure higher and higher, until?—
“Oh, fuck—” I shatter.
The pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave, sending me spiraling into white-hot bliss. I arch against him, shaking, lost in the overwhelming sensation as Ragnar growls in satisfaction, his hands holding me steady as he works me through it, his tongue dragging slow, languid strokes against me, like he’s savoring every last tremor.
Ragnar doesn’t stop.
Even as my body trembles beneath him, even as I gasp and shudder through the aftershocks, he keeps going, his tongue slow and methodical, his fingers stroking deep, dragging me through every pulse of pleasure. His hands, so large and warm, hold me down, keeping me open to him.
I can barely breathe.
