He pulls me up. Hooks his fingers in my trousers and drags them down. I kick them off and he lifts me with one arm, effortless, his hand spanning my entire thigh. I straddle his lap again. Bare skin on bare skin. The heat of his cock pressed between us, against my stomach, and I can feel every degree of him.
His mouth finds my collarbone. His hand slides between my thighs. One finger. Thick. Hot. Careful, even now. He finds me wet and his breath catches against my skin.
“Hjärtakh,” he whispers. His finger moves. Slow. I grip his shoulders and my breathing goes uneven. He learns what I need. He pays attention. He adjusts.
“More,” I say.
He gives me more. His thumb finds the right place and presses and the heat of it is something I have no frame of reference for. Hot as a stone from the fire pit, and the contrast between the cool air and his hand nearly undoes me.
“Now,” I say. “Thyran. Now.”
He lifts me. Positions me over him. I feel him at my entrance. Hot. Hotter than his hands, hotter than his mouth.
“Slow,” I say. “Let me.”
He holds still. Every muscle locked. Shaking with the effort of not moving.
I lower myself onto him. The first inch is heat and stretch and my body resisting and then not resisting. I breathe. Take more. The ridges I felt under my hand, I can feel them inside me now, textured and hot, each one a point of pressure that lights up nerves I didn't know I had. The heat of him radiates outward from where we're joined, spreading through my hips, my stomach, deeper.
More. Slow. He’s watching my face. Reading me for pain. I don't give him any.
“Sölkha,” he breathes. His hands are shaking on my hips.
I take all of him. Settle. Full in a way that pushes breath out of my lungs. The heat reaches places that have never been warm. Deep. Radiating. I can feel his pulse inside me.
The warmth spreads through my hips, into my stomach, up through my chest. The cool air on my skin and the fire inside me and the contrast makes every nerve sing.
I put my hand on the back of his neck. Hold him there. His forehead drops against my chest.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
He lifts his head. Looks at me. I start to move.
Slow. Rocking. Feeling every ridge, every degree of him. The friction is heat on heat, his body stoking mine, and every movement pushes the temperature higher. His teeth scrape the ridge of my collarbone and I pull his hair and his hips buck and the rhythm breaks.
“Harder,” I say.
He stops holding back.
His hands grip my hips and he drives up into me and the force of it lifts me off his lap and I grab his shoulders to anchor myself. The sound I make surprises me.
Not quiet. Not controlled. The ridges inside me drag against every nerve and the heat builds with every thrust and I hear my own voice and don't recognize it.
He speaks Jötunn against my throat. “Minän. Rauði vétkha.” I feel the vibration before I register the sound. The bass of it sinking through me, dropping lower, reaching the place where he’s inside me.
“How are you doing that?” I manage.
He lifts his head. Eyes glazed. “What?”
“What does it mean? Never mind. Don't stop.”
He puts his mouth against my neck and speaks Jötunn and the vibration goes through my whole body and my fingers twist into his hair and I say something that isn't a word.
“Again,” I say. “Again.”
He talks. He talks against my skin, against my throat, against the hollow behind my ear, and every word vibrates through me and his hips don't stop and the heat is building in both of us.
The fire across the hall has climbed to twice its height. The ice on the windows is gone. Rivulets of meltwater running down the glass.
