“Tell me tae stop,” he said, his voice a low rasp, “and I stop?—”
“If I wanted ye tae stop, ye’d ken.”
Something wicked and warm flickered in his eyes. He knelt before her—that massive man, the feared jarl, on his knees—and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh.
Isolda’s breath hitched sharply.
“Easy,” he murmured against her skin, his hands sliding up her calves, thumbs tracing slow circles that left trails of fire in their wake.
“Ragnar—”
“Hush.” His mouth traveled higher, lips warm and unhurried against the inside of her thigh. “Just feel.”
His hands pushed her shift upward, baring her thighs inch by inch. The linen pooled at her hips and cool air kissed her heated skin. She shivered as his fingers traced the sensitive crease, and she made a sound she didn’t recognize as her own.
His thumb found the slick warmth of her, and his breath caught—ragged, hungry. “Ye’re already wet fer me. Then let me worship ye.”
His thumb moved in a slow, deliberate circle and her hips jerked involuntarily. A moan tore from her throat—low, startled, aching. Her fingers twisted in the furs beneath her.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough as gravel and dark as sin. “Dinnae hold back. I want tae hear every sound ye can make fer me.”
His fingers explored her with devastating patience—learning the rhythm of her body, reading every gasp and tremor. He found the place that made her cry out, his touch alternating between feather-light and firm, building the pressure until her thighs trembled around his hand.
“Ragnar... I cannae... ‘tis too?—”
“Aye, ye can.” He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, his breath scorching her skin.
Then, Ragnar grabbed her by the backs of her knees, hauled her forward, and his mouth replaced his hand.
The first stroke of his tongue tore a sound from her that echoed off the stone walls. Her back arched off the bed, her hands flying to his hair—gripping, pulling, anchoring herself as the world dissolved into sensation. He tasted her with the same focused intensity he brought to everything—thorough, relentless, maddeningly patient—his tongue tracing patterns against her sensitive pearl that made her vision blur.
“Och... och...”
He groaned against her, the vibration traveling through her core. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, holding her steady. He worked her higher, his rhythm building, every stroke of his tongue purposeful, every pause calculated to draw out the ache until she was writhing beneath his mouth.
“Let go fer me,” he rasped against her flesh, and the command in his voice unraveled her completely.
“Och…och… Ragnar!”
Devastating pleasure crashed through her like the waves on Uist’s shores. Her body arched, her cry raw and unrestrained as wave after wave tore through every nerve. He held her through it, his mouth gentling but never leaving her, drawing out every last tremor until she collapsed back against the furs, shaking, gasping, undone.
Ragnar pressed a final kiss to her inner thigh, then rose and settled beside her on the bed. His hand found hers, their fingers lacing together.
“Are ye all right?” His voice came rough, strained with the effort of his own restraint. She could feel it in the tension of his body—the barely leashed want thrumming through him.
She nodded and turned on her side to face him. His jaw was tight, a flush darkening his neck, and his breathing hadn’t steadied. She could see his arousal straining against his breeches, and a bold, reckless feminine urge rose in her chest.
“Teach me,” she said.
His eyes snapped to hers. “What?”
“Ye just...” she swallowed, her cheeks burning but her gaze steady. “Ye gave methat.I want tae give ye the same.”
Something fierce and hungry blazed across his face before he shuttered it. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the flush staining her skin.
“Nae taenight.”
“Why?”
