“Because taenight was fer ye.” He kissed her forehead, lingering. “And because if ye put yer hands on me right now, I willnae be able tae stop when I should.” His smile was, aching with want. “We take this slow, little wolf. There’s nay rush.”
“Ye’re denyin’ yerself on purpose?”
“Aye.”
“That’s the stubbornest thing I’ve ever?—”
“Coming from ye, that’s quite the accusation.”
She huffed a breathless laugh, but something in her chest swelled. He wanted her. She could see it, feel it, practically taste it in the charged air between them.
And yet he was choosing to wait. Choosinghercomfort over his own need.
Ragnar rose and pulled the furs over her, tucking them around her shoulders with hands that weren’t entirely steady. He pressed his lips to her temple, breathing her in.
“Sleep,” he murmured.
“Where are ye goin’?”
“Nowhere.” He settled beside her, still fully clothed, one arm curving around her waist. She curled into him, her head finding the hollow beneath his shoulder, her breathing already slowing.His thumb traced lazy patterns against her hip through the linen of her shift.
Ragnar stared at the ceiling long after Isolda had fallen asleep.
The taste of her lingered on his lips—sweet, devastating, impossible to forget. His body ached with denial. A low, persistent throb that had no intention of easing anytime soon. He adjusted his position carefully, trying not to wake her, then closed his eyes.
Somewhere out there, in the dark beyond the castle walls, Douglas Graham was planning his next move.
Let him come. Let him try tae take me love away.
The thought should have bothered him, but instead, it made something primal and fierce stir in his chest, something that lived behind his ribs, something he’d kept caged for years.
Isolda was teaching it to breathe, but Douglas Graham would satiate it’s thirst for blood.
