“Aye.” His voice was rough. “Took me four months.”
She closed it gently and set it down. Looked at him kneeling beside the chest that held every secret vulnerability he’d carried alone for eighteen years. Looked at his hands—broad, calloused, scarred from sword and labor—and thought about those same hands turning fragile pages in the dark, shaping letters he couldn’t yet name.
“Well… since we’re on the subject of… figurin’ things out. There’s somethin’ I want tae try,” she said.
He blinked, clearly not expecting the shift. “What’s that?”
Isolda’s hand found the side of his face, her thumb tracing the sharp angle of his cheekbone, and she watched his pupils dilate as her intention registered.
“How tae make yestop thinkin’.”
Isolda kissed him with intent, her mouth open and demanding against his, her tongue sliding past his lips with a boldness that made him groan into her. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, but she was already moving—climbing into his lap where he knelt, pushing him back onto his buttocks, her knees bracing on either side of his thighs, her skirts bunching between them.
“Isolda—”
She nipped his lower lip, tugging gently with her teeth before soothing the sting with her tongue. His breath shuddered out of him, and his grip on her waist tightened hard enough that she felt every individual finger pressing into her flesh through the wool.
She pulled back just far enough to find the laces at the front of her bodice. Ragnar watched her fingers work them loose, his blue eyes tracking every movement.
“Here?” His voice was scraped raw.
“Why nae?” She tugged the laces free, let the bodice loosen, and pulled the fabric down over her shoulders until her shift was all that remained—thin linen, nearly translucent in the pale light from the narrow window.
The cool air hit her bare skin and her nipples tightened instantly, but it was the sound Ragnar made that sent an aching heat settle between her thighs.
His gaze dropped to her breasts, and she watched the last thread of his restraint snap like a bowstring cut clean through. His mouth found her before she was ready for it.
He pressed his lips to the swell of her left breast, just above her heart. Then his tongue traced a slow, devastating path downward. He took her nipple into his mouth, the hot, wet pull of it dragging a sound from her throat that echoed off the stone walls—something between a gasp and a plea.
“Och...Ragnar…”
His hand came up to cup her other breast, his thumb circling the stiffened peak with agonizing precision while his tongue worked in slow, deliberate strokes that made her hips roll against him involuntarily. She felt him harden beneath her, the rigid length of him pressing against her through layers of wool and linen, and the friction sent sparks scattering through her like embers from a kicked fire.
Her fingers knotted in his hair and he answered by switching his mouth to her other breast, while his freed hand slid downher ribs, her stomach, gathering her skirts upward until his calloused palm met the bare skin of her thigh.
Isolda’s hands dropped to his tunic and pulled it over his head with more urgency than grace, needing to feel his skin against her. She flattened her palms against his chest and pushed. He went willingly, settling back against the heavy wooden chair, pulling her with him so that she straddled his lap fully, her thighs spread wide across his.
The position put her above him, looking down at him for once. The shift in power was intoxicating—the Stag of Uist, the most feared jarl in the Western Isles, gazing up at her with blue eyes gone molten with desire.
This man is mine.
She reached between them and unlaced his trews, feeling his arousal strain against the fabric, hearing the sharp intake of his breath when her fingers grazed his length through the linen.
“Isolda.” Her name sounded like it was costing him his sanity.
“Dinnae talk.”
She freed him. He stood thick and hard and hot between them, and the sound he made when she stroked him once was the most devastating thing she’d ever heard. His head dropped back against the chair, his neck straining, his fingers digging into her hips. “Lass, ye’re killin’ me...”
She positioned herself, felt the press of him against her entrance, slick with her own arousal. Their eyes locked. His hands trembled on her hips—not guiding, not controlling, just letting her choose the pace, letting her take what she wanted.
She sank down onto him slowly, gasping as he filled her.
The stretch was exquisite, deeper at that angle and it stole the breath from her lungs. Ragnar’s whole body went taut beneath her, a low groan rumbling from his chest that she felt vibrate through her thighs.
“Gods,Isolda...”
She braced her hands on his shoulders and began to move.
