“Ragnar!” she gasped, hands flying to him for something to balance with. “What are ye… put me down!”
Isolda grabbed for the pommel, but her hand missed entirely. She tipped precariously and Ragnar swerved her around, but her hand was still searching for an anchor and it closed around his belt, tugging.
They both froze.
Her fingers gripped the leather at his hip, her thumb grazing the bare skin above his belt. Heat blazed through him—sharp and wanting.
She stared down at where she had gripped him, lips parted around words that wouldn’t come. Her breath hitched—sharp an audible in the quiet stable—and Ragnar forgot how to breath. He noticed the smattering of freckles across her nose, wondering how he had missed it before. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps against his mouth, each exhale threatening to unravel him while her fingers flexed against his hip.
The movement sent another wave of heat straight through him.
Och, fer the love of… Gods help me!
“Hold still,” he managed, the sound strangled.
“I’m tryin’ tae…” She shifted, and the movement dragged their bodies against one another, her breasts pressing against his chest.
“Ye’re makin’ it worse.”
“I…” she swallowed hard. “I need…”
“Hmmm” his voice came out in a deep rumble. His free hand moved, thumb pressing below her navel. He felt her shiver. “What dae ye need, little wolf?”
Her eyes snapped to his face, wide and startled. Vivid color rushed up her throat, flooding her cheeks and she yanked her hand way. “That was… I didnae mean tae…” She gestured vaguely at his belt, where her fingers had just been moments before. Where his skin was still searing from her touch.
“Ye lost yer balance.” He forced the words steady.
“Aye.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Just so.”
He moved to Tðmr’s front, checking the bridle with hands that refused to remain steady. He stepped back, putting necessary distance between them before he did something foolish.
Like pull ye against me and kiss ye just tae find out if ye’ll resist.
“So,” Isolda said from behind him. “What happens now?”
“Now,” he said, his expression impish, “ye learn tae ride like a Viking.” He came back around to face her. “Which means ye’ll need tae hitch yer skirts.”
“I can manage!” The words burst from her. She was already gathering the fabric, pulling it to her knees with movements that suggested she was deeply mortified but too stubborn to back down.
When she’d finished, Ragnar forced his eyes away from pale calves and delicate ankles that would no doubt leave him sleepless and aching with want later.
Ye’re her teacher, nae some ruttin’ stag!
He cleared his throat. “Ridin’ astride is about balance and rhythm. Movewiththe horse, nae against him.” He demonstrated with his hands, carefully avoiding contact with her skin. “Squeeze gently with yer thighs, lean forward slightly. The power comes from here, nae from yer hands on the reins.”
He gathered Tðmr’s reins and clicked his tongue. The stallion moved forward, smoothly and steady. Isolda swayed in the saddle for balance.
“Relax yer hips. Let them follow his motion.”
“I’m tryin’, I’m just—och!”
The horse’s gait shifted and she latched onto the pommel.
“Ye’re doin’ well.”
“I feel ridiculous.”
“Ye look like ye belong.”
