For a long pause, she held his stare, gooseflesh prickling her unblemished skin. His hands stayed anchored on the jut of her hips, afraid if he moved them, he’d be unable to stop himself.
And he wanted to relish this moment, drink her in until the image of her was etched into his mind for eternity.
Freckles dotted her arms, accentuated by a brilliant blush flaring there. Her breasts shuddered with a nervous laugh, her nipples pebbling into stiff peaks Njáll wanted to circle with his tongue.
“A beauty fit for the gods,” he growled, yanking at his trews when her hands stopped him.
With a smile that reached her eyes, she pushed his trews down his thighs, squeaking when his hard cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach. He kicked away the wool, and her hands wandered, squeezing his muscled ass.
“Does it please you, kona?”
“Yes. You’re very… pleasing,” she breathed, and Njáll laughed.
“We’re to be bathing, Elara.”
The reminder was more for him than her, his body on the verge of destruction. Before she could respond, he lifted her into the washbasin. Njáll slid in beside her, water sloshing over the sides.
He spread his thighs, tucking her between his legs with her back against his chest. With the herbal soap in his hand, he lathered it onto the linen cloth, massaging it over her soft skin.
She released the sweetest little groan, her head falling back onto his shoulder, lashes fluttering.
Despite her relaxed demeanor, the muscles in her body were taut with coiled tension.
The Völva’s words carried an immense burden. One he planned to shoulder with her. Never again would she have to suffer alone.
Her strength. Her beauty. Her tenacity.
It was singular. She was singular. A rare jewel tucked away in the most unexpected of places. She was everything he dreamed about in a kona. And the gods graced him with her.
Leaning back, he rested his forearms along the edge of the basin, avoiding getting his wrappings wet.
Freyja didn’t make her who she was. No, Elara’s strength drew Freyja to her. A woman born from grief and purpose.
They were two sides of the same coin.
“Tell me of your mother.” She stiffened but relaxed quickly. “She must have been brave to feast in Fólkvangr with Freyja.”
A sigh that almost sounded happy loosened all the tension coiled in her limbs. Her fingers drew circles on his thighs under the water, sending a shiver through his limbs.
“My father fell in love with her after watching her tame a wild stallion. She struggled to sit still, always doing something on the farm or gathering flowers from the valley to make it smell sweet in our home. I wish she was here. But it makes me happy knowing she’s at peace… somewhere.”
The backs of his knuckles ghosted down her arm, and he smirked at the tiny shiver coursing through her.
“You’ve inherited her spirit. I’ll say a prayer to Freyja so your mother knows how thankful I am for you.”
A soft giggle escaped her, the noise fleeting.
“I miss her,” she whispered, the declaration more to herself than to him.
Njáll hummed, gently caressing the tops of her shoulders peeking above the water’s surface. While he was still blessed with both his parents, he had seen the toll of loss, the gnawing ache it left in its wake.
Lips pressed to her temple, smiling into the kiss.
“You are never without her. For Fólkvangr is everywhere and nowhere. Wherever you are, her essence follows.”
Her shoulders fell from the pinched position by her ears as she melted into him. A hand reached behind her, and she cupped his face.
“I like that.”
