Page 50 of The Sun He Buried

“You looked at me.”

“I often do.”

He says it plainly. Not a line. Just—true. My hands fall away.

Baldr kisses me, softer now. His palm moves down my stomach and rests between my thighs.

I forget the sun.

He touches me through the last scrap of linen I’m wearing. One slow pass. Then another, watching my face each time.

“More,” I say.

He slips his fingers beneath the fabric.

The first touch makes my hips lift. He follows me, rubs the place that sends the pleasure straight through my stomach, and holds the same rhythm when I start making helpless little noises into his shoulder.

“There?”

“Yes.”

“Harder?”

“A little.”

He gives me a little.

It is not a little.

My legs tighten around his hand. I press my face into his neck and breathe salt, sweat, and his soap. His mouth moves over my shoulder. He doesn’t hurry. He listens when I tell him faster and listens again when I change my mind.

Then he slides one finger inside me.

My teeth catch his shoulder.

Baldr groans.

I do that again.

“Sól.”

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I bite him once more.

His fingers curl. The next breath comes out of me much louder than the others.

He laughs against my skin. “Good?”

“Don’t get proud.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He does it again.