Page 51 of The Sun He Buried

I come with both hands buried in his hair and my knees locked around his arm. There’s no weightless emptiness. Every part of me stays here for it: the rough blanket under my back, his mouth at my throat, the lamp behind my closed eyes, the sound of him saying my name.

When my legs loosen, Baldr kisses my stomach.

Then lower.

I grab his shoulder. “I may not survive that.”

“You have an excellent record.”

“I’d like to keep it.”

He kisses the inside of my thigh. “Next time.”

Next time.

I grin at the ceiling.

Baldr pushes the last of my linen down my legs and reaches for his trousers. I sit up before he can take them off completely.

“Wait.”

He stops at once.

I curl my fingers around him.

His eyes close.

Oh, that is lovely.

I move my hand once, learning the weight and heat of him. He braces both palms on the bed beside my hips.

“Good?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Harder?”

His eyes open. “A little.”

I give him a little.

Baldr laughs, then drops his forehead to mine with a rough sound.

“Terrible woman.”

“You started it.”

I kiss him. He pushes the trousers away and comes over me again, bare from head to foot.

He settles between my legs. The hard length of him presses against me, and the size is less funny from here.

“You know it’s the last day of my—”

“I saw the cloths.” Easy, mouth at my jaw. “I can count. Asta’s not the only one.”

“And you don’t—”

“I don’t care, Sól. Not even a little.” He lifts his head so I can see he means it. “Unless you do.”