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Her skin twitched as her brain silently offered up a slideshow of herself and Ragnar, their naked bodies a perfect fit as they moved together, breath quickening in a shuddering climax.
Okay, that was a lie.
Sex with Ragnar would be fierce and tender and utterly unforgettable, but that was exactly why she should never have kissed him.
Her heart began beating a little faster. It was tempting to blame her behaviour on tiredness, or the stress of the last few days—to argue that the simmering anger between them had blurred into another kind of intense emotion and so struck a different kind of spark.
And, yes, some of those arguments were plausible, and others were true, but none of them was the reason she had kissed him. That was much more simple.
He had been standing in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off his skin, close enough that his gaze had made her think of choices, and possibilities, and a never-forgotten night of peerless pleasure.
In other words, she had kissed him because she’d wanted to.
But then he had kissed her back, his mouth parting hers, pressing her closer, until their bodies had been seamless, until she had been frantic and twisting in his arms—
Her face felt hot, the skin suddenly too tight across her cheekbones. She knew she should regret what had happened, and yet she couldn’t—not quite. But that didn’t mean it was going to happen again.
Clearly she and Ragnar had ‘chemistry’. It seemed like such a boring word for the astonishing intensity of their attraction, for the ceaseless craving that made her breathing change pace. But, after struggling even to be civil to one another, they had finally achieved a fragile symbiosis based on what was best for Sóley. Having sex was only going to put that in jeopardy. Whatever her body might want to believe.
Sex was never simple.
Her daughter was proof of that.
She and Ragnar had used logic and mathematical certainty to select one another, on the basis that they both wanted the same thing, only that certainly hadn’t included having a baby together.
But, even without putting Sóley into the equation, she knew from her own limited and unremarkable experience that for most people, most of the time, sex was more than just bodies. There was always some kind of emotional response—regret, hope, doubt, excitement—and that response was often complex and confusingly contradictory.
Right now she didn’t need any more confusion in her life, and she was going to have to find a way to express that to Ragnar.
She swore silently, and Sóley looked up at her, her eyes widening in confusion as though she had actually heard and understood the word.
‘Let’s go and get your lunch,’ she said, and quickly, guiltily, swung her daughter up into the air and held her close, burying her face in her daughter’s neck until the soft pressure of Ragnar’s mouth was just a dull memory.
For the moment anyway. But she was going to have face him sooner or later.
She turned towards the house—and froze.
Ragnar was walking towards her, smoothly and steadily, his blond hair shining like bronze in the sunlight. Unlike her, he wasn’t wearing a coat, just a dark jumper with jeans and boots, and suddenly her breath felt hot and slippery in her throat. He was so heart-stoppingly handsome—and, in comparison to the flickering images inside her head, as solid and unwavering as a long ship.
‘Hello.’
He stopped in front of her, his eyes meeting his daughter’s, his face softening in a way that made her stomach crunch into a knot of pleasure and pain.
‘How was the rest of your night?’
‘It was fine. She didn’t wake up until nearly nine.’
Should she say something now? She hesitated. Words were not her thing, but she couldn’t exactly sketch or sculpt what she needed to say to him.
His blue gaze shifted to her face. ‘And what about you? Did you manage to get any sleep?’
There was a small beat of silence. Then she nodded, still tongue-tied as he stared at her impassively. And then, with relief, she saw that Signy was hurrying towards them.
‘I didn’t realise you were out here.’ The older woman’s unruffled smile cut effortlessly through the awkward silence. ‘Lunch is ready. Or I could feed Sóley if you and Mr Stone are talking? I’d be more than happy to,’ she added as Lottie started to protest.
But it was too late. A hungry and determined Sóley was already reaching for Signy with her arms outstretched and, heart pounding, Lottie watched helplessly as her daughter disappeared into the house.
She had no excuse now not to say something.
