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Ragnar seemed to have no such problem, humming appreciatively under his breath.
The girl held still a moment, as though waiting for their attention, and then reached up to brush her hair back over her shoulder. As she did, the dressing gown slid down as well, revealing the embroidered strap of a night dress. When she spoke, her voice was low, affectedly sultry. “Good evening, my lords.”
“Good evening.” Leif could hear Ragnar’s grin, all the sharp smarm of it, as he fidgeted up straighter in his chair. If a wolf was a wolf no matter what, the sight and scent of this woman had grabbed him by the balls and turned him as stupid as Leif. Only Ragnar, at least, seemed capable of intelligible speech. “You wouldn’t happen to be the lovely Brigitte, would you?”
“I would.” Pleased, she released the post, took up her gown, and executed a sloppy curtsy. “And you are…?”
“‘My lords’ will do just fine,” Ragnar said, and patted the tabletop. “Want to come and join us, love?”
No, Leif thought as she strolled toward them, swinging her hips and making a show of it.No, no, no, I can’t. I can’t control it. Inside, his wolf was panting, growling, clawing.
It wasn’t about her, specifically; nothing about her was exceptionally alluring to him. But he needed to fuck, and fuck hard. He wanted it desperate, and sweaty. Nails scoring his back and half-pained little cries. Wanted the heat and the body contact, the smell of it; he wanted to bury himself in someone and get lost to the pure animal ecstasy of it.
Just before she drew up on the opposite side of the table from them, he wished fervently that he’d taken Ragnar up on his offer minutes before; that he’d unlaced his trousers and dragged Ragnar’s hand where he wanted it, and let him take the edge off for him. He couldn’t hurt Ragnar, not in any way that mattered; he could tear this poor girl to pieces, if given half the chance.
That was the thing that terrified him: he didn’t know, once he got his cock into someone, if he could keep the wolf at bay. If he could hold onto any gentleness, or if the wolf in him would pounce on a woman the way it pounced on deer, and badger, and rabbit in the forest. More than one kind of hunting, Ragnar had said…but Leif didn’t know if his wolf could tell the difference.
Then the girl was there, an arm span away across the table, smelling of skin, and sweat, and arousal, and the bit of rosemary oil she’d dabbed behind her ears. Her hair was brushed; her skin scrubbed clean. She’d wanted to impress the visiting lords; she had no idea what might be about to happen, as Leif’s pulse tried to beat its way through his chest, his throat, his cock.
“You’re both very handsome, my lords,” she murmured, shaking her hair back, reaching for the ties of her gown. “I like your golden hair.”
“Thank you, darling.” Ragnar raked a hand through his with a quiet rustle and a clink of bone beads. “We’re related, you know.”
“Really?” The tie came loose, and the gown fell open, revealing a bleached linen night dress beneath, stitched with intricate embroidery. Clinging in all the right places.
“Aye. Cousins. Handsomeness runs in the family, you might say.”
“Mm. I can see that.” The gown hit the floor with a muted thump. The dress beneath was laced from throat to navel, and she reached for those ties, now, working the bow at the top loose slowly, drawing the ribbons apart with her nails while she pressed her pelvis forward against the table edge. Slow roll of the hips, as though rubbing herself against the wood, enjoying it. Nipples sharp points pushing at the gown, little buttons throwing shadows on the fabric.
Ragnar said something Leif didn’t catch, something that made her chuckle. He was too busy taking careful sips of air in through his mouth, which didn’t help much, because he could taste the musk of her on the air. She was paid for this, yes, but she wanted them; thought they were handsome, and golden, and this would be just as much about pleasure as pay for her, he could tell.
It took every ounce of self-control not to leap over the table and throw her down. He dug his nails into his thighs through his trousers, felt the prick of claws; felt the prickling of too much hair down the back of his neck, the wolf wanting out, the wolf wanting tofeast.
He jerked when a hand pushed his aside and settled warm and firm on his thigh instead, squeezing hard before sliding to grip him on the inside, up high. Ragnar. Leif’s hips hitched forward, seeking more of that touch, of any touch, in desperate need of something to ground him.
Brigitte pulled the last of the ribbons loose and folded down the halves of her dress so her breasts were exposed. Big and round as fresh melons, creamy pale, the blue of veins visible beneath the skin in the valley between. Nipples fat and peaked and rosy, begging for his mouth.
Ragnar’s hand squeezed again. “Brigitte, darling, I think my cousin’s a bit overwhelmed. It’s been a while for him, you see.”
“Aw. Poor lamb.”
“Why don’t you come around here and see if you can help him find a little relief, eh?”
“Of course.”
No. No, no, no, NO– Leif squeezed his eyes shut, as Ragnar’s grip shifted to his cock and pressed down with the heel of his hand, rubbing him in an almost soothing manner, making him whine through his teeth like a submissive pup.
Hair tickled his ear, and then warm breath filled it; his nose filled with the close, familiar scent of Ragnar, and it clouded out the dizzying effects of the girl’s scent. In a whisper too low for a mortal to hear, Ragnar murmured, “Order me to stop. Tell me not to.” A pause, in which Leif didn’t speak, much less order anything. “You need this, alpha. If you say stop, I’ll make it stop, but trust me, this is necessary.”
Ragnar’s hand continued to pet over his cock, and smaller, more delicate hands touched his knees; a rustle of fabric as Brigitte knelt between his spread thighs.
Leif tried to imagine shoving them both away. An alpha growl in his voice forcing Ragnar to back off, and stand down. Imagined getting to his feet, and walking out the door to let the cold night air slap him back to his senses.
Impossible. It simplywasn’t possible.
“Please,” he whispered, and felt the last of his resistance collapse. Inside, his wolf howled with joy.
“Right,” Ragnar whispered back, and then a warm, wet tongue licked up the side of his face, distinctly affectionate.
