Page 21

The little typing bubble pops up almost immediately, and I watch as the three dots appear and disappear over and over.

My stomach clenches, fluttering like it’s full of angry, winged creatures.

I shut off my screen and launch my phone as far away from me as I can.

I feel like a teenager, my nervous system on high alert as I wait for him to text me back. What if he doesn’t…

My phone buzzes, and I sprawl across my mattress to snatch it.

ólaffson:

You’re smart, Sadie.

You just need support, not judgment.

God.

I re-read that twice, biting the inside of my cheek.

Tell that to my parents. To my boss, my friends, my coworkers, and my ex.

It doesn’t matter how kind they are, eventually they stop giving me grace.

They think I should just “try harder.” Like focus is a faucet I can just turn on.

Like there isn’t a very real fifty-foot wall made of boulders and spikes that I have to climb over every time I need to start something new.

ólaffson:

It’s not your fault if people don’t see it. It’s their loss for not recognizing how hard you already work.

I see it.

A pause.

ólaffson:

I think you’re incredible

Oh.

Okay.

Damn.

I wasn’t expecting that. The directness of it. The softness. It hits me square in the chest and melts down somewhere low in my belly. I curl tighter into my blanket, heat creeping over my cheeks. It was nothing, just a compliment. A sweet one. Kind. Maybe he was just being nice.

But my body didn’t get the memo. It reacts anyway, my breath catching a little. Skin prickling. That weird ache waking up between my thighs like my libido has been asleep too long and suddenly remembers it’s ravenous.

From a set of texts.

Me:

You’re being really nice to me.

Dangerous level of nice.

Ragnar:

Is it dangerous?

I thought I was being honest.

Mayday. SOS. Someone help me.

I squirm a little on the mattress, thighs brushing together.

I shouldn’t be this affected by a guy who barely uses emojis and replies in complete sentences.

He punctuates text messages, for fuck’s sakes, but I can’t help it.

It’s just Ragnar. And there is something…

unfathomable… about the quiet way he sees me.

No pressure. No judgment. Just… acceptance.

Also, I haven’t had sex in over a year. Okay, two. I think I’ve already ruined my panties.

Me:

Well. You should maybe warn a girl when you’re going to be this sweet. I wasn’t prepared.

You’re like, emotionally hot.

I send it and then bury my face in my pillow with a muffled groan. Why did I do that? This isn’t banter anymore. I’m flirting! I don’t have time to ruminate. Not with his reply buzzing a second later.

ólaffson:

That might be the kindest compliment anyone has ever given to me.

And it came from you, Sadie.

Can I keep it?

Maybe I should be offended that he’s surprised I can be nice, but I’m not.

He wouldn’t be doing… this—whatever this is—with me if he thought I was a bitch.

I don’t even try to stop the grin, or the slow, warm throb that pulses through me like a heartbeat.

It’s late. My defenses are down. He’s saying things that make me feel good.

Really, really good. And maybe I don’t need to justify it.

Me:

Only if you say something nice back.

I’m needy like that.

ólaffson:

Easy.

You’re brilliant.

Kind.

Funny in a way that sneaks up on me and stays in my head for hours.

And the pink in your glasses makes me want to kiss you every time you look at me,

But I’m not telling you that.

That definitely wasn’t just friendly. I can’t bring myself to care. Not when I started this thing glowing between us.

Me:

That’s more than one.

ólaffson:

Yes.

I let my head fall back against the headboard, heart pounding. My whole body tingles with it, with the heat blooming low and insistent. My fingers hover over my phone screen. I can’t decide what to say. Can’t think straight with every part of me drawn tight like a bow. Aching.

I squeeze my thighs together again, just for a second. It helps. But not enough.

Me:

You really shouldn’t say things like that.

Not unless you mean them.

Or unless you’re prepared for what they do to me.

But I don’t send that last bit.

ólaffson:

You know I do.

A low, breathy sound escapes me. I slide further down the bed and drop my phone on my chest, one hand sliding under the waistband of my leggings before I even think about it.

My skin is so warm. So sensitive. My fingers ghost over the slick heat between my legs and I shiver.

Should I be embarrassed about how wet I am?

He isn’t even here. I didn’t even see his gorgeous Viking face, but his words… his words are wrecking me.

I find my clitoris and rub in slow circles.

Just enough to tease, to build. My head presses back into my pillow, thighs shaking.

This is going to be fast. I circle my entrance before I slip a finger inside, my breath hitching.

One isn’t enough. He’d be bigger. Then I add another finger, curling them to find the spot at the front of my pussy.

My hips arch against the motion, back bowing.

Am I crossing a line? I can’t bring myself to care.

No one needs to know how close I am just from a few nice words and some tentative touches.

I pump my fingers faster, chasing an impossible release.

My phone sits on my chest and I clutch it in my free hand.

My nipples tingle. I want to tug them, twist them until it just hurts.

But I don’t want to let go of my phone. Like it’s my one connection to him.

Like he kept a heavy hand splayed on my chest while his other danced between my thighs.

Like it’s him who is pushing me closer and closer to the finish I don’t deserve.

My orgasm surprises me. Ripping through my body with a quiet intensity that seems a perfect echo for the man who inspired it. I lay on my bed for a long time, quiet, aching, breathless. My fingers are still, my body pulsing And I can’t stop staring at the ceiling, stunned.

Not just by the orgasm. But by the way it felt to want someone who saw me like this. Smart. Capable. Deserving. Wanted right back.

My phone feels like it weighs more than the bags of ice I have to schlep to the metal tubs in the rehab rooms. The ones we use for ice baths after practices and games. I lift it anyway. My messages are still open.

Me:

Thank you Ragnar

ólaffson:

Anything you need. Any time, Sadie.

I wonder if he knows the double meaning in my thank you. I want to read into his reply. And think he’s green lighting the way he made me come, but I’m not sure I’m ready to admit it. Not even to myself.

I fall asleep still holding my phone, a smile teasing the corners of my lips.