Page 10 of Misery (Raiders of Valhalla MC: New Blood #7)

Deepens the kiss until I can't breathe and don't care.

This is the drowning I choose.

Suffocation that feels like salvation.

"Elfe." He pulls back. We're both panting like we've run miles. "You just had a panic attack."

"I know."

"This isn't—we shouldn't—"

"I need to feel something else." I frame his face with my hands.

His stubble is rough against my palms. Real. Present. "Please. Make me feel something that isn't fear."

"You don't know what you're asking for."

"I know I'm tired of being scared. Tired of flinching when people move too fast. Tired of feeling like my body isn't mine because they touched it." My voice cracks like ice under weight. "I want to choose. I want to want. And I want you."

Something breaks in his expression. All his careful control crumbling. "You have me. Always have."

This time when we kiss, it's different. Deliberate.

A claim and a gift wrapped together.

He stands, pulls me up with him.

I'm unsteady, but he's solid.

Walks me backward out of the bathroom.

Toward the bed.

My legs hit the mattress.

"If you want to stop—"

"I won't."

"But if you do—"

"Oskar." I pull his shirt off.

I need to see him.

Need to touch his skin. "Stop talking."

His chest is a masterpiece of damage.

Scars and ink telling stories I want to learn with my tongue.

I trace a particularly nasty one over his ribs, raised tissue that speaks of times he probably barely survived.

"Knife fight," he says. His voice is rough. "Guy thought he was faster."

"Was he?"

"No."

I turn and push him to sit on the bed.

The mattress dips under his weight.

I stand between his knees, and his hands go to my waist immediately.

They’re careful, always so careful with me.

Like I'll shatter if he grips too hard.

"I won't break."

"I know." But his touch stays gentle, almost reverent. "Doesn't mean I want to risk it."

I climb onto his lap and straddle him, feeling him already hard beneath me through his jeans.

The evidence of how much he wants me makes heat pool low in my belly, makes me feel powerful in a way I haven't ever felt.

"I've never—" The words stick in my throat.

"I know."

"How?"

"You have tells." His hands slide under my shirt and find bare skin.

I shiver at the contact. "The way you kissed me at the cottage. Eager but uncertain. Like you wanted to devour me but didn't know how. The way you're trembling now."

"Maybe I'm just cold."

"You're not cold." His thumbs stroke my ribs and find the spots that make me gasp. "You're nervous. And turned on. And fighting yourself about both."

"I'm not fighting anymore."

"No?"

I’m so exposed, so vulnerable.

But the way he looks at me—like I'm art, like I'm holy, like I'm his—makes me brave.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're perfect."

"I'm scarred." I touch the marks they left. The evidence of their violence on my skin.

"So am I." He traces the mark on my shoulder. The one that triggered this. His touch is so gentle it makes me want to cry. "Just proves you survived."

His mouth finds my neck.

Kisses that turn to teeth that turn to tongue.

I gasp, hips rocking involuntarily, Seeking friction.

The hardness of him against where I'm already aching makes us both groan.

"Have you ever come?" His question is blunt. Direct. No dancing around it.

Heat floods my face. Makes my chest blotchy. "By myself. Sometimes. When I can... when the memories don't intrude."

"Never with anyone else?"

"No."

"Then that's what we're doing." He shifts me, lays me back on the bed. The sheets are cool against my heated skin. "Nothing else. Just that."

"But you—"

"This is about you." He kisses down my throat. Between my breasts. Each kiss is deliberate. Claiming. "About you feeling good. Safe. In control."

"I want you to feel good too."

"I will. Trust me, making you come is going to feel very fucking good."

His hand slides down over my stomach, and it trembles under his touch.

He keeps going to the edge of my panties and pauses.

Waiting.

"Yes," I breathe before he can ask. "Please. Yes."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric and find me wet. Ready.

We both inhale sharply—him at the discovery, me at being discovered.

"Fuck, Elfe." His voice is wrecked. Destroyed. "You're soaked."

"Is that... is that normal?"

"It's perfect. You're perfect." His fingers explore. Gentle.

Learning what makes me gasp. What makes me arch. What makes me beg. "Tell me what feels good."

"All of it. Everything. Just... don't stop."

He finds my clit, circles it with his thumb, and the pressure is perfect.

Like he's studied how to touch me. How to unravel me. How to make me forget everything but this.

"Oh god." My hips rise without permission. Chase his touch. Seek more.

"That's it. Take what you need."

One finger slides inside me. Careful. Slow. Testing.

I tense at the intrusion—not bad, but foreign.

Different from my own fingers. Bigger.

"Breathe," he murmurs. Kisses my hip bone. "Just breathe. I've got you."

He works me carefully, building sensation layer by layer.

He adds another finger when I relax, his thumb on my clit, fingers inside, playing my body like an instrument he's mastered.

The stretch burns but in a good way, in a way that feels right.

"I can't—it's too much—"

"You can. You're close. I can feel it." He curls his fingers, and I see stars.

It makes my back bow off the bed. "There. Right there."

I shatter with waves of pleasure I've never felt alone.

Never thought I'd feel with another person.

Never thought I'd want to feel after what happened.

He works me through it, extends it until I'm shaking for entirely different reasons than panic.

"Beautiful," he murmurs. Pressing kisses to my thighs. "So fucking beautiful when you let go."

I'm still floating when I reach for his jeans. My hands shake, but not from fear. "Your turn."

"Elfe, you don't have to—"

"I want to." I fumble with his zipper. The button. Why are there so many obstacles? "Show me how. Teach me."

He helps me free him, and oh. He's big. Thick. How is that supposed to fit anywhere? The physics seem impossible.

"Second thoughts?" There's amusement in his voice. Also strain. Control held by threads.

"No. Just... logistical concerns."

He laughs. Actually laughs. The sound surprises us both. "We're not going there tonight. Use your hand. Your mouth if you want. Nothing else."

I stroke him experimentally, and he's hot in my palm.

"Like this?"

"Harder. I won't break either."

I tighten my grip, stroking from base to tip.

I learn the rhythm that makes his head fall back, makes his hands fist in the sheets.

"Fuck. Yes. Like that."

I watch his face as I touch him, notating what makes his jaw clench.

What makes him groan. What makes him say my name like it's the only word he knows.

I feel powerful for the first time in months. I'm doing this to him.

Me. My touch. My choice.

"Can I... with my mouth?"

"You don't—Christ, yes. If you want."

I bend and lick the tip experimentally.

Salt and skin and uniquely him.

Nothing like I expected.

Everything I didn't know I wanted.

"How do I—"

"Just—fuck—just do what feels right. No teeth. Everything else is good. Everything else is perfect."

I take him in my mouth.

Not all of him—I'd choke.

But enough that he groans like I'm killing him in the best way.

His hand tangles in my hair.

Not pushing. Not demanding. Just holding. Connecting.

I find a rhythm.

Hand and mouth working together.

Probably clumsy. Definitely inexperienced.

But from the sounds he's making—these broken, desperate noises—he doesn't care.

"Elfe. Fuck. I'm going to—you should stop—"

I don't stop.

I want to taste him too.

To feel him come apart because of me.

For me. My choice. My power.

He comes with a sound that's almost pained.

I swallow and pull back, tasting him on my tongue as I swallow.

"Was that okay?"

He pulls me up and kisses me deep despite where my mouth just was.

"Perfect. You're perfect."

We lie here, both partially dressed, both wrecked.

The panic attack feels like hours ago instead of minutes.

Like something that happened to someone else.

A girl who didn't know she could choose pleasure over fear.

"Stay," I whisper. Press against his side. "Don't go back to your room."

"Wasn't planning on it." His arm comes around me, and he holds me close.

I feel so safe right now.

"Good." I trace patterns on his chest. Follow ink lines. "Is this what it's supposed to feel like?"

"What?"

"Safe. Wanted. Like my body's mine to share instead of something to protect."

His arm tightens around me. I feel him swallow hard. "Yeah. This is how it should feel."

"I didn't think... after what happened, I thought I'd never want anyone to touch me again." My voice is small. "Thought I was too broken for this."

"You're not broken." He turns us so we're facing each other. Makes me look at him. "You're surviving. Healing. That's not broken—that's existing after something horrible. It’s brave."

"I don't feel brave."

"No? You just took control of your sexuality after trauma that would destroy most people. You chose pleasure even though you were afraid. That's brave as fuck, Elfe."

Tears slip free before I can stop them.

He wipes them away softly.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"For?"

"Showing me I could still want this. Still choose. Still feel something besides fear."

He kisses my forehead. My cheeks. My lips. Soft. Sweet. Nothing like the Executioner. Everything like the man beneath the monster.

"You're stronger than you know."

"I'm starting to believe that."