Page 26 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

ELENA

I am fully losing it.

I shut the door to my bedroom and immediately brace my hands on my knees, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

Okay. Okay. This is fine. I can handle this.

I straighten up and look at myself in the mirror, and—yep. That is the expression of a woman in distress. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are too wide, and my hair looks like I just got caught in a windstorm of horny thoughts. Which, to be fair, I kind of did.

I press a hand to my face, groaning.

I want him. I really want him. I have never wanted anyone like this before. And yet—I also know myself. I don’t just throw myself into things without thinking. I don’t make impulsive decisions. And Ragnar is a lot—all towering, muscle-bound devotion and absolute certainty, and I…

I’m terrified.

Not of him—never of him. But of the weight of this. Of what it would mean. Of how much it would change me. Because once I give myself to Ragnar, there’s no going back. Not just because of who he is, but because of who I am.

I groan again, turning in a circle like that’s going to help me figure this out.

Just put on pajamas, Elena. That’s all you have to do.

I yank open a drawer, pulling out a pair of soft, loose sweatpants and one of my favorite oversized sleep shirts—a well-loved, faded thing with an old university logo on the front. It’s the least sexy thing I own, which is exactly what I need right now.

I slip into the pajamas as quickly as possible, dragging my hands through my hair and forcing myself to calm down. It’s fine. He’s going to be wearing normal clothes too. We’re just drinking cocoa. Everything is normal. Just two people, sitting by the fire, drinking cocoa.

I suck in another breath and open the door.

And immediately regret everything.

Ragnar is sitting on the rug in front of the fire, legs stretched out, looking like he was sculpted by some ancient god of indulgence. And he is not wearing a shirt.

He is, however, wearing the gray sweatpants we picked up for him in town—and only the gray sweatpants. They sit low on his hips, clinging entirely too well to his body, and his muscles shift and flex as he reaches for a mug of cocoa, totally unaware of the absolute catastrophe he’s causing me.

I clutch the doorframe like I’ve been physically struck.

He looks up at me, and damn it all to hell, he smiles.

“I thought you had changed into something comfortable,” he says, voice deep and warm like the firelight flickering across his skin.

I make a helpless noise in the back of my throat.

Because here’s the thing: he is comfortable. That’s the problem. He’s just existing, completely at ease, utterly unbothered by the fact that he looks like the single most indecent thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

I am not fine.

“I—uh—yes,” I stammer, willing myself to move before I just pass out in the doorway. I shuffle over to the couch and sit down with the least amount of grace possible, nearly missing the cushion. “This is—yep. Very comfortable.”

Ragnar watches me, his lips twitching slightly, like he knows exactly what’s happening in my brain and is choosing to let me suffer. Slowly, he picks up my mug and hands it to me.

I clear my throat. “You, uh…you didn’t want to wear a shirt?”

He lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “I run warm.”

He looks warm, I have to admit—hot, even, and extremely inviting. He seems to sense what I’m thinking, because he reaches for me. “I have no expectations,” he says, “but I would like to hold you.”

I bite my lip. Yeah…I can do that.

“I would like that,” I say.

I set my cocoa down on the coffee table, feeling the heat radiating from the fire—and from Ragnar. He’s still watching me, waiting, his massive frame stretched out on the rug like some kind of ancient king waiting for his tribute.

He lifts an arm, a silent invitation.

I hesitate for a fraction of a second before giving in, crawling off the couch and settling beside him on the thick, fur-lined rug.

Fenrik glances over at me from his other side, not bothering trying to cuddle up when it’s clear something is about to happen, even if I’m not sure what that something is.

Ragnar shifts, adjusting so that I can press against his side, and when his arm comes around me, pulling me into the cradle of his body, I let out a breathy sigh.

I fit against him perfectly.

It shouldn’t be possible, given the sheer size of him, but his warmth, his presence, his steady, grounding weight—it all feels right, like my body was meant to curve against his.

His bare chest is a furnace beneath my cheek, and when I glance up, I find him already watching me, something soft in his eyes.

I clear my throat, feeling suddenly very aware of every inch of my body touching his. “So,” I say, trying to sound normal. “This is…nice. Very, um…cozy.”

His fingers flex against my hip. “Cozy,” he echoes, his voice like a slow drag of silk. “So this is all you require tonight? Warmth. Cocoa. Cozy.”

I swallow. “That’s what we agreed.”

He hums, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Then cozy, we shall be.”

I let out a breath of relief—until I realize his fingers are still resting on my hip, his palm warm and firm, his thumb making slow, idle sweeps along the fabric of my PJs. The touch is innocent. Barely anything.

And yet it sends heat curling deep inside me.

I reach for my cocoa, needing something to do with my hands, and take a sip. The rich chocolate is sweet and soothing, but it does nothing to temper the growing warmth in my stomach, the pulse of awareness in my skin where Ragnar is touching me.

His hand shifts, fingers tightening just slightly, and I swear I feel the heat of his breath at my temple when he murmurs, “You are tense, fenvarra.”

“I—I’m fine,” I say quickly, taking another sip.

Another small, idle stroke of his fingers, barely there but devastating. “You were tired,” he muses, voice like warm embers. “But now, you seem…restless.”

I freeze with the mug halfway to my lips.

He’s not wrong.

The heat between us is thickening, turning heavy, and I can’t tell if it’s the fire, or the way his body is so close, or if it’s just Ragnar himself—his presence making me literally hot and bothered.

I shift again, trying to subtly move away, but Ragnar only makes a pleased sound deep in his chest. “You move against me like you do not realize what you do,” he murmurs, his fingers flexing on my hip.

I choke on my cocoa.

Ragnar moves then, reaching for his own mug with a slow, deliberate ease, as if nothing is happening. He takes a sip. Licks a drop of cocoa from his lips.

And I…

I can taste the way he would taste. Warm, rich, spiced with heat. I can feel the heat of his mouth against my temple. The ghost of pressure where his lips could be against mine.

I take a shaky breath, staring into my mug like it holds the answers to the universe.

Ragnar’s fingers slide up, over my ribcage, his touch still so light, still so careful, but now distinctly not innocent.

“Elena,” he says softly.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe.

His nose brushes my temple. “You are trembling.”

I am. I am trembling.

Because I want him. And I’m scared of how much I want him.

“I just—” I swallow hard, forcing myself to sound normal. “I just—haven’t done this before.”

Ragnar stills. “This?”

I gesture vaguely. “This. This.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then, his hand moves again—slow, steady, up my side, his palm wide and warm as it curves around my waist. Holding me.

“Elena,” he murmurs. “I know.”

I turn, blinking up at him. “You…do?”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “I knew the first night I touched you.”

Heat floods my face. “Oh, God.”

His lips twitch, amused. “You do not need to fear me, fenvarra,” he says, his thumb dragging lightly, so lightly, over the bare skin of my wrist. “I would never take what you are not ready to give.”

I bite my lip. I believe him.

And yet—I want.

I ache.

And the way he’s touching me now, gentle, reverent, waiting?—

It’s too much.

I shift, setting my cocoa aside, and before I can overthink it, I turn fully into him, tilting my head back. “Then…kiss me,” I whisper.

Ragnar growls.

The next second, his mouth is on mine.

The taste of cocoa and spice and Ragnar floods my senses. His lips are warm and firm, his hand tightening on my waist as he devours me.

I gasp, and he takes advantage, licking into my mouth, deep and slow, like he has all night to taste me, like he plans to take all night.

Heat erupts inside me.

I grasp at his shoulders, pulling myself closer, but he keeps that slow, steady, agonizing pace.

His hands remain where they are—one at my waist, the other warm against my back—but there’s tension in him now, a barely restrained hunger in the way his fingers flex, in the way his breathing deepens against my lips.

I can feel his restraint. I’m grateful for it…but it makes me want him even more.

I shift closer, pressing against him, and the sound he makes—a low, guttural noise, half a growl, half a sigh—sends a shiver through me.

His grip tightens, pulling me fully into his lap, and I feel that big, hard cock press between my legs.

It feels good…too good. Makes me grind against it, Ragnar pulling away from my lips with a groan.

“Elena,” he rasps. “You must tell me—do you want this?”

I exhale shakily. “Yes.”

His fingers tighten. “How much do you want?” he growls. “I need you to be clear. Precise.”

“I want…” I swallow hard, my eyelashes fluttering as my hips move on their own, the seam of my PJ pants rough against my clit. “Oh gosh?—”

“Fenvarra,” Ragnar presses, gripping my chin to force me to look at him. “Use your words…please.”

I move my hands from his shoulders to his beard, finding it soft and curly…then up to his antlers. I grip them in my hands, discovering they’re very nice to hang onto.

“I don’t want to have sex tonight,” I breathe.

His hands move down to my ass, cupping my cheeks to keep me still. “Sex can be all kinds of things, my mate.”