Page 27 of The Viking in the Vault (Galactic Librarians #2)

“I don’t…I’m not ready for your—for your…you know, for your thing to be inside me.”

He smirks. “For my cock?”

Ragnar’s smirk is pure sin, but his eyes are warm, patient. He holds me still, hands firm on my ass, waiting for me to say exactly what I want.

I bite my lip, heat rushing to my face. “Yes. That.”

His thumbs sweep over my skin, slow and deliberate. “That is perfectly fine, fenvarra. We will wait. But…” His voice drops lower, a rasp of hunger. “That does not mean I cannot touch you elsewhere.”

A full-body shiver runs through me at the implication. My grip on his antlers tightens, and his eyes darken as he groans softly, hips thrusting subtly like he likes the way I hold onto him.

He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “Tell me what I can do.”

I swallow hard, my body burning from the inside out. “I—” My breath catches when he shifts beneath me, the thick length of him pressing up against the heat between my thighs. Even through my pajamas, I feel him, and it makes my mind go blank for a moment.

His patience is infinite, but I can feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, the way his fingers flex, his chest rising and falling with heavy, restrained breaths. He’s waiting for me to guide him, to set the boundaries.

“I…” I swallow. “I want you to touch me.”

His exhale is slow and deliberate, like he’s keeping himself in check. “Where, fenvarra?” His hands skim up my back, then down again, tracing the curve of my hips. “Tell me.”

I press my forehead to his, inhaling the warm, spiced scent of him. “Everywhere.”

“Be specific.”

“Between my legs,” I whisper.

A deep, satisfied growl rumbles in his chest. “My pleasure.”

I gasp as he takes me in his arms and lays me out in front of the fire, looming over me.

His fingers hook beneath the waistband of my PJ pants and my panties at the same time, dragging them lower with agonizing slowness, baring more of my skin to the flickering firelight.

Normally, this is where I would start to get embarrassed, tell whoever I’m with that I’m not very experienced, that I was always too busy to try new things…

but he looks at me like I’m the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, from the stretch marks on my thighs to the thatch of dark hair I’ve never bothered to shave.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of my knee.

I gasp, propping myself on my elbows to watch him.

Ragnar groans. “Ah, you like that, don’t you?”

He doesn't wait for me to answer. He knows. He feels the way my breath stutters, the way my thighs twitch in anticipation.

His lips brush higher.

Then higher.

I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The fire crackles beside us, but I barely register the sound over the rush of my pulse, the heat curling low in my belly.

Ragnar’s hands slide up my thighs, his touch slow and deliberate, reverent in a way that makes me ache. His breath is hot against my bare skin, his lips teasing along the inside of my thigh, closer, closer?—

And then he stops.

I whimper, reaching forward to grasp his antler again as if I’m strong enough to drag him where I want him.

He chuckles, low and dark. “Impatient,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to my thigh, this one dangerously close to where I need him most. “You were so shy before, fenvarra. Now you are trembling for me.”

I am trembling. I don’t know how to stop.

He flattens one broad palm over my stomach, just below my navel, pressing me down, holding me steady. “I will take my time,” he says. “You are to be worshipped. Savored.”

His mouth moves lower.

I gasp as I feel the first soft drag of his lips over my most sensitive skin, the hot breath he exhales against me, the deep, satisfied sound he makes when he tastes me for the first time.

“Sweet,” he rasps. His grip tightens on my thighs, spreading me further, his breath shuddering like he’s barely holding himself together. “So sweet, fenvarra. Let me have you.”

That’s exactly what I do.

I lie back as Ragnar starts to lap at me, tongue dragging up and down my folds, finding my clit and sucking. I press my head back against the rug, my breath leaving me in a sharp, broken gasp.

“Oh—” The sound is barely more than a breath, but Ragnar hums in response, the deep vibration rolling through me, making my thighs twitch.

He suddenly grasps my thighs and drapes them over his antlers, giving him better access to me, holding me against him.

His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes, learning me, savoring me.

I can’t think.

I can’t do anything but feel.

The fire crackles beside us, casting warm light over Ragnar’s golden skin, his antlers catching the glow as he worships me with his mouth. His beard is soft against my inner thighs, the heat of his breath sending fresh waves of pleasure spiraling through me as he licks, sucks, teases.

I fist my hands in his hair, my fingers curling around the thick strands, and Ragnar groans, the sound sinful, raw. His grip tightens on my hips as if he wants to drag me closer, bury himself against me, devour me whole.

“Ragnar,” I gasp, my back arching as he focuses on my clit, his tongue circling, flicking, sending sparks of sensation racing up my spine.

He growls against me, the sound reverberating through my core. “That’s right, fenvarra,” he rasps, his voice thick with hunger. “Say my name.”

I do. I say it again, over and over, breathless and desperate, because the pleasure is building, winding tighter and tighter, the heat in my belly threatening to spill over.

Ragnar feels it—knows it. His pace quickens, his tongue pressing firmly against me, working me with devastating precision. One of his hands slides lower, his fingers brushing over my entrance, teasing, before slowly, carefully, pressing inside.

I cry out, my hands shooting forward to yank at his hair.

“Your species,” he says as he thrusts his finger in and out slowly, slick with my arousal. “Can you orgasm more than once?”

Oh, oh gosh, who asks that question? But I nod, unable to speak.

Ragnar chuckles. “Good.”

Then he starts to lick me again.

He groans against me, his tongue never stopping, his fingers moving in slow, curling strokes, coaxing my pleasure higher and higher, until?—

“Oh, fuck—” I shatter.

The pleasure crashes over me like a tidal wave, sending me spiraling into white-hot bliss.

I arch against him, shaking, lost in the overwhelming sensation as Ragnar growls in satisfaction, his hands holding me steady as he works me through it, his tongue dragging slow, languid strokes against me, like he’s savoring every last tremor.

Ragnar doesn’t stop.

Even as my body trembles beneath him, even as I gasp and shudder through the aftershocks, he keeps going, his tongue slow and methodical, his fingers stroking deep, dragging me through every pulse of pleasure. His hands, so large and warm, hold me down, keeping me open to him.

I can barely breathe.

“Ragnar,” I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair, my nails raking lightly over his scalp, desperate for something to hold onto.

He groans, the sound deep and reverent. His fingers press deeper, curling inside me, his tongue flicking against my still- sensitive clit, coaxing my pleasure higher, pushing me toward another crest before I can fully come down from the first.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I whimper, and he lifts his head slightly, his mouth slick and his eyes molten with hunger.

“You are still shaking, fenvarra,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“I can feel it.” His thumb replaces his mouth, circling my clit in slow, lazy strokes.

His fingers inside me move deeper, filling me, stretching me, and his other hand smooths up my belly, grounding me.

He watches me as he works me open, his pupils blown wide in those devastatingly blue eyes, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he rasps.

“Soft. Open.” His fingers curl, and I keen, my whole body tensing.

“I could spend all night between your thighs, drinking from you.”

I will die. He is going to kill me.

His tongue returns to me, dragging slow, devastating circles, his fingers thrusting with precise, relentless purpose, like he’s memorizing what makes me fall apart.

And I am falling apart.

The pleasure builds impossibly fast, higher than before, sharper, hotter. His tongue flicks. His fingers curl. His hand presses against my stomach, holding me down as I writhe, and then?—

I come again.

This time, it hits me so hard I nearly sob.

Ragnar growls against me, working me through it, letting me ride every wave, every tremor, until I’m limp beneath him, panting, spent.

He finally slows, placing one last kiss against my inner thigh before withdrawing his fingers, sliding up my body until he’s hovering over me, his weight braced on his forearms.

I blink up at him, still lost in the haze of my release.

His eyes are burning.

“Are you all right, fenvarra?” he asks, his voice low, rough, wrecked.

I let out a breathless laugh, my hands drifting up to cup his face. “I—” My voice is hoarse. I swallow, trying to find words. “I’m…very all right.”

His lips twitch. “Good.”

He brushes his nose against mine, his warmth surrounding me, his body still tense, still hungry. But he doesn’t push. He just waits.

I thread my fingers into his hair, sighing against his mouth. “You didn’t?—”

He cuts me off with a kiss, slow and deep, like he’s savoring me all over again…and I taste myself on his lips, and it’s so dirty and so divine that it makes me question if this is even real. When he pulls back, his voice is thick with amusement.

“Tonight was about you, fenvarra.” His fingers trail down my side, soothing, reverent. “And I am a patient male.”

I feel the proof of his patience pressed against my thigh—hard, hot, aching.

Something in my chest tightens.

I kiss him again, slower this time. Softer. He hums into my mouth, his body still thrumming with tension, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand.

And when I pull back, I’m confident that I’m making the right choice.

“Take me to bed,” I whisper.

His eyes widen, his breath catching…and somehow, I know he’ll still ask when the time comes. Maybe we won’t have sex tonight…but I want to touch him. I want to taste him like he tasted me.

And then Ragnar lifts me into his arms, striding toward the bedroom...my fenvarra doing as I ask.