I wanted more. Even if it was just for a moment, because no matter whether my life ended today or my fears of growing old alone and forgotten came to pass, I could cling to the moment like a candle in the darkest night.
Knowing I was treading on dangerous ground, I shifted backward, molding my body against Bjorn’s.
He’ll just think you’re cold, I told myself, even as the heat pooling in my core hoped he’d think something else.
I held my breath, waiting for him to react, anticipation making my pulse thrum.
“Cold, Freya?” There was not an ounce of concern in Bjorn’s voice, only amusement and the edge of something far less innocent than laughter.
It was that something else that made me bold. “No,” I breathed, shifting against him. “I’m not cold.”
“Hmm.” I felt the rumble of the acknowledgment more than I heard it, and I bit my lip, waiting for him to respond to what I’d done. But Bjorn only asked, “Do you need to piss?”
Indignation flooded me. “No!”
“Then why are you wriggling around? It makes it hard to sleep.”
Indignation turned to mortification but then I felt the vibration of his silent laughter, and a heartbeat later his thumb began stroking the back of my scarred hand in small circles, stoking the heat in my core higher. “Stop.”
His hand stilled. “Stop?”
“Talking.” I bit my lip. “Stop asking me questions, was what I meant.”
“Ah.”
He renewed the small circles, sending a shiver through me even as I realized my demand wasn’t fair. Bjorn had every right to be wary of me. I’d blown hot and I’d blown cold, ridden him like a creature possessed by lust, only to shout at him to stay away from me. He should want nothing to do with me, because I was entangled and inconstant, yet he remained at my back. “I might die today.”
Bjorn tensed, then he said softly, “Is that why you want me to stop asking questions? Because you fear death?”
The wind howled and Bodil’s snoring intensified. It was a miracle that all those around us didn’t rouse. Yet no one stirred, which meant I had no excuse not to answer. “I don’t fear it,” I whispered. “But last night I faced it with regrets, and I don’t want to do that again.”
Bjorn didn’t answer, and if not for the soft strokes of his thumb I might have thought I’d erred in confessing my heart. In truth, I didn’t know what I was asking from him, given we were surrounded. Given his father—my husband—must be very nearly in earshot from where we lay tangled in each other’s arms. But gods, I wanted.
Then Bjorn’s hand moved from mine to press between my breasts, over my heart, which skipped at the contact, then sped. “You will not die today, Born-in-Fire, because I will slaughter anyone who comes near you. That is a promise.” He was quiet for a long moment, then added, “Knowing that, do you still wish for me to stop asking questions?”
I drew in a shaky breath, his words making my skin burn hot and my pulse roar, because he was asking for a greater admission from me than I’d intended to give. It was easy to take risks when one faced death but far more difficult to take them when one faced life, and that was what he promised.
I wanted. But above all else, I wanted him.
Interweaving my fingers with his, I inhaled and then moved his palm to my breast. I felt a shudder run through him and I shifted my hips lower so my arse pressed not against his stomach, but against the thick ridge of his already hardened cock.
“Freya…”
“No more questions, Bjorn.”
He was silent for a long, painful moment, then his teeth caught at my earlobe, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through me even as it answered my request. I rolled my hips against him, a throbbing pulse forming between my thighs, needing his touch. Instead he curled his hand around my breast, toying with my nipple as it peaked beneath my borrowed tunic.
I bit back a whimper as he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, my body flushing hot. It cared not for risk, cared only for the satisfaction of the aching desire to be filled by him, and I reached behind me, catching hold of his tunic and pulling it up. The muscles of his stomach were like carved stone beneath my palm, and I dragged my nails down the trail of hair dusting them and into his trousers, closing my hand around him.
He shuddered, teeth biting sharply on my earlobe as if he were trying to muffle a groan, and I very nearly had to clamp a hand over my mouth to do the same. Gods, he was thick, and I ran my palm down his considerable length, smiling as he thrust against my hand, need already dampening his tip.