I longed to be by his side but didn’t want to force him to follow. I knew he must’ve wanted to take the time to ride back to our village and take care of all the details of preparing the next attack. For him to then decompress and celebrate with the others with drinks and a woman on his lap. For him to have a sleepless night with her warming his bed.
He’d always been a social man and popular with women. So I didn’t force him by my side to follow. He deserved the time away from me and to be happy doing what men loved after a good battle.
But tonight, he sat across from me, chuckling at his own joke he shared with me. He sipped his mead from the horn in his large hand. His squinted eyes were on me, pleased as I cracked a smile and huffed a laugh.
I barely remembered the joke he shared because of my wandering thoughts. Looking at him made everything around us fall away, my gaze sweeping over him, always landing on his lips. He would talk to me, and I’d revel in hearing his voice, but when I watched his mouth move and take sips of his drink, I always watched when his tongue peeked out to catch a stray drop of the mead from his bottom lip.
He lowered the horn, and I wasn’t let down when I homed in on the drops of the drink wetting above his lip and in the corners. They trailed into the shadow of his few days’ growth on his chin. My eyes followed them on their slow descent before he licked them away. Even though the wetness was gone, my gaze stayed on his mouth.
What would they feel like pressed to mine?
Soft like how he looked at me when he didn’t think I noticed? Or would it be harsh, like he was in battle?
No.
He wasn’t a harsh man behind it all when his walls were down with me. I was positive he’d be attentive and make sure I enjoyed every second. He’d thoroughly kiss me until I climbed on him like I’d seen other women do with their lovers and rock my hips against his. I wanted to feel his erection beneath me, giving me the thrill that I made him feel good and drove him wild like he did to me. He’d spear his tongue into my mouth like I’d seen others do, sharing his taste with me to never forget. He’d let me bury my hands in his soft hair, groaning into my mouth as I scratched my nails on his scalp.
His large hands would hold my waist, rocking me faster on him, spurring him on to make him come undone. I’d heard men shout in ecstasy many times in my life with their lovers. Each time I heard their groans, I imagined this man who made me feel things making those sounds while sheathed inside me.
He’d make me lose all rational thought where he’d be the center of my universe. I’d forget my name and title from his lips and touches.
Did he know the power he held over me?
The corner of his lips twitched, then curled in his signature cocky smirk.
Snapping my gaze to his, my cheeks warmed from the male amusement glinting in the ocean blue.
So he caught me staring, then. But he wouldn’t think anything of it...
Right?
He had more interests in other women than he did in me. They were more interesting than I was and certainly didn’t get tongue-tied when he made sexual jokes to them.
He could have possibly thought it was adorable that I looked at him the way I did. With longing and years of repressed sexual desire for him. But he wouldn’t want me and certainly wouldn’t want to touch me for one night.
They all feared me, and it was possible he feared me but hid it better than the others.
Even with the truth crystal clear, hope bloomed in my chest as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, his smirk pulling into an amused grin.
My cheeks burned with the heat of my blush, and my stomach fluttered rapidly with such strangeness I’d never felt before him. Like butterflies were flapping around in my stomach.
Only he made me react this way. He was the only one who gave me this type of attention outside of the respect and fear others showed me. He’d never shown me fear—even though I worried it was there. It was always humor and warmth from him.
And teasing me until I squeezed my thighs together to stop the throbbing in my nether regions.
“Are you done drinking?” He jerked his chin toward the horn in my hand.
Blinking, I glanced at it in a death grip and raised it before I locked eyes with him again. It took me a moment to find my voice and mentally shake away the strange feelings.
“It’s almost gone, but if you wish for me to continue, I shall.”
He cracked his brilliant smile and got to his feet. The heavy chair he sat on scraped against the old driftwood we had placed down together two Midsummer blots prior.
“Then let me refill it for you, my Queen.”
He held a finger up for me to wait. He crossed the busy hall and leaned over Svend’s shoulder, snatching the pitcher of mead. Someone made a comment, making him chuckle as he made his way back to me and stopped by my side. As I looked up at him, he grabbed the hand holding the horn and poured the mead, keeping his hand over mine. His touch was warm and rough with calluses from a long life of working with his hands. And a lot longer life of wielding weapons that blistered his palms and fingers.
I shuddered, my nipples hardening as I soaked up as much as I could of this moment. Tingles spread through my body, my cunt throbbing and clenching around nothing.
