Page 78 of Viking

She takes my hand in hers, presses a kiss to my knuckles, and whispers, “Let me.”

She unhooks the bra and lets it fall. I prop myself up on my good arm, dragging her against me. Our mouths meet, slow and deep and consuming.

I kiss my way down her neck, her breath catching the second my teeth graze her collarbone.

“I need you on your back. Now.”

She smirks, wicked and beautiful. “So how does this work?” she teases, motioning to my shoulder.

“I’m still figuring that out.”

She laughs softly, and it cracks something open in me again because even now, she’s giving me light. “We could stand.”

“Standing works.” I get to my feet and pull her with me. We kiss, tangled and urgent, and I walk her backward until she hits the wall. I thread our fingers together, bracing them just above her head. My injured arm snakes around her waist, moving slow but determined. I find the lace between her thighs, and the second I feel how wet she is, everything inside me burns.

I slide one finger inside her. Then two. Her breath shudders. Her body arches.

“Logan, that feels amazing. Please…don’t stop.”

I don’t. I couldn’t if I tried.

I lower my mouth to her breast, sucking one peak into my mouth, rolling my tongue over it, tasting her skin. I drop kisses lower, across her ribs, down her stomach, and sink to my knees.

The thong comes off with one slow tug.

Then my mouth replaces my fingers.

And for the first time since Ryan died—hell, maybe longer—I forget everything but her.

Hampton, Virginia

June 21, 2024

1:00 p.m.

Lila

Logan’s tongue has me teetering on the edge of oblivion. The scrape of his stubble is the perfect contrast, just enough friction to make my nerves spark, to push me closer to a release I can almost taste. He keeps changing his rhythm, just enough to drive me wild, teasing me with the promise of an orgasm he refuses to let me claim.

“Stop fighting it and come for me, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and commanding, spoken against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh like a spell.

My legs quake, and then I’m gone.

Undone.

The orgasm crashes over me in waves. My body shudders with the force of it, a cry tearing from my throat as his fingers take over, dragging the pleasure out until I’m trembling under his touch. “That’s one,” he murmurs, rising to his full height with a cocky smirk and that unmistakable gleam in his eyes. For a heartbeat, he looks like my Logan. The one I remembered. The one I dreamed about. The one I never stopped wanting.

“I plan on repeating that at least a few more times tonight.”

“My turn.” I say it softly, but there’s heat behind the words as I run my fingertips across the hard lines of his chest, each ridge a testament to the strength beneath my hands. His breathing is steady but shallow, the rise and fall betraying the tension humming under his skin.

My mouth follows the trail my fingers took, kissing over heated skin, savoring him. He exhales slowly, the sound full of restraint, his hands clenching on my waist, but he doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t guide me. He just waits, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the universe that matters.

I’ve imagined this moment so many times—fantasized about tasting him, touching him, seeing him come apart beneath me—but none of those daydreams come close to this.

I follow the path of the deep V disappearing beneath his boxer briefs. My fingers slip beneath the waistband, and I slowly drag them down, revealing inch by inch of the man who’s haunted my memories for six long years. When I see him fully, my breath catches.

I have to consciously stop myself from staring. From gaping. From climbing on top of him immediately. The sheer size of him sends a rush of heat through my body, settling low in my core, pulsing with need.