Ragnarr- Heat in the Snow Page 2

  A pause.

  “Slowly.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I take a shaky sip of my cosmo—sweet-tart and strong, redolent of orange oil and cranberry—but concentrating on the flavors is a task almost beyond me right now. The glass skates across the table when I set it down—but I rescue it at the last second from nosediving over the edge.

  “How is it that you still do this to me?”

  I’m sure my arousal, my need for him, is clear in the unsteadiness of my voice. In every movement.

  I swallow. Lick a drop from my suddenly dry lips.

  “Perhaps it’s because you know I can—and will—follow up,” he says, taking my cold hand between his warm ones, raising it to his lips, tugging down the edge of my mitten with his teeth. His tongue is an iron brand on the cool skin of my inner wrist, a flame of pure volcanic heat chasing the sub-zero chill of the room away.

  I bite my lip, holding in a moan. I shift, uncomfortable, on my ice chair—it’s suddenly far too cold on the very warm, very sensitive parts of me.

  His eyes crinkle at me in amused triumph.

  —You won’t need to hold any of that back later, he says through our mental bond. In fact, I intend to make you scream… the louder, the better.

  —I’m not going to scream here, I protest, afraid my chair might be starting to melt from what he’s doing to me.

  —You know I like a challenge.

  And he proceeds to set one before me in the middle of a crowded bar.

  —It’s been too long since I’ve tasted your honey.

  His eyes are fixed on mine.

  —The last time was only the night before last, I protest.

  —Like I said.

  My cheeks are growing hot… along with other parts of my anatomy.

  —So what are you going to do? You can’t go down on me right here.

  —Perhaps not. A pause. But I could do this.

  He moves to stand behind me, his hands spanning my waist. They slide down my hips, trace the soft mound of my belly. Stroke the fullness of my inner thighs.

  I pick up my drink, take another shaky sip. The ice glass is slippery even in my mittened hands, and I nearly drop it when his hands find the waistband of my snow pants.

  “What are you doing? Someone might see!”

  But I don’t want him to stop, not really. I glance around, but see no watchful eyes. Another shaky sip for liquid courage. It’s cold going down, but adds to the heat in my belly after I’ve swallowed.

  “No one’s looking,” he says. “I want a little taste of you… and I can’t wait another second for it.”

  I don’t know how he even manages with how I’m bundled up, but apparently where there’s a draconic will, there’s a way.

  Ragnarr’s hand slides down under my waistband, on the hunt to discover how wet I already am for him. I ease my thighs apart just a bit, adjust the fall of my jacket to ease his way in.

  My nipples are hard.

  My clit even harder.

  One finger dances through my soft curls, dips lower to sample my wetness. I gasp, bite my lip, try not to buck my hips. And sigh, half with relief, half with disappointment as the big, warm hand retreats.

  He hums his pleasure as he sucks the digit clean.

  —More intoxicating than my drink, and twice as delicious. Can’t wait to taste it from the source.

  —You absolute tease.

  —Takes one to know one.

  2: Emelie

  Fortified against the cold by a luxurious breakfast of coffee, eggs, and Swedish pancakes with lingonberry jam and cream, we head off to enjoy what the hotel has to offer.

  Armed with self-guided art tour pamphlets from a stand in the lobby, Ragnarr and I wander through the hotel’s ice rooms, admiring sculptures carved from ice cut from the nearby Torne River.

  Clever lighting tricks make the ice glow, sparkle, and shimmer in eerie ways. This year’s theme is witches—and not even a peep of hesitation or complaint from Ragnarr. I shouldn’t be, not at this point, but I can’t help still feeling a little amazed. He really is a changed dragon from when we first met.

  “Look, it’s Freyja!” I say, pointing. “And she’s wearing Brisingr—oh, isn’t she beautiful.”

  I gaze at an Egyptian-inspired cat-headed statue of Freyja, her intricate necklace Brisingr dyed to make it look just like beads of Baltic amber.

  “You’d look even more beautiful draped in a Brisingr of your own,” Ragnarr says.

  A hot gaze. An even hotter kiss.

  “Maybe if you close your eyes and wish, you’ll get one, häxan.”

  “Don’t say that too loudly,” I protest weakly. “I don’t want her to get jealous. Last thing I need is the goddess of love mad at me.”

  His only answer is an indulgent chuckle.

  In the adjoining room are the cats that draw Freyja’s chariot, looking far too lazy to ever actually do such hard labor. One looks like he could be brother to my familiar, Whimsy—the set of his head gives the distinctly familiar impression of my big black Maine Coon’s catty brattiness.

  Although I’m sure Whimsy could still manage to teach him a thing or two. I tell Ragnarr as much.

  In the room after that is a coven of three skyclad witches, their joyful dance evoking the Three Graces. The backlit ice gives the impression of undulations like ocean water. And right past them is a strange watery dreamscape where dragons turn to fish, and fish to women, and women to trees, and trees back to dragons. I lean in, examining the details.

  A noise.

  I look over my shoulder.

  Ragnarr is frozen in his tracks, stricken.

  “What is it?”

  “That’s Drömheimr,” whispers Ragnarr, a hint of awe in his voice.

  I give him a puzzled look.

  “What’s Drömheimr?”

  He casts a look around. No one is in the room with us, but he lowers his voice anyway.

  “It is one of the realms of Yggdrasil. Not many have the right to go there. I do not, and cannot. One of my brothers does—you haven’t met him, we’re not on great terms—but he’s the only one I’ve ever met who can. And that only because Aegir is naturally attuned. He’s a water dragon.”

  I’m not used to Ragnarr being so deadly serious. I shiver, and not from cold.

  “Does that make a big difference? Being a water dragon?”

  He contemplates the surreal figures of the sculpture before he answers.

  “Water dragons have much more finely tuned psychic abilities than we coarse rabble. Of the four elements, water is the most sensitive in that way.”

  I nod. Any witch knows as much—this is simple elemental knowledge.

  “But these artists”—he frowns at his pamphlet—“they’re all human. I’ve never known of more than a few humans over the centuries who have ever even heard of Drömheimr, much less could depict parts of it. Hieronymus Bosch, perhaps, was one. Salvador Dali, another.”

  “So you think he’s been there? This ice artist, I mean?”

  Ragnarr barks a laugh.

  “That’s impossible. Nearly, anyway. I very much doubt it—but he’s likely brushed against it in a dream a time or two. That happens—rarely. But when it does, usually to artists like Dali and Bosch. Like water dragons, artists have a natural affinity for that realm. So that would be my guess.”

  He gives me a sidelong look.

  “But just to warn you, häxan min. This is not something that should be the topic of discussion. With anyone. I only tell you this much because you’re my hoarded mate. Take great care to whom you speak of Drömheimr.”

  I’ve rarely seen him so solemn. I look back at him, wide-eyed. Nod.

  But when he breaks the mood with a smile and kisses me senseless, I forget all about it.

  “Hej, Lin. How’s Whimsy?”

  “What are you doing calling? I didn’t expect to hear from you all week.”

  “I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right. I mean, with Whims
y and the kids and all. Thanks for taking care of him, by the way. He complained about having to leave the city, but I think he’s been looking forward to the country hunting.”

  “He’s fine.” Linnea’s voice softens a bit. “Even though I keep telling her not to, Stella’s constantly chasing him around. She adores him. And he tolerates her carrying him around like a rag doll for about thirty seconds before making a break for it outside. But I think he secretly likes the attention because I found him curled up on the foot of her bed this morning. He told me he lost a mouse in the sheets and fell asleep looking for it, but we both knew he was full of it. He can’t help licking his shoulder when he dissembles.”

  “Ha! I know that particular move all too well,” I say. “Well, that figures. He can’t help it. He loves being given his due adoration. It’s just got to be on his terms.”

  There is a long awkward pause. I guess she’s thinking the same about Ragnarr.

  “Well, um, that’s all I guess,” I say at last. “And before the week gets away from me I just wanted to say an early God Jul—Merry Christmas. I hope Jultomten brings you something really nice. I secretly asked him for jewelry—of the solitaire ring kind. Don’t tell anyone.”

  Too late I cringe, cursing my stupid mouth. By long habit, I’ve spilled my innermost thoughts to my best friend, business partner, and coven-mate—and once again they’re centered around Ragnarr, the one who’s splintered our friendship almost past recognition.

  I swallow hard.

  I am a stupid fucking idiot.

  “Ja, you too. God Jul,” she says at last. The ice is back in her voice. She hangs up without another word.

  Dragons and witches hold deep-seated animosity for the other which goes back centuries—and Linnea is no exception. She can’t stand Ragnarr in particular. And obviously she hasn’t forgiven Ragnarr for what happened between our coven and him that fiery night in the forest—no matter how I’ve tried to mend fences on his behalf.

  I can still see the panic and terror in her eyes as she begged me not to leave the protective circle. How she screamed after me as I ran to him, leaving the coven behind.

  No wonder she can’t forgive him.

  Or me.

  I look at a picture of us on my phone for a long time before putting it away.

  I’ll think about how to fix things later.

  Ragnarr stands waiting for me in the doorway with a gift-wrapped package in hand when I step, dripping, out of the shower.

  “Fy fan, you’re beautiful, häxan,” he says, setting the gift down on the marble sink and taking me in his arms.

  “Nej—no. Forget the towel,” he says as I reach for the rack. “Let me lick you dry instead.”

  I laugh, although his words send a thrill of desire through me.

  “First off, I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  “Isn’t it? Surely I should give it an honest go before you make such brash assumptions.”

  He dips his head to the tender hollow where my neck meets my shoulder, laps at the droplets of water there. His tongue licks like flames, finding just the right spots to make all my resistance disappear.

  I melt into him.

  “I think it’s having the opposite effect,” I say weakly.

  His hands run down my body, not caring that my freshly-showered body is leaving a big wet mark on his expensively tailored clothes.

  “Not sure I believe you,” he murmurs, painting several more hot strokes onto my neck with his tongue. “Let me double-check.”

  His fingers dip down along my crack, and I shiver.

  “We’re supposed to be at the ski rental place in half an hour,” I say. “If you don’t stop, I—”

  “You what?”

  “Well, I—I’m going to blame you for making us late.”

  He traces the secret wet line of me from behind—a feather-light touch that draws a moan out of me.

  Then a more disappointed noise as he withdraws.

  “Open this,” he says, pushing the gift to me. It’s wide and flat, about the size and shape of a laptop.

  “What’s this? I thought we were doing gift number one at fika—coffee and pastries—tomorrow.”

  My knees are wobbly, and I put a hand on the sink to steady myself.

  “This timing is better for mine,” he says. There is a smirk hiding behind his eyes. “Open it, häxan min.”

  “Can’t I get dressed first?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him, but he only gives me one of his ironically indecipherable looks. I heft a dramatic sigh.

  “Fine. I’ll just stand here, naked and shivering—”

  “I would warm you in numerous and delicious ways, but then we’re back to our earlier conundrum. Besides, the bathroom is heated, so don’t give me that.”

  I wiggle my toes against the marble floor. It is amazingly warm, and like any red-blooded Swede I thank the gods of tile-laying for underfloor heating.

  “I guess I don’t mind being showered with gifts,” I say, pulling one end of the prettily curled red ribbon. “You know I already have a laptop though, right?”

  “Oh, it’s no laptop,” he says. “Though I may very well want it in my lap later.”

  I open the box and gasp.

  It’s a stunning piece of jewelry: a necklace of hammered rose gold wire, with long strings of precious stones connecting to a forged chain of gold links.

  I pick it up, admiring the craftsmanship.

  “But how do I wear it?”

  “It’s meant for an audience of one.”

  “That’s not even close to an answer.” I examine it from another angle. “It’s a necklace, right?”

  “Actually… it’s a bra.”

  I laugh.

  “Purely decorative, apparently. Not much support for the girls.” I raise an eyebrow, contemplating the piece. “A man designed this, didn’t he. I’ll bet you anything.”

  “I think you might be missing the point.”

  Ragnarr takes it from me, and brushes my still-damp hair over one shoulder. Fastens the hammered wire ring around my neck. Strings of rubies, fire opals, and baroque pearls fall in a waterfall to my waist, and he takes hold of the gold chain and fastens it there as well.

  “The King of Svartálfaheimr made this with his own hands and—”

  “Ha! I knew it.”

  Ragnarr rolls his eyes to the heavens.

  “And he’s a friend of mine, one of the best goldsmiths there is across thirteen realms. I wanted only the best for you.”

  I look down at myself, then at him. Now I feel a little guilty for teasing him, though I’m sure he’s not actually ruffled.

  “It is beautiful. Well… I guess it wouldn’t be so bad, letting the girls roam wild and free sometimes.” And I mean it, too.

  Sure, there’s not much support—but what it lacks in practicality, it makes up for in other ways. I run my fingertips delicately down along the strands of beads.

  And even with that small movement, the elegant waterfall of gemstones rattles gently, rubbing against my nipples and caressing the soft curves of my breasts.

  It’s more erotic than I could have imagined, and suddenly I can’t stop thinking about his hands there. His tongue there.

  I’m instantly wetter. I look up. Meet his gaze.

  The smile he gives me is enough to melt the snow outside.

  “By the way, it’s infused with a bit of magic,” he says, eyes intent on my peaked nipples. “Not that you need it, but I thought it might be… interesting. Fun.”

  Once more, I run my hands down the beads. The sensation is incredible—teasing, sensuous, as if I’ve taken two sips of an aphrodisiac. I bite back a moan.

  “Ragnarr—”

  “Hurry up and get dressed. Like you said, we don’t want to be late.”

  “Well, help me get this off and I’ll—”

  He laughs.

  “Oh no, häxan min. You’ll be wearing that for me all day.”
>
  “All day?”

  My voice is weak. I’m imagining going skiing like this. Going for fika like this. Being this aroused all day, in public. It’s naughty. Tantalizing.

  Delicious.

  “I want to look at you,” he says, “all day… and imagine you just like this. I mean it. All. Day. Because my dragon wants you draped in jewels from head to toe—and I want to kiss you everywhere they cover.”

  I am pinned by his gaze, the thrill of it bringing goosebumps to my skin.

  “I won’t be able to last.”

  My voice is weak.

  My nipples are hard and tingly, aching to be sucked. I shift from foot to foot, my pussy sweetly swollen with need.

  He smiles, glances down at them as if he knows exactly how I’m feeling.

  “Poor thing.” His voice is rough and low with desire. “You needn’t worry about that—I won’t leave us wanting.”

  By the time we’re out on the hard-packed ski trails, I can hardly think about anything else. Under my layers, the gemstones are as warm as my skin, and with every push of my ski poles they caress my breasts, my nipples. The exertion makes me breathe harder, and even that reminds me of Ragnarr… and what he does to me.

  —Enjoying yourself?

  I nod. Bite my lip.

  “Just a bit farther,” he says out loud. “To that copse at the top of the hill.”

  I nod again and set my jaw, timing my breathing to the rhythm of my arms and legs.

  My bra is an erotic torture device, designed to push me to greater heights of arousal—but never giving me quite what I need.

  I love it.

  I hate it.

  Because what I really need is Ragnarr.

  There is a shimmer of light up ahead. We round a group of trees and I shriek in delight.

  “A picnic?”

  “Just for us. You like it?”

  “Ragnarr! I love it!”

  There is a rustic picnic basket woven of birch bark sitting on a bright red woolen blanket. The blanket is spread across a type of double-wide chaise lounge to keep it off of the cold ground. A circle of oil lanterns surrounds it, glowing cheerfully like tiny stars against the midwinter darkness. We’ve stumbled across a fairy dell.