Circe lay in bed, tucked beneath the covers with only her face exposed, on the edge of sleep, when she heard the door hinges squeak. Quiet footsteps followed after the door clicked shut. She recognized Ragnar's gait instantly.
The room glowed softly from the nightstand lamp, casting a warm, golden light across the shadows. Even in the dimness, she could have identified him by the shape of his silhouette. Her senses were so attuned to him that her body responded before her mind fully registered his presence.
It was late, and he must have been, like her, ready for sleep. Yet sleep still eluded her.
A rush of heat tingled at her neck as memories of that morning flared in her mind, how he had brought her to the peak of pleasure.
Shame mingled with longing as her core pulsed, aching for the memory of his hot mouth between her thighs, his fingers working her mercilessly, the way she had shattered under him and how tenderly he had bathed her afterward.
