Ragnar's hand wrapped around his length and he stroked himself once, twice.
His hand moved with deliberate slowness, the long glide of his fist over his shaft drawing in Circe's focus like a moth to a flame.
She turned to lay on her side, her eyes unashamedly taking in his naked form like he had done with her moments ago.
The low lamplight illuminated him perfectly, painting gold across the ridges of his abdomen, the flex of muscle in his forearm, and the thick length of his cock. He gave his cock another slow stroke from base to crown, and a bead of glistening moisture gathered at the tip.
Nothing in the world could have torn her gaze away from him in that instant. She could see the thick veins that ran along its length, the way the skin flushed darker when his grip tightened.
