Circe's fingers lingered there, a feather-light pressure that danced along the outline of his cock, tracing the shape through the fabric. It was just enough to fan the heat of his lust, to make his pulse thunder in his ears, but nowhere near the friction he craved and she knew exactly what she was doing.
Ragnar's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his eyes locked on hers in the dim moonlight that washed over the garden. He could feel the warmth of her palm seeping through the breeches.
Every teasing glide of her fingers sent a jolt through him, but it was fleeting, gone before it could build into anything satisfying. She was toying with him, drawing out his frustration like a cat with a cornered mouse, and the glint in her eyes told him she reveled in it.
