Because there—solid, unmistakable, and hot—was his arousal pressing against her hip.
Her breath caught.
Gunnar stirred. His voice came out thick with sleep, a gravelly murmur that vibrated right through her cheek. “You’re awake.”
“Maybe,” she whispered, not moving. “I could pretend I’m not. It’s really cozy here.”
He huffed something like a laugh, the movement shifting both their bodies. “You talk too much. Even when half-conscious.”
“And you grumble too much,” she countered, daring to lift her head an inch so she could look at him, “even when half-asleep.”
His hair was mussed, falling over his forehead; his tusks caught the faint glow of the dying fire; his expression was soft and unguarded in a way she doubted many had ever seen. He looked less like a creature from a winter tale and more like someone in the middle of a dream she wasn’t ready to wake from—raw, powerful, undeniably male.
He met her gaze, lids heavy, eyes blue as glacier ice. “If you keep wiggling like that,” he rumbled, “you’re going to start trouble, little human.”
“Maybe,” she said, pulse stuttering, “I’m already starting it.”
His hand slid up her back, slow and deliberate, the pads of his fingers tracing her spine in a way that lit every nerve in her body. She shivered, and he felt it—because his next breath sharpened.
The kiss began as nothing more than a question. Her lips brushing his, warm and tentative. A test. A spark.
He answered with a low growl that thrummed against her ribs, his fingers sliding into her hair as if drawn there by instinct. He kissed like he spoke: sparingly, intensely, with nothing held back once he committed. His mouth moved against hers with surprising gentleness for a creature built of stone and storm, his breath warm and steady, his hand anchoring her as if he feared she might disappear if he didn’t hold her close.
And oh, she melted—into the heat, the weight, the dizzying surge of want. The world narrowed to the taste of him, the scrape of his tusk near her lip, the deep warmth of his body wrapped around hers.
Then—
“Mrrrrow!”
Something thumped against the furs near her feet.
Wren jolted, nearly rolling off Gunnar entirely, while he groaned and dropped his head back to the pillow of his arm.
“Ketty,” he muttered, sounding profoundly resigned. “Excellent timing. As always.”
The enormous Yule Cat crouched at the foot of the bed, tail lashing with smug authority. A dusting of snow clung to her fur, like she’d just stormed in from the blizzard for the sole purpose of supervising them. She meowed again—louder this time—an unmistakable feline announcement ofI see you.
“Oh, great,” Wren moaned, burying her burning face against Gunnar’s shoulder. “Your cat just cockblocked us.”
“She enjoys doing that,” he said grimly. “Claims she’s guarding my virtue.”
Wren snorted into his skin. “Pretty sure that ship sank a long time ago.”
He gave her a strange sideways look at that—brief, unreadable—but before she could question it, Ketty hopped onto the bed with the grace of a falling boulder. She circled once, plopped between them like a furry wall, then placed one massive paw directly on Wren’s stomach.
“Well. I guess that’s that,” Wren laughed breathlessly.
“She approves,” Gunnar said flatly. “Or she’s claiming the warm spot for herself.”
Wren scratched the cat’s chin. Ketty purred so loudly it vibrated the bed. “I can’t compete with this level of possessiveness.”
“You could try,” he murmured, voice deepening in a way that made her toes curl again.
The air thickened—charged, warm, humming with everything unspoken—but Ketty stretched a paw and smacked Gunnar in the chest.
He sighed. “Fine. Fine. I’ll make breakfast before she uses me as a chew toy.”
Gunnar slipped out of bed with that quiet, daunting grace trolls seemed to have, pulling on a loose shirt as he stalked toward the fire pit. The storm outside raged louder, wind screaming around the cave’s entrance, but the warmth inside was startlingly domestic.
