Relief and a hunger so powerful slammed into him as she finally accepted him, and he claimed her mouth with desperate need, his tongue sliding against hers. She moaned into him, fingers digging into his hair, pulling him hard against her as he backed her urgently toward the furs.
The furs welcomed them, hot and wild. Gunnar pressed her down, his massive body caging her beneath him, muscles taut with restraint. His eyes blazed with rune-light, turning his gaze molten as it raked over her flushed skin. The bond between them pulsed like a second heartbeat, sending waves of liquid heat through her core.
She dragged her nails along the runes on his arms, watching them flare beneath her touch. “I love you,” she breathed.
He growled—deep and possessive—the vibration traveling from his chest to hers. “I love you, Wren.”
He kissed her again, lips bruising, his hunger almost animalistic. Gunnar’s breath tangled with hers, their teeth clashing as if neither could bear a moment’s separation. He nipped her lower lip, drawing blood, and she gasped at the bite of pain, but softened as he soothed the sting immediately with his tongue. His hands roamed her body feverishly, memorizing every inch as if they had been parted for a long, desperate winter instead of a day. Each callused sweep over her ribs, her stomach, her hips, left her shuddering and keening softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
He cupped her breasts, squeezing gently, and his thumbs rolled her nipples until they ached. She arched into him, shameless, begging for more. She wanted to be consumed, wanted to be a part of him, bound by the mate bond, connected to him on a deeper level, finally belonging to someone. Gunnar obliged, pinning her wrists above her head with a single hand, spreading her out beneath him like an offering. The runes on his forearms lit at the contact, pale blue fire crackling under her skin, making her writhe and cry out. His mouth left hers only to blaze a trail down her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone, leaving a line of stinging nips and wet, soothed kisses in his wake.
She bucked against him, feeling the rigid length of him hot against her thigh, but he was everywhere at once—hands and mouth and the weight of his body pressing her into the furs. He let her wrists go and she raked her nails across his broad shoulders, delighting in the way he snarled into her skin, then slid her hands down his back, mapping each powerful muscle. He kissed his way lower, lingering at the swell of her breast, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak until she whimpered and tried to pull him closer. Instead, he bit down, just a bite of pain, and soothed the ache with his mouth, his tusks scraping gently against her flushed skin.
Everything faded to static as Gunnar’s hand slid between her legs, finding her slick and ready. He touched her with reverence and relentless intent, two fingers circling and plunging until her hips lifted off the furs, and every thought tunneled into the desperate, building heat. She clung to his shoulders, legs quaking, the bond between them pulsing until her entire body felt only half her own. When he pulled his hand away she nearly sobbed at the loss, but then he was bracing himself above her, his eyes wild and shining, and his body aligned with hers, thick and heavy at her entrance.
When he finally thrust into her, she cried out, nails scoring his back as he stretched her deliciously. Gunnar’s teeth found her neck, biting just hard enough to mark as he filled her completely. Their bodies moved in perfect, slick synchrony, the sounds of their coupling raw and uninhibited in the shadowed room.
The runes along his spine burned white-hot with each powerful thrust, his sweat-slicked skin sliding against hers. She wrapped her legs higher around his waist, taking him deeper, begging incoherently for more, harder, faster.
Gunnar’s voice was pure sin against her ear. “Mine to pleasure. Mine to mark. Mine to claim.”
She shattered first—her release tearing through her with such force she screamed, inner muscles clenching around him in pulsing waves. Gunnar followed with a feral sound, his hips jerking erratically as he spilled himself deep within her, the bond between them blazing like wildfire.
He collapsed beside her, both of them slick with sweat and trembling. She curled against him, feeling the thundering of his heart beneath her palm—alive and hers because she’d returned just in time.
It was perfect.
Right up until?—
A soft chirrup sounded near the entrance.
Wren blinked. “Ketty?”
The Yule Cat padded into the cave, tail flicking, glaring at them with a highly judgmental expression before leaping onto the foot of the furs and kneading them like she owned the place.
Gunnar groaned. “Not now…”
And then?—
“ARE YOU DONE YET?”
Gryla’s voice boomed from outside, echoing off every stone and rune.
“I WANT TO WELCOME MY NEW DAUGHTER!”
Wren slapped a hand over her face, mortified.
Gunnar sighed deeply. “Of course she’s here.”
Ketty chirped in agreement.
Wren let out a shaky laugh and pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “Well, I guess we should go out there.”
Gunnar wrapped an arm around her, kissed her temple, and muttered, “Let me enjoy this moment of peace for exactly three more seconds.”
She smiled against his skin.
And for the first time in her life, she truly felt like she belonged.
