Her hands trailed frantically over the wet muscles of his chest, her palms stinging from the friction of his damp skin. The hairthere was dark and soaked, clinging to him like a second skin, and the scent of him filled her lungs, making her head spin.
She was vibrating at the frequency of his touch.
Enya kissed him back with a ferocity that surprised even herself, her tongue tangling with his, her teeth grazing his lower lip with a hunger that bordered on feral. She wanted to be devoured by him.
His hands moved from her face to her throat, his thumb pressing against the pulse point. He tilted her head back, exposing the line of her neck. A low, ragged moan broke from her lips as his mouth left hers to mark a path downward, his stubble grazing her skin with a delicious, stinging friction.
Enya’s fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
"I dinnae care about what ye did, Enya, as long as ye promise me it will never happen again," he muttered against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive cord of her neck. "I cannae hate ye, I cannae."
"I promise," she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails scratching the wet skin. “Ye’re all I want.”
His hands slid down, slick with soap and water, catching her waist and hauling her toward him until there wasn't a whisper of air between them. The friction of his chest against her peaked nipples sent a jolt of electricity straight to the heavy, liquid ache between her thighs.
He groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that she felt in her core, and then dipped his head.
His tongue traveled down, tracing the line of her collarbone before swirling around the curve of her breast. When he took one nipple into his mouth—licking, then biting with a controlled, possessive hunger—Enya’s back arched out of the water.
"Harald!" she cried out, her eyes fluttering shut as the steam and the pleasure turned the world into a blur of gold and shadow.
Her body felt like a bowstring drawn too tight.
He didn't stop. He moved to the other side, his hands kneading her hips, his fingers bruising her soft skin. His lips were a scorching contrast to the cooling water, grazing her nipples with a devastating mix of velvet softness and the sharp, demanding scrape of his teeth.
Harald suddenly shifted, sitting back against the far rim. His muscles bunched as he gripped her thighs and pulled her on top of him, her wet skin sliding against his. The sensation of his hard, swollen length pressing against her was almost too much to bear.
He guided her down, his eyes locked on hers, dark and fathomless. He entered her with a sudden, stretching fullness that made Enya gasp and bury her face in the crook of his neck. The water provided a slick, effortless friction as he began to move, his hips thrusting upward with a rhythmic, punishing intensity.
"Enya," he groaned, the name a prayer and a curse all in one.
She moved with him, her hands locked behind his head, her body responding to every thrust with a desperate, climbing need. The copper tub rang with the sound of the water splashing against the sides, a rhythmic accompaniment to their labored breaths and the soft, wet sounds of their joining.
The pleasure was a rising tide, cold at the edges but burning in the center. She felt the sensitive, raw core of herself shattering under the weight of his stare and the power of his body. She felt the tension coil tight in her belly, a spiraling, golden heat that made her vision go white.
Harald let out a loud, ragged shout, his fingers digging into her hips as he thrust one last time, deep and final.
Enya followed him over the edge, her body shuddering. They shattered together, the silence of the room returning slowly, broken only by the sound of their gasping breaths.
Harald immediately pulled her against his chest, his arms wrapping around her with a fierce, protective strength. He buried his face in her wet hair, his chest heaving.
They stayed quiet for a long time. The only sound was the crackle of the dying fire and the drip of water onto the rug. Enya wanted to hide her face, but she forced herself to stay still, her head resting on his shoulder.
"I didnae go after ye because ye are me wife," Harald said finally, his voice low and raspy, devoid of the earlier fury. “I went after ye, because ye are Enya.” He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. "I love ye, Enya. Nae as a fate I was handed, and certainly nae as a duty I owe. I love ye as a choice. Me choice."
Enya felt a sob catch in her throat. Being a choice was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.
"I feel the same," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I think I chose ye the moment ye played chess wi' me instead o' throwin' me in a dungeon. Even when I was lookin' fer those maps... I was hopin' I’d find a reason tae stay."
Harald let out a long, tired breath and leaned his head back against the tub. He stayed silent for a moment.
"Well," she said, a trace of her dry humor returning to steady her voice. "Ye’ve gone and ruined yer reputation now, Harald Alvsson. Savin' spies and admittin' tae feelin's? The bards will have a field day."
Harald let out a short, dry chuckle and squeezed her tighter. "Let them sing. I have me wife. Even if she is a fox."
"A fox that’s catchin' a chill," she reminded him, shivering slightly as the water turned lukewarm.
He stood up, liftin' her with him, and stepped out of the tub. He grabbed a pile of thick, dry towels and began to wrap her in them, his movements slow and reverent.
