Page 7 of Bred By The King

“I can’t keep my voice down! My best friend just got finger-blasted by the Viking king! This is the best day of my life!”

She leaps off the bed and grabs my shoulders, shaking me. “Details. Now. Every single one. Was it good? Did you come? How many fingers?”

“Monique!”

“I’m a scientist, Layla. I need data.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

I flop on the bed, covering my face with a pillow. “Three fingers. And yes, I came. Hard. Embarrassingly hard. I bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.”

Monique lets out a sound like a dying teakettle. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Layla. You’re in love.”

“I am NOT in love. I don’t even like him.”

“You just said you came embarrassingly hard on his fingers. That’s not ‘don’t like him.’ That’s ‘I want to have his babies and name them all Soren Jr.’”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me. I’m the only person you can tell this to without getting beheaded for treason.”

She’s right. She is absolutely right.

“What do I do?” I ask, peeking out from under the pillow.

“You enjoy it. You let him wine you, dine you, and sixty-nine you. You make the peace-baby. And then you ride off into the sunset on his massive…”

“Monique!”

“…horse. I was going to say horse. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

* * *

By evening, my father arranges a private dinner on a secluded terrace. Just us, the sea, and too much tension. Soren shows up in a simple black shirt that stretches across his massive chest. The man makes everything look small.

We eat grilled fish, fresh bread, olives, wine. He’s grumpy about the heat, sweating a little, which makes me smirk.

“Too warm for you, big guy?” I ask, popping an olive in my mouth.

He eyes me across the table. “I prefer snow. This sun feels like it’s trying to cook me alive. But I’ll survive if it means watching you in that dress.”

The dress is deep blue, clingy, showing off my curves. His stare makes me feel naked.

After dinner, we walk down a private beach path. Moonlight on the water. He takes off his shoes and rolls up his pants. The sight of this giant northern king padding barefoot in the surf is ridiculous and weirdly hot.

“You look out of place,” I tell him.

“Good. Keeps people guessing.” He stops. “You don’t. You look like you belong here. Like the entire island was built for you.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips. “Flattery now? After you fingered me against a wall like we were still at war?”

He steps closer. The size difference is ridiculous. I have to tilt my head way back. “That wasn’t war. That was me finally touching what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours yet.”

“You signed the papers, Layla.” His hand settles on my hip, big palm spanning half my waist. “And your pussy was dripping down my fingers. You’re mine.”