#sigtryggr

𝑼𝒉𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒅

“Destiny is all… but you were never part of the plan.”

・This marriage is a strategic alliance. An act to broker peace between two warring factions.

・Even though Uhtred wants this peace, he isn't thrilled about it.

・At first his mindset was to keep you alive, but the more you got to know each other...the more he was in denial:

“I don’t care about her. I just need to make sure she stays alive… for the alliance. That’s all.”

・What started as a simple sword lesson had turned into him pushing you harder than he intended. Wanting you to see the true strength of opponents.

・He didn't want to sugarcoat what war and battles were. (Not that you had been fantasising about them anyway).

・Uhtred thought his lesson was going well until you finally knocked him to the ground.

・For a split second, he was shocked...stunned and then he stared up at you, breathing heavily. And then he smirked.

・Showing indifference, Uhtred trains you to fight. And adorns you with proper fighting gear, a shield and gets a blacksmith to make your very own sword.

・Even in the early stages of your marriage, Uhtred would subconsciously protect you - no matter where you were or what you were doing. E.g., even at the tavern, he never let anyone get too close (his men were like three other bodyguards)

・You were glad for Finan, he became like a brother to you. Always making things lighter, bringing the humour.

・Because you were constantly on the road with the four men. And Uhtred didn't trust anyone else to take care of you.

・But he would never say that...

・Sihtric barely spoke to you, but he held a lot of respect for you.

・Over time, Sihtric becomes one of your fiercest defenders, in battle and in life. Like a quiet shadow, a forcefield ensuring no harm comes to you.

・Osferth; he's your first friend, real friend, although he was a bit awkward. You become the sister he's always wanted. And he becomes that little brother who wants to follow you everywhere and do everything you're doing...

・The truth of Uhtred's feelings comes out during a heated argument. After nearly getting himself killed...again, you accuse him of putting too much at risk to gain Bebbanburg, that he cares too much about gaining that castle back.

・Shocked, ashamed, embarrassed that you would say that. Uhtred's face heats, and what you say is truth. Well, it was truth, until:

"I have spent my whole life fighting for Bebbanburg! But then you came along, and now I’m fighting for something else. For you. Don’t you see that?”

𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖:

“My Heart” uses this one when you have private moments and when he feels vulnerable. I.e., after a battle or during soft, intimate conversations.

“Shieldmaiden” is used in front of his men, showing his pride in you.

“Wife” is both teasing and affectionate, often said when you’re being stubborn.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Shared Vision and Purpose

Closed Off (Uhtred) x The Person They Warm Up To (You)

Brave Warrior (Uhtred) x Self-Assured Damsel (You)

Places His Wife Above Everyone

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Home Is Wherever You Are

The Parents Of The Group

Reluctant Allies to Lovers

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Kingdom Dance by Alan Menken

Scotland by BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra

I Had To Do That by James Newton Howard

𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒏

“I didn’t want this, but now? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

・Your marriage was a political alliance to strengthen ties between Ireland and the Saxons. Finan, as Uhtred’s right hand, was seen as a valuable connection.

・How else could Finan endure this other than with humour?

・As soon as you met him, he was cracking jokes. Sometimes he was funny, other times you were annoyed - because he was constantly making light of ... everything.

・When you called him out on it, he sighed, "I'm sorry lass. It's ah...the only way I know how to cope sometimes."

“She’s alright, I guess. I mean, for someone who can’t keep up in a fight…” (He says this right before throwing himself in front of an arrow meant for you.)

・Day by day, you were slowly opening up to each other. Learning through talking by the fire, on horseback, walking through the forest.

・Soon Finan began to lean close while talking to you, staring into your eyes, moving a piece of hair behind your ear, brushing past you "accidentally", etc.

・Finan was always looking to see if you were okay. Even in a crowded hall, his gaze would flick to you every few moments, but if he was ever caught, he'd smirk and look away.

・Whenever you feel down, Finan doesn't mind making a fool of himself to make you laugh

・If talking doesn't help, he'd happily slip in the mud during training or let Sihtric carry him around bridal style.

・One night, as a joke, you tied a small braid into his hair, saying it makes him look more "noble." He laughed it off but didn't take it out... he wore it for days afterward.

・His feelings are brought to light during a drunken night around the fire. The others were sharing stories about what they fight for; land, honour, family, ... fun.

・Someone asked Finan and as he was about to make a joke, he glanced at you.

・Your face was illuminated by the light of the flames, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Her."

Silence fell. He looked to you who was wide-eyed, "I'll always fight for you."

𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖

“Lass” is his go-to—light, teasing, and affectionate.

“Trouble” slips out when you’re bickering or challenging him (which is often).

“Little One” is playful, his everyday teasing, often when he’s trying to make you laugh.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

You Fell First, But He Fell Harder

Constant Banter

The Sarcastic Duo That Can Finish Each Other's Insults

Places His Wife Above Everyone

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Height Difference

Bickering and Banter

Timeless Love

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Say Yes To Heaven by Lana Del Rey

Valerie by the Midnite String Quartet

Happily Ever After by George Fenton

𝑺𝒊𝒉𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄

“You make me feel like I belong… like I'm worth loving.”

・For Sihtric, he was forced to marry you. The King willed it so. It was a cruel decision. the King wanted to somehow split up Uhtred's group - make it harder for them to be connected.

・It didn't turn out how the Monarch intended...the group just kept you with them.

“I don’t care if she notices me. I’m just here to protect her.” (He says while carrying a pouch full of the random trinkets you’ve given him.)

・You were trained by all of them in battle; how to defend, attack, how to do a shield wall etc.

・Spending time with the men was fun; even if Sihtric was silent most of the time.

・Finan always made you laugh, and Osferth made you feel comfortable no matter what the context was.

・In time, you truly thought of Uhtred as your leader. And you too called him 'Lord.'

・Sihtric constantly lingered in the background. He was always nearby, however, he was never imposing. Just ensuring you were safe.

・You were very different to what everyone thought. There was a softness in you. A heart of gold.

・When you became comfortable around Sihtric, you started to give him things.

・Particularly things you found on your journeys. E.g., many many rocks; smooth river stones, shiny pebbles (anything shiny really), beautiful feathers from birds, flowers that have specific meanings etc.

・And he keeps every single item.

・His pockets are completely full.

・Sihtric is constantly staring, but instantly looks away when he's caught. A small blush dusting his cheeks.

・Another thing is his quiet gestures...he'll fix your armor, puts extra supplies on your horse, sharpens your sword without saying a word.

・The love you hold for each other comes out during the aftermath of a brutal fight.

・You were tending to Sihtric's wounds, hands trembling as you stitched a deep cut on his arm.

・Sihtric couldn't help but watch your face, the concetration, the look of concern.

・You were both silent until you uttered, "You...you could have been killed," your voice was soft but full of emotion.

・Sihtric caught your wrist, his blood-stained fingers entwining with yours.

In a voice so wrapped with truth, Sihtric whispered, "I would die for you. Without hesitation. "

・This marriage wasn't duty anymore. Now...it was love.

𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖

“Little Blade” pops up during training sessions or when you sass him.

“Mine” is possessive, intense, and usually slips out during high-stakes moments.

“Angel” when he’s overwhelmed with how much he adores you.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Madly In Love (Sihtric) x Ridiculously Oblivious (You)

Sun (You) x Moon (Him)

Always Bringing Them Rocks They Think They Would Like (You) x Keeps The Rocks (Him)

Places His Wife Above Everyone

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Healing and Redemption

Unbreakable Bond

Emotional Intimacy

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Me and Your Mama by Childish Gambino

Sex On Fire by Midnite String Quartet

Fire In The Water by Feist

𝑶𝒔𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒉

“You make me brave. Brave enough to be yours.”

・The marriage was to save your life. Many Saxons wanted you dead, but a marriage to a religious Saxon meant you'd be safe.

・Early on in the marriage Osferth would blush at everything you did. From compliments to teasing, he was constantly red-faced.

・But as your time together grew, he started seeking out those moments.

・Even though he’s usually mild-mannered, if anyone speaks poorly of you, Osferth is the first to step up; sword in hand, voice shaking, but unwilling to step down.

・Osferth would give you thoughtful gifts. Small items like a bunch of wildflowers, a smooth stone, etc. But never admitting they’re from him.

“She’s just being friendly. That’s what this is… right?” (As he turns red after you compliment his sword-fighting.)

・Both of you faced your feelings when he thought he lost you.

・It was after a battle; a close one where you all were separated from each other. You were missing for a few hours, and Osferth had been searching unrelentlessly.

・With each moment his panic had risen. His heart beating so fast he thought he might die.

・But he did find you. You were unconscius but alive.

・Osferth cradled you, tears in his eyes while whispering his feelings:

“Please, don’t go. I… I love you. I should have said it before.”

・You stirred at his words, opening your eyes, smiling lightly.

・Blinking slowly, you hummed. Moving to hold onto his arm.

"I love you too."

𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖

“Sweetheart” is his everyday term — filled with gentle love.

“Dearest” slips out when he’s overwhelmed with love — often in moments of shyness or soft confessions.

“Braveheart” is used when he’s overwhelmed by your strength, often after emotional or dangerous moments.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

He Confessed His Love When Thinking You Were Unconscious 

Black Cat (You) x Golden Retriever (Osferth)

Menace To Society (You) x Living Moral Compass (Osferth)

Places His Wife Above Everyone

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

Trust and Dependence

Intertwined Destinies

Love Conquers All

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush

The Train by James Newton Howard

Let The Light In by Lana Del Rey

𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒈𝒈𝒓

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth—because without you, none of this matters.”

・There was constant tension whenever you were around Sigtryggr.

・He rarely spoke to you in the early days of your marriage.

・Seeing it only as a way for him to gain more power

・And in return, your family would be safe - your village, kingdom, would not be harmed by any Dane.

・You kept your own beliefs and wore your traditional family clothes, even though you did not know when you would see your family again.

“She talks too much… but I don’t want her to stop.”

・Watches you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

・His stoic exterior hides it, but he studies you. Including how you smile, how you move, how you speak.

・Sigtryggr knows what your favourite colour is, what you like to do with your time - all because he notices things. And he wants to know more about you.

・He lets you in; allows you to see glimpses of his vulnerable self.

・He shares stories of his past, things he’s done, things he regrets and waits to see if you’ll turn away. You never do.

・And in a world where he controls everything...he lets you make decisions. E.g., about where to travel, what to eat. He values your opinion.

・When both of your feelings were revealed, it was during a difficult situation.

・You had confronted him after a harsh decision in battle. He had executed someone who defied him.

・It shocked you. But ... you understood. Traitors had to be punished, maybe he went a bit far this time but you understood.

・In the comfort and seclusion of your shared bedroom, you spoke your thoughts.

"Don't you think that was a bit ... brutal? I mean, yes he was a ... traitor but you could have done anything else-"

"I know you think I'm a monster," he replies, his voice low. He wasn't facing you, almost as if he wouldn't. Or couldn't.

"A monster?" You replied, shocked.

"Yes! Do you think I wanted this? To be this man?" His words came out like venom.

You soften, and step closer, "No. No, you aren't a monster. Sigtryggr, I have seen the good in you!

His gaze turns to you, utterly and completely. Gently taking a hold of your wrist, voice low and vulnerable: “I’ve done terrible things… but I would burn the world for you.”

・No more pretending. You had the realisation that...he is completely, undeniably yours.

𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖

“Beloved” used during rare, emotionally charged moments e.g., after a battle, during confessions, or when you’re vulnerable together.

“My Flame” is used when there's passionate, heated arguments or intimate moments.

“Little Chaos” he calls you this when you’re being unpredictable or teasing him.

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒔

Soulmates

"I've done terrible things in the past" (Sig) x "All i care about is who you are in the present" (You)

The Hyperactive (You) x The Unheeded Voice of Reason (Sig)

Places His Wife Above Everyone

𝑷𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝑻𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆

I Can't Exist Without You

Healing and Rebuilding Together

I Go Wherever You Go

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒏𝒈

One More Hour by Tame Impala

Margaret by Lana Del Rey

“Tell me,” the voice continues, closer now, and you jump to your feet, looking around, searching for the source of it. “What do you pray for?”

The footsteps approach almost silently with that careful confidence of a wild cat, moving through grass, sneaking upon his prey.

You step back instinctively, and your back hits the edge of the altar.

Your fear had painted him as some heavy-browed monster, savage and rude, all teeth and rage. The man you had found bleeding in the old library of the late King Alfred, God rest his soul, had looked nothing like that. 

Long and thick hair, falling loose over his shoulders, clean-shaved but sharply cut face, startlingly young for a warlord that had just forced Winchester to its knees.

His leather armour had been stripped away and lay discarded on the floor, leaving him in breeches only. He sat on a simple scribes bench, heavily leaned back against the table, his bare, muscular chest heaving hard as he held a blood soaked cloth pressed to his side.

His eyes had caught the moonlight from the window. They were steel blue, you had thought at first, but the longer you looked the more you saw the comparison didn’t fit. The blue was deeper than metal, stormy and strangely warm. 

A scar cut over his left eye and down his cheek. It was healed cleanly, the kind of work that speaks of a skilled hand. It should have been frightening, ugly, a warning… somehow it was neither… somehow it only made him look…

No, you don’t want to think about that. 

Yet you had, more often than you wanted to admit, more often than you could forgive yourself for. 

“I pray for forgiveness,” you whisper, keeping your eyes down, as the shadow stops a few strides from you. 

“For saving a heathen’s life?”

“Every life is worth saving.” you don’t need to look up to know it’s him. 

Arms behind his back Sigtryggr tilts his head, studying the room like a warrior studies a weapon he doesn’t know yet how to hold.

“Your God is strange,” he says at last. “He asks for suffering instead of joy, for himself, and for all who follow him.”

Sigtryggr’s gaze quietly slides toward you, and the drum of your pulse at the base of your throat is getting faster and louder. 

Fear, you tell yourself again. 

You've been telling that to yourself too many times.  

He takes a step closer, and your breath catches sharply. 

“Tell me,” his hand reaches out but stops a breath from your jaw. He can see you trembling.

“Why would someone so beautiful, brave and gifted like you choose this?” he gestures at the emptiness around you. “Why choose suffering over life. Over family. Over children. Over a hearth of your own?”

Rough, calloused fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face up and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks. 

“Life?,” you ask back, looking up into those warm blue stormy eyes. “A life means belonging, means being owned – by a husband, by a lord, by a king," you say quietly. “In the convent, I belong only to God. That seems like a kinder cage.”

Sigtryggr makes a short, harsh sound that strikes the stone and comes back at you, hollow and mocking.

“Saxon thinking,” he sneers. “You think ownership is the only shape a man can take with a woman.”

“Is it not?” 

His thumb drifts to your mouth, a ghost of a contact against your lips. No pressure, no claim, just a soft brush, tracing the edge of your bottom lip, but it makes you draw in a shaky breath as your pulse leaps hard somewhere lower.

“In your world, maybe,” Sigtryggr murmurs. “In my world a woman can own land, can leave a husband who fails her, can choose to stand with a shield and axe beside her brothers. We do not chain what we value. We worship it and we fight to keep it.”

You try to speak, but the words scatter, lost in the warmth of his body so close to yours you can feel every breath against your skin. A thick and soft fog gathers around your mind like a blanket you don’t want to kick away in the cold of the night.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he continues calmly, his thumb still grazing your bottom lip. “What do you pray for? What kind of forgiveness do you expect from your God? For what you have done…”

His eyes hold yours.

“…or for what you’re about to do?”

“I…” you stammer, the air fills your lungs but refuses to leave. 

“Schhh, don’t fight against it,” his thumb presses firmer, just enough to part your lips. “Open wider.”

Your heart slams against your ribs and heat floods your face, your chest, your everything, shame and something far worse coiling together in your belly.

Your mouth opens, his thumb slides through your parted lips and you moan. 

Oh God, it’s just a tiny, soft little sound, slipping out before you can catch it, but he hears it. 

“Then let me answer that prayer tonight,” he whispers, leaning in until his mouth hovers a breath from yours. 

He doesn’t kiss you, he simply holds you there, lips parted and breath mingling with his in hot uneven bursts, until something inside you snaps like dry stick underfoot. You have no name for it, no prayer or excuse to hide behind. Your hands simply lift on their own, your fingers thread deep into the thick strands of his hair and you pull him down, pressing his mouth to yours.

It’s only then that he kisses you, and it’s not soft, not slow or gentle. His lips crash against yours with no hesitation, no mercy. 

He groans into the kiss, his tongue pushes past your lips without asking in deep, claiming strokes that make your head spin and steal every last coherent thought from your mind. 

You moan into his mouth. It’s helpless and broken, and he drinks the sound from your lips with a satisfied smirk. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging sharp enough to sting, then soothe it with a slow lick. 

His hand pulls away the fabric covering your hair and they cascade down over your shoulders in thick waves. You gasp. 

His hands trail over your hips and start pushing up your gown as he kneels down in front of you, grabs your leg and places it over his shoulder.

“What…” you try to protest but then you feel the first hot brush of his breath against your core and your whole body jolts. His tongue, broad and wet, unhurriedly laps a slow stripe from entrance to pearl and you cry out loud, as your knee threatens to buckle. Your hand flies to your mouth to stifle the sound  as you brace yourself hard against the stone at your back, forgetting its true purpose. 

“Oh God,” you whimper as Sigtryggr’s tongue starts moving against your cunt, flicking over your pearl in firm, steady strokes. He chuckles in satisfaction against your core, his tongue delves inside you and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop your hips from bucking forward, chasing the pleasure.

You are no longer in command of your body, it moves for him, obeys his every call, answers his every touch. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you try to steady yourself, your thighs tremble, and the desperate, filthy sounds that roll over your lips are the lewdest you have ever heard. 

He seals his lips around your pulsing bundle and sucks, gentle at first, then firmer. Your vision fractures and stars burst behind your eyelids as you come apart with a sob. 

He loves it, the little, desperate whines that roll over your lips as you squirm and try to push him away. The way you beg him to stop, only to twist your fingers harder into this hair and pull him back closer. The way you surrender to the pleasure he’s giving you. The way your hips shamelessly dance against his mouth because you can’t get enough of it, can’t get enough of him. The way your thighs tremble around him as you come again and again on his tongue.

Your legs are too unsteady, the altar stone at your back the only thing keeping you upright, as he finally releases you and raises back to his feet. You feel his hands at the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up.

With hooded and half lid eyes you watch him undoing his breeches and freeing his cock.

He is bigger than you imagined, longer, thicker, the shaft veined and heavy, glistening at the tip from how long he’s been hard for you.

The sight steals the air from your lungs, you swallow hard, and whatever flickers across your face must speak louder than words. 

Sigtryggr leans in slowly and this time the kiss is different. It’s soft and slow, his lips move over yours tenderly and with no rush, tongue licking teasingly into your mouth and coaxing a quiet trembling sigh from you. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers against your mouth. “I’m going to be gentle.” 

He gives himself a few slow, firm strokes and steps fully between your parted thighs. The blunt head nudges your entrance, breaching you slightly without pushing inside. Your breath catches and your eyes squeeze shut.

“Look at me,” he orders and your lashes flutter open almost against your will.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, dragging his open mouth along the line of your jaw, “did your God ever make you tremble like this? Did he ever look at you the way I am looking at you now?”

You cannot answer with words, all you can do is stare back, and let the truth of his words sink into your bones.

Because the truth is no one has ever looked at you this way.

The blue in Sigtryggr's eyes is nearly gone now, it’s swallowed by dark pupils, by hunger and need.

But there is also so much more.

There is such unguarded admiration, as though you are not merely beautiful, but rare. He looks at you as if you’re something precious and fragile that the world has overlooked until this moment, until him. 

The way he studies you feels like worship and conquest braided together. It’s a look of a man who has fought across seas and battlefields yet suddenly finds himself holding something worth more than any hoard of silver or land. Like you have been entrusted to him not as spoils, but as a gift he never expected and now cannot imagine living without.

It’s only now that you notice the tremor in him. 

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers and his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, tracing the swollen curve of your lower lip where he bit and soothed it earlier. The touch is gentle, careful, in stark contrast to the thick press of him still teasing your entrance.

You cannot answer, words have deserted you, all you can do is a small, helpless nod while fresh heat floods your core and your hips twitch forward on instinct.

Sigtryggr exhales a low, shuddering sound that vibrates between you. His one hand cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking along your jaw, holding you steady while the other guides himself as he begins to push inside. 

Your nails dig into his shoulders and a soft, broken whimper escapes your throat. He stills, letting you feel every thick pulse of him inside you.

“Breathe,” he whispers, thumb stroking the frantic pulse at your throat. “I’ve got you.”

Your breathing steadies, it’s still shallow and trembling, but steady, and only then does he push deeper, rolling his hips in a slow, careful glide. 

You feel his cock parting your walls, the fullness is overwhelming, almost too much,  your walls flutter and clutch around him, greedy despite the sting of the stretch. 

“Let me look at you while I take you,” he rasps. “I want to see every flicker on your face when I fill you. Every flutter of your lashes. Every gasp. Every time those beautiful eyes lose focus because the pleasure is too much to hold. I want to watch you unravel. Because no god, no man, nothing will ever take this from me.”

You whimper as you try to keep your eyes on him and he thrusts into you, breaching your barrier and sheathing himself to the hilt. You cry out and he swallows the sound with his mouth as he kisses you, deeply, urgently.

“I’m yours now,” he whispers as he stills again, letting you adjust, letting you feel the impossible fullness, the way your body molds itself around him like it was made for this sin. “I swear this is the only time I will ever hurt you.”

You look up at him. His eyes are molten and all you can see in his warm and stormy, dark gaze is something you can’t name it other than love. 

The real kind of, the consuming one, the one that takes everything you are and gives everything he has in return. The kind that burns you down to ash and then hands you fire-wings so you can rise again, brighter, wilder, forever changed.

“God forgive me, I’m yours,” you echo, voice trembling but sure and it doesn’t sound like surrender, it sounds like a promise, like a beginning.

A stray tear rolls down your cheek, and he kisses it away instantly, then he begins to move.

Slow and patient at first, eyes never leaving yours, he draws his cock out almost to the tip, letting you feel the drag of every veined inch along your walls. Then he rolls his hips forward again, sinking back  deep in one smooth thrust. 

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he breathes against your lips, as he does it again. “Of us. From the first moment you stepped into that library. I knew I was meant to be yours.”

You moan, wrapping both arms around him to cling to his shoulders as he takes up the pace. 

“I knew,” he rasps and presses his forehead to yours, “that the only purpose of conquering this damned city was to find you - my beautiful Valkyrie.”

There is no holding back the sounds now.

Soft whimpers, fractured moans, breathless gasps, they all pour from your lips as he thrusts into you harder and faster. The thick head of him nudges some hidden unknown spot inside you again and again, and the pleasure that coils white-hot with every thrust is almost too much to bear. 

Your hips begin to move on their own, lifting, rolling, chasing every stroke, meeting every thrust, and he starts to breathe heavily with you. 

Your hands are everywhere, your fingers tangle in his long hair, clutch the back of his neck. He holds you in place with one arm around your waist, the other braced on the altar behind you, as he ruts into you.

Sigtryggr's mouth finds yours again between thrusts, swallowing your cries and feeding you his own low groans. 

Your cunt grips him like a living thing: tight, wet, pulsing around his length in helpless little flutters that pull him in deeper as though your body itself is trying to keep him there forever and he can’t remember ever having felt like this. 

He can feel the way you flutter when he twitches inside you, the way your walls ripple and clutch around him. You’re the one claiming him now, drawing him under with every involuntary squeeze, every breathless clench that makes his hips jerk forward on instinct.

It feels like a siren song, low, hypnotic, thrumming through his blood and bone, calling to him, promising that if he ever tries to pull away the world will go dark and cold without you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take me. Claim me. Give in to the pleasure.”

And you do. Pleasure crashes through you in blinding waves, your thighs clamp around his hips, walls pulsing and fluttering around his cock in helpless, rhythmic spasms. Your head snaps back and your jaw slacks, eyes rolling back into your head as your climax washes over you and your whole body trembles against him. 

He holds you through it, he holds you through every shudder, every moan, every gasp. His hips keep moving as he thrusts into you, harder and faster, while his lips  whisper soft praise into your ear. 

You go limp in his arms, a pliant, spent, trembling mess. He slams into you one final time and then he follows, he spills inside you and fills you with his seed, hips stuttering against you, breathy sounds rolling over his lips in a language you don’t understand.

His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing your racing pulse, tasting the salt on your skin.

The wind whipped through her hair, its icy chill pricked like tiny daggers against her heated skin as she raced through the woods – more a rapid stumble than a full run – it was an inky black night, the glow of the moon and stars above were all that illuminated her way, preventing her from crashing face first into the roughened trunks of the trees. Her lungs burned with exertion, her feet bloody from the repeated snap of twigs and stab of jagged stones against her bare soles. She would not, could not stop though; a fate far worse than sore feet and breathlessness awaited her if she allowed herself to slow down. 

“Christian…”

The taunt filtered through the air as a loud whisper, seeming to come from everywhere and yet nowhere all at once. She was suddenly uncertain of if she was running to or from the voice. She collided with something solid, and was sent sprawling upon her bottom. Her thin, cotton nightdress did nothing to cushion her fall, and she yelped at the impact of a gnarled root that protruded sharply from the earth. Pain bloomed hot and intense across her flesh. She stared fearfully up into a familiar pair of blue eyes – once they would have softened in sympathy at her discomfort – now she saw only hatred reflected back at her in their depths. Sigtryggr’s mouth twisted in disgust as he spat the word “Christian” again, as though it were poison upon his tongue. She wanted to plead, to cry out for mercy, but when she opened her mouth only a pathetic whimper escaped her lips. She trembled, a prey animal beneath a stalking predator, as fear sent acrid bile creeping up the inside of her throat. He lifted his axe in a high arc above his head and brought it down in a heavy swing.

She awoke with a gasp, her heart racing as cold sweat slicked her hair to the back of her neck. The pale light of dawn had only just begun to reach out across the heavy furs she lay beneath, bringing with it the realisation that she was not, in fact, being chased through the woods, but tucked safely in bed, next to the man who had once held her captive. Now she lay beside him of her own volition, though since leaving Wintanceaster he had haunted her dreams, not as a symbol of liberation, but one of terror. Instinctively, her hand went to her neck, fingers reaching fruitlessly for the wooden cross she had once worn around it, and found the skin bare. Her hand dropped uselessly back to the furs, curling into a fist. That little cross had been a source of comfort to her in the life she had before this one, that was until her heathen lover had torn it free and discarded it the first time they had lain together. She had not minded at the time, the reckless act had enthralled her, but that had been in the safety of the confines of Alfred’s study, which was familiar. Now they were settled in Eoferwic, the furthest from home she had ever been, and the absence of her cross made her ache.

Sigtryggr stirred beside her, disturbed by her startled awakening. A tired noise of displeasure rumbled in his chest, as he rolled to face her. His slender fingers reached beneath the furs, gripping the dip of her waist.

“It is early, Little Warrior, too early to begin the day yet” he whispered, before tugging her against his bare chest with gentle ease. “You are trembling. Why?”

His tired eyes opened wider, regarding her with mild concern as she felt her racing heart slow beneath the comfort of his touch and the soothing sound of his voice. So different from what she had dreamed, and yet eerily similar. “I had a dream,” she murmured as her body pressed against his, “about you.”

"You dreamed of me?" he asked, his gaze softening as his hand lifted from her waist to her face, and his thumb stroked tenderly against her jawline. 

She could sense the desire that simmered beneath the surface of him, his body so tightly wound against her own and prepared to pounce at the slightest hint of invitation. It hurt her to know that the next words from her mouth would snuff that out, causing him to withdraw from her, but she could not lie to Sigtryggr. He did not just see her when he looked upon her; that piercing stare bore down to the very core of her, flaying her open. There was nothing she could hide from him, he was far too perceptive.

"I dreamed of you," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she clutched the furs tighter to herself, as though the very act would protect her from whatever hurt or offense she would inevitably see reflected back at her in his stare. "You were chasing me. You meant to kill me."

The wolfish grin that spread across his face was not the reaction she had anticipated, and she frowned as he huffed a soft laugh, the gentle expulsion of air fanning across her cheek. He cupped her face, pressing a soft kiss of reassurance to the crease of her brow. “I do not allow those I mean to kill to warm my bed,” he muttered, “now sleep. You are safe.”

She cuddled against him, allowing him to tuck her head beneath his chin as he wrapped both arms around her. His warmth quickly lulled her back into a gentle slumber, though she noticed as her breaths softened and she inhaled his scent that he smelled faintly of soft earth and fallen leaves – like the woods.

Hours later, with the morning sun now streaming vibrant through the gaps in the wooden beams of their longhouse, they broke their fast on salted pork and oat cakes – long gone were their days of scraping green mold from their bread crusts during the siege of Wintanceaster – food in Eoferwic was plentiful with no one at the city walls to starve them. The settlement here was a prosperous one for the Danes; they had crops, livestock, homes. The space she shared with Sigtryggr was modest, but comfortable – the self-contained hut was a single room consisting of a small hearth for a fire with a space to prepare food, a large bed laden with furs and a wooden table with chairs, which they now sat at to eat.

When Sigtryggr had given Wintanceaster back to Edward, and asked her to go with him, she hadn’t hesitated. The month they had spent together had not seemed long enough, especially not when they had only just begun to explore the depths of their feelings for one another. However, the journey north towards Eoferwic had worn her patience beyond its limits, quickly dissipating the lover’s haze she had lost herself in. She did not voice her complaints to Sigtryggr – she was all too aware of what he had sacrificed to keep her safe – however, long hours spent astride his horse made her backside sore and, as eager as she was to welcome him between her thighs when they made camp each evening, the hardness of the ground was unforgiving against her knees and back. She grew miserable and withdrawn, waving it away as travel weariness whenever her lover queried her sullen silences.

She had expected her spirits to lift once they arrived at their destination, and to an extent they had – a comfortable bed, and days not spent on horseback did wonders for morale, but at her core she was homesick. When Sigtryggr had thrown away her cross, in her mind that had been symbolic of his disapproval of her faith. Out of respect to him, she had not prayed since leaving Wintanceaster, afraid she would offend him or, worse, that he would mock her. It was painfully apparent from the suspicious stares directed her way by his fellow Danes that they did not trust her. Sigtryggr was putting himself at risk by keeping her as his woman, the absence of her faith was the least she owed him. However, far from home and without being able to speak to her god, she was afraid. The nightmares had begun shortly after that, and she had kept them to herself – until now.

“I want to talk about my dream,” she said, placing the remnants of her oat cake upon her plate, and dusting the crumbs lightly from her fingers. She watched as Sigtryggr chewed a mouthful of salted pork slowly, eyeing her carefully as he lifted his gaze from the table towards her.

“It’s nothing,” he said with a shrug once he’d swallowed, “I would never hurt you.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted, “I’ve been having this same dream since we arrived here.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms across his chest. “Are you afraid of me?”

She swallowed thickly, looking down at the crumbs upon the table then back up at him. A look of impatience had settled over his features, she could see it in the subtle lift of his eyebrow as he waited for her answer. “I was your prisoner once.”

He narrowed his eyes and she instantly wished she could take back what she’d said. But it was too late now. “And now you are my woman. You chose to come with me.”

“How has anything changed?” she demanded, her voice becoming shrill as she fought back the tears from it, rapidly losing the battle against a tide of emotions she had held at bay for months. “I am as much your prisoner here as I was back in Wintanceaster. I have not even my faith anymore, only you. My life is in your hands.”

He leaned across the table, nostrils flared in anger and instinctively she shrank away, fearful of his reaction to her admission. When he spoke, his voice was angry, but it was not loud. There was a dangerous lowness to it, a quiet edge that was more menacing than any furious shout. “You are free, free to leave anytime you’d like. And if this is how you feel, I suggest that you do.”

She felt as though all the air had left her as she watched him stand up from the table and leave without another word. There was a part of her that longed to chase after him, to demand that he stay and talk about all of this, yet she remained rooted to the spot, unable to move from her chair as her chest felt too tight and unshed tears pricked at the rims of her eyes. She had done it. She had finally done it; shown the depth of her ingratitude for all he had done for her and he had hated what he saw, grown tired of her. A tear tracked its way down her cheek as she wondered if he would come back.

He did come back. Darkness had fallen, the day having passed at a glacial pace as she busied herself, sweeping the floor, making the bed – no task taking enough time to while away the seeming crawl that the passage of time had halted to. She lay on her side, facing the wall when she felt the dip of the mattress next to her as his weight settled into the bed. She wanted to wail like a child when he didn’t tug her against him as he did every night when he slipped into bed beside her. She had grown used to him pulling her against his body as though she weighed nothing, either nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck as sleep claimed them both, or rolling her onto her back as his hardness nudged insistently at her inner thigh. Tonight, he did neither of those things. It was the first night since they left Wintanceaster that he hadn’t touched her.

No dreams came for her that night, though she was certain at some point she felt the gentle brush of Sigtryggr’s lips against her own. When she opened her eyes to greet the morning sun, his space in the bed was empty. She threw back the furs, eyes wide in panic as she moved through the small space. His weapons were gone, boots and clothes too.

Has he left me?

Not caring that she was dressed in only her nightgown, she pulled open the door, looking out upon the settlement. It was eerily quiet. The grassy plane that the longhouses encircled, worn down to the earth by repeated footfall over time, was mostly empty, void of the usual men that gathered to talk and spar. A few small children ran past giggling with a dog barking at their heels, and she could see Brynhild draping wet clothes to dry over a length of twine pulled taut between two posts.

Besides Sigtryggr, Brynhild was the kindest to her of the Danes. She was unsure of how old she was, but she had a manner of speaking which sounded more ancient than time itself. She was a portly woman, seemingly as wide as she was tall, and her long hair was grey as iron, always neatly braided and then pinned into buns at the sides of her head. Her blue eyes sat deep in her well lined face, yet still twinkled with vivacity. She was a person that smiled with her eyes rather than her mouth, and they softened as she watched the young Saxon woman rush breathlessly over to her.

“Brynhild, where is everyone? Have you seen Sigtryggr?” she asked, too worried to be embarrassed about the shrillness that the urgency in her question lent to her tone of voice.

“Gone to Dunholm,” the old woman answered simply, “all fighting men and women gone.”

“What for?” she asked. Dunholm was English land, the Danes had no business being there, unless to cause trouble.

Brynhild shrugged, then groaned with effort as she stooped to lift a damp undershirt from her wicker basket. The younger woman was quick to step forward, taking over from her and beginning to drape the laundered items over the clothesline.

“You are a good girl,” Brynhild commented, her eyes sparkling in one of her subtle smiles, “Sigtryggr was smiled on by the gods when they gave you to him.”

She stiffened at the mention of him, pausing to look sadly over her shoulder at the old Dane. “He’ll come back to me, won’t he?”

“If the gods mean for him to.” Brynhild took the empty wicker basket from her as she offered it back. Her words provided little comfort.

Sigtryggr had left without a word. The last thing he had said to her was that she should leave. Perhaps he hoped she would not be there when he returned. Dejectedly, she turned to go back inside, suddenly feeling much too vulnerable in the little that she was wearing.

“Wait, before I forget,” Brynhild called after her.

She turned, and saw that the old woman held out Sigtryggr’s dagger to her, hilt first. It was a simple weapon, the steel of the blade was dull, yet its edge was wickedly sharp. The dark wooden handle was carved with runes that she did not know the meaning of. She looked quizzically from the weapon to Brynhild’s face, hesitating.

“Take it,” she urged, thrusting her hand out again for emphasis, “he told me to give to you. Keep you safe.”

Slowly, she reached forward and took the dagger from her outstretched hand with a quiet thanks, then turned and walked back inside of the home she shared with Sigtryggr. She turned the blade over in her hands, wondering why it had been left for her. She would get no sense from Brynhild beyond what she had already told her, and she dare not speak to any of the other women left behind – they treated her with mistrust and their answers would not be kind. 

Did Sigtryggr mean to return to her? Had he simply given her his blade as a means to arm herself when she went off by herself out into the world? Why had he left and not said anything?

The days passed by with an agonising slowness, and upon the fifth morning, when she had woken alone once more, she climbed from the bed and prayed – the first time she had done so since leaving Alfred’s study. The earthen floor was cool against her knees, a strange contrast to the warm furs upon which she placed her elbows as she clasped her hands before her and closed her eyes. She surprised herself when her thoughts immediately landed on Sigtryggr and not herself.

“I pray, Lord Jesus Christ, be Sigtryggr’s true armour. Cover him, therefore, O God, with your strong breastplate. Cover him all in all with his five senses, so that, from his soles to the top of the head, in no member, without within, may he be sick; that, from his body, life be not cast out

by plague, fever, weakness, suffering, until, with the gift of old age from God, departing from the flesh, be free from stain, and be able to fly to the heights, and, by the mercy of God, be borne in joy to the heavenly cool retreats of his kingdom.”

She kept her hands clasped in front of her, as she knelt before the bed with her eyes closed, and her thoughts drifted to her wayward lover. “Please come back to me,” she whispered. She would stay, she decided, if only to know for certain that he intended for her to leave, that their time together was at its end.

Upon the seventh night, she jerked awake, torn from sleep by the blare of a war horn that pierced through the silence with a loudness that made her heart feel as though it would burst forth from her chest. She snatched up Sigtryggr’s dagger from beneath her pillow – the place she had stashed it for safekeeping since Brynhild had given it to her, partially for her own protection, but mostly because having a little piece of her lover in the bed with her helped sleep to find her with greater ease. She moved quickly from the house, and peered out into the distance. She could see flames upon the wooden fortifications that encircled their settlement, and hear the shouts of men. The shouting grew louder, signifying that the people whose voices they belonged to were drawing closer. She looked down at the blade clutched so tightly in her fist that it made her knuckles white with the effort, and decided there and then that it was better to run. It was craven, she knew, but it was her best chance of survival. Her and a single dagger were no match for whatever army advanced upon them.

Having hurriedly tugged on a red linen shift over the top of her nightdress, and pulled on her boots, she rushed out of the door, dagger in hand. She thought of Brynhild – she couldn’t simply leave the old woman defenceless, but as she looked towards her dwelling, she could see that the portly old woman was already outside, her back towards her, and marching purposefully towards the source of the noise.

What was she doing? Did the old woman have a death wish?

She called out after her, wondering if she’d even hear her amidst the cacophony of noise. Apparently she did as, without turning around, she waved her off dismissively and carried on walking. She stared after her, jaw agape, torn between chasing after her and simply fleeing. Growling in frustration, she took off running in the opposite direction – she could offer no protection, simply another body for the advancing forces to cleave through before they inevitably killed Brynhild too. She made for the treeline, deciding that hiding in the thick of the woods was her best chance of survival.

The moment that she was running amidst the trees, the light of the settlement swallowed up by dense woodland, icy fingers of fear began to dance along her spine. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, visible whimpers escaped her with every laboured breath as she ran as though hunted. She was living her nightmare, and this time she couldn’t jolt into wakefulness to end it – this was real. It was a cloudy night, with no moonlight to illuminate her path, and so she stumbled in darkness, tripping and almost falling several times over unearthed roots. She managed to right herself each time and continue to run, until a particularly bad pitch in her step shook the dagger loose from her grasp, sending it clattering to the ground where she could no longer see it.

“No!” she cried, dropping to her knees and scrabbling at the dark earth with trembling fingers in search of it. It was all she had left of Sigtryggr. Her nails scraped uselessly in the dirt, never making contact with the blade she desperately sought. She hadn’t even realised she had been crying until she felt the droplets fall upon her hands.

She yelped in surprise as her fingers brushed against someone else’s, drawing her hand back as though scalded. She looked up, her eyes able to make out the figure of Sigtryggr crouched before her, the dagger she had dropped held loosely in his fingers. She had been so frightened, so absorbed in her own sense of panic that she had not even heard his approach.

“Looking for something?” he asked softly, offering the weapon back to her.

It was in that moment that she realised that this was nothing like her nightmares. She had nothing to fear from him, he would never harm her. All of her fright dissipated in the moment that she looked upon his face – so familiar even in darkness – and she lunged towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, causing the blade to fall back to the ground as Sigtryggr toppled backwards, wrapping his arms around her waist, as he laid heavily on his back.

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, his long hair tickled her nose as she sobbed helplessly against him. Her words made little sense, even to her. “I was lost, I was lost,” she babbled, hiccuping around her tears.

Sigtryggr hushed her with a soothing sound, stroking his large hand over the back of her head, before coaxing her to look at him. “You are lost only if I am searching for you, little warrior, and I have found you. You’re safe.”

She was overwhelmed by the urge to interrogate him, to demand to know where he had been for the last week, why he had left her, but at the feeling of him beneath her, the sound of his sweet words and how earnestly he looked into her eyes, all questions died upon her tongue. Suddenly aware of the feeling of him beneath her, how real he felt after so many nights without him, she was eager to feel more.

Reaching between them, she tugged open the lacings of his trousers. Knowing straight away what she was after, Sigtryggr crushed his lips to hers, forcefully pushing her skirts above her hips as he kissed her as though he meant to devour her. It was too much and not enough. She felt as though she could not breathe, but could not bear to be parted from him as her tongue licked messily against his. The scrape of the rough woodland floor against her knees stung, and yet not for a moment did she wish to climb off of him. With hastened desperation, she grasped  the base of his manhood, panting heavily as he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. His eyes screwed shut in pleasure as she dragged him through her slick, and the vision of his face in the darkness, contorted in ecstasy, was one she wanted to etch into her mind, to ensure she would remember it always. She didn’t care that time had not been taken to prepare her properly, and sank down onto his girth with a cry of both pain and gratification as he stretched her open. The impossible fullness was the most complete she’d felt in days.

One of his hands grasped her hip, guiding her movements as she began to undulate atop him, while the other sank into her hair, anchoring her against him. Catching sight of his Mjölnir pendant against his leather breastplate, she took the cord of it between her teeth, biting down as she impaled herself upon him over and over, urged on by his soft, breathy moans. She stilled only when he came inside of her with a jerk of his hips, holding her hip with such force that she knew he would leave bruises. She let his Mjölnir fall from her lips, as he groaned low against the hollow of her throat, then fell bonelessly backwards, staying inside of her, taking her with him as he went. She had not peaked, it did not matter, the feel of him, his essence, filling her, reminding her he was real and not something her frightened mind had conjured as a comfort was all she needed.

When she had finally caught her breath enough to speak, she lifted herself enough to look down at him. “We have to go, we cannot stay here, we are being attacked.”

“That was just us,” he said softly, pulling her back down to him and tenderly kissing the top of her head. “I told Brynhild not to open the gates until she heard the horn and saw the torches, so that she would know she was welcoming us home.”

“Why did you leave?” she asked, lifting her gaze to look at the sharp line of his jaw. She was trying desperately to remain the balmy glow of their coupling, but could not quite keep the biting edge of anger from her voice.

“Uhtred wishes to take back Bebbanburg,” he explained, stroking a hand lazily up and down her back as they remained entwined upon the woodland floor. “We rode to Dunholm to keep him and his men away from Eoferwic.”

“And..?” she asked with a curious raise of her eyebrow.

“We had to lend fighting men and women to his cause, but he will not trouble our settlement here.”

“I am surprised you do not wish to join his fighting,” she murmured, tracing the lines of his leather breastplate with her fingertips in the darkness.

“I have fought for all I want, and it is here,” he replied, “I owe a debt to Uhtred for what he did for us in Wintanceaster, and that debt is now paid. I have no need to fight for him.”

She hummed in acknowledgement, quietly relieved that he would not be placed in harm’s way for another man’s cause. “Why did you not tell me you were going?”

He hesitated a moment, his hold on her tightening subtly. “I…I was going to, and then I was unkind to you before I left. I feared you would leave, and I knew if I went without telling you why then at the very least your curiosity would keep you with me.”

Her heart ached at his words, how could he ever believe that that was all that bound her to him? She reached up, cupping his cheek, nuzzling her face against his. “I am not going anywhere.”

“You say you still feel like my prisoner…”

She sighed, shaking her head. “I just…I do not know what my place is here. I wish to keep my faith, Sigtryggr, but will you cast me out if I am to do that?”

He sat up, keeping her upper body cradled against his chest. Sweeping her hair away from her face, he gazed down at her, intensity burning in his eyes, visible even in the gloom. “It is no secret that I hold no love for your nailed god, the followers of his faith have taken much and more from me. But it was a Christian woman that I fell in love with back in Wintanceaster, and I did not bring her north to change any part of her. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes misty and voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

It was bright outside when she awoke – back in their bed, with no memory of how she got there – and Sigtryggr’s side was empty. For a moment, dread gnawed a pit in her stomach, worried she had dreamed his return and that he was still gone from her, until she looked bleary eyed around the room and saw him huddled in a corner beside the fireplace.

“Sigtryggr? How did we get back here? What are you doing?” she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

He turned, looking at her over his shoulder, offering her a cunning smile, before he rose and crossed the room, greeting her with a soft kiss against her forehead. “You fell asleep in my arms,” he told her, “and I carried you home. Come, I have something I want to show you.”

She accepted his outstretched hand, smiling at the warmth of his rough palm against her softer one, and rose from the bed. He led her to the corner where he had been kneeling a moment ago and gestured towards it. He had laid down a sheepskin upon the floor, with a small wooden altar erected against the wall, complete with a half burned tallow candle.

“Now we both have a place to speak to our gods,” he smiled, and opened his free hand, allowing a length of leather cord wrapped around his fingers to dangle against his palm. Threaded onto it was a handmade wooden cross, whittled so crudely that it almost made her want to laugh. She simply smiled though; despite its crookedness, it was all the more perfect for the fact that he had made it for her.

She pushed her hair out of the way, as he came to stand behind her, fastening it around her neck. Her fingers toyed with the cross as it settled upon her chest. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her back against his chest, the word that fell from his lips was warm, moist, spoken with desire against her neck. “Christian…”

It sent a shiver down her spine, and this time for an entirely different reason.