by Ruby Sirois
Our eyes meet.
And I start to stroke, taking my time.
“So sexy, draped only in jewels. My hoard. My treasure. If I had my choice, that’s all you’d ever wear. Need to taste you there, feel the hard gems and your soft pussy against my tongue.”
The string of beads is between index and middle finger as she circles her clit. Her eyes are wide, watching me watch her.
Emelie’s body trembles every time the gems stroke across her center. Sweat glitters on her skin, then trickles down her curves in tiny rivulets as the temperature in the sauna rises—though for me, the temperature is comfortable.
“You’re mine,” I growl. I grip harder, stroke faster. “Can’t wait to fill you up, fuck you hard, knot you for hours. You’ll be mine. Unable to escape.”
A breathy cry escapes her, fingers flying over her slit.
“That’s it,” I say. She’s approaching the edge. “Don’t stop. I need you to come for me.”
Emelie gasps, tenses, cries out—and melts into hard orgasm. A fresh flood of pre-cum lubricates my fingers, my hand never slowing, as I watch her explode. She writhes on the bench, her moans loud in the small wood-walled room, fingers tangled with the gemstone strand, chest heaving as wave after wave crashes over her.
The ridge of my mating fist throbs, straining to fill my palm. To fill her sweet pussy. To prove to her, over and over, that she belongs to me. That she’s mine forever.
My eyes never leave her.
At last Emelie takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“You’re right,” she says, her voice low and raspy. “That was really intense.”
“King Hreidmar does excellent work.”
She looks at me blankly.
“Who?”
“The King of Svartálfaheimr. You know. Svartálvarna—the dark elves—they are masters of metalsmithing.”
“Oh, right—I almost forgot. Well, tell him I have no complaints.”
She stretches, luxuriously, like a cat, and stands up. Emelie wobbles on her feet, holds out a hand to the wall to steady herself.
“I have to run out for a roll in the snow—it’s so hot in here.”
“It is a sauna.”
I smirk up at her. I haven’t even broken a sweat.
“Easy for you to say, Mr. Fire Dragon. Well, some people can’t stand it for longer than fifteen minutes without a snow break. I’ll be right back.”
She darts outside, naked, through the adjacent door to do the traditional Scandinavian back-and-forth from sauna heat to snow cold. The door slams shut and a series of shrieks reverberates a few moments later.
I laugh to myself, then imagine her coral-pink nipples peaking, tightening. And how I’ll warm them back up again.
I adjust my grip. Spread my thighs a bit.
The squeak of the door.
A purr of interest. A naughty half-smile of approval.
“And I thought the view was gorgeous outside.”
Her nipples are just as hard as I’d imagined. My mouth waters.
“You’re welcome to come closer for a better one.”
She trails snow-cold fingers over my chest, down the ridges of my stomach, down to the wetness at my cock. Brings them back up to her mouth.
“You taste delicious.”
“Hmm. That doesn’t seem fair.”
She leans down to kiss me, twining her arms around my neck and straddling one of my thighs with her own. My fingers find the beads around her waist, follow them to my destination.
Dip into her center to find her wet. Hot. Willing.
Emelie moans into the kiss as I rock up into her, finding her spot and beckoning to her. Hips rocking against me, her arms tighten around my body.
I withdraw my digit. Bring her honey to my lips, suck it off.
It’s sweet, like wildflower honey, with just a touch of salt and feminine musk.
“Will you let me taste you, häxan?”
“I’d rather do this instead.”
She adjusts, straddling me entirely and bringing her sweet pussy against my shaft. Only the strand of gemstones is between us, adding a delicious sensation that makes me groan with need. A wiggle of her hips, and my shaft is firmly pressed along the hot sweetness of her slit.
Sweet Freyja, she’s delicious.
And as Emelie starts to move, slick and wanton against me, the gems bump against my mating fist. The need, the pleasure, the desire—they’re all intensified by the tantric magic imbued in the beads.
I palm her ass, the soft globes of it filling my hands as I urge her on.
“So close—”
—to fucking you. Let me come inside.
My cock throbs, strains, aching to fill her.
—No. I’m in charge today. And I want to tease you.
She gasps as the beads slide across her clit. She finds a rhythm that pleases us both.
“I want to come like this,” she whispers against me.
Her creamy skin is slick with sweat, her breasts glide against my chest.
“You’re torturing me.”
“I’m torturing myself.”
My fingers dig into her flesh, urge her on. It would be so easy to tilt my hips just so, to let the head of my cock find her entrance, to plunder her, to fill her with my seed. So very easy.
But I hold back, with a monumental effort, letting her stay in charge. Letting her take what she wants. What she needs.
It doesn’t take her much more than a minute.
Emelie tenses in my arms. Squeaks. And falls apart for the second time. Her skin slides against mine, and I hold her with one arm firmly around her waist so she won’t tumble to the floor. Her teeth scrape the flesh of my shoulder, and Emelie bites down hard before easing off and relaxing.
She kisses me again, and I feel her smiling into my mouth.
“Don’t worry,” she murmurs, reaching down and giving my cock a squeeze. I groan. “I haven’t forgotten you.”
“I could never think that you have.”
She slides off my lap onto the floor on her knees. Emelie’s eyes are wide and intent on mine. Her hands stroke along my thighs, and she plants wet kisses on the tenderest parts. One hand comes from underneath to cup my sac as the other finds my shaft.
Her pink tongue darts out to lap at the clear droplets running freely from my cockhead. She licks her lips and smiles. My fingers sink into her hair, stroking her, encouraging her, but never forcing her.
“You taste like me,” Emelie says. “I like that.”
She runs her tongue along the ridge of my mating fist, licking off the honey that’s gathered there from her own pleasure as if it’s a hot July day and my cock is made of ice cream.
“So sweet.”
“Mm,” I agree.
She purses her lips, takes the head into her mouth. Her eyes locked on mine, she sucks lightly. The intensity in her eyes is enough to make my hips buck.
My balls tighten, and by the way she hums I know I’m making more pre-cum for her. Know she’s drinking it down. Emelie takes it a bit deeper into her mouth. It’s not an easy task, but she does her best and she does it eagerly.
Her fingers tighten around my shaft, teasing my ridge, massaging it in the way she knows drives me wild.
Her hips rock as she works, sucking me just a bit deeper into her mouth, her tongue swirling and working in magical ways.
“So beautiful, on your knees like this for me.”
—You taste so good. Her eyes sink half-closed with pleasure. I want you to come for me. I want to taste all of you. Drink you in.
—You want me to mark you? Claim you?
—I love how dirty you talk. Keep it up and I might have to take you up on that.
—Those sweet pink lips wrapped around my cock, I know you were born for it. Can’t wait to take you, spread those sweet, soft thighs and bury myself balls-deep in you.
She hums deep in her throat. Slides just a bit farther down my shaft.
“Fy fan, häxan. Keep doing that
and you’ll get your wish.”
—I wish.
The thought is tinged with longing, but I’m too far gone to desire to think much about it. My fingers rake through her hair.
Emelie increases the suction. Finds some secret spot I didn’t even know I had, concentrates on it.
Her hand is everywhere on my shaft, pumping, urging me on, her fingers slick along its length.
My body thrums with electricity. I groan, gasp, and then—my orgasm crashes over me like thunder. My balls tighten, my cock throbs, and my body explodes.
But my beautiful witch doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate, only smiling up at me with her eyes as she swallows my love for her again and again.
And when I’ve given her all I can, I pull her back up into my arms and kiss her deeply, tasting myself on her tongue.
What I wouldn’t do for her…
I don’t think such a thing exists.
5: Emelie
After a long day of doing not much more than watching TV in our room and cuddling, we shake off our laziness and start getting dressed for a fancy dinner date in the Ice Hotel’s fine-dining restaurant. It’s warm—not made of ice like the bar was. We’ve ordered the Fire and Ice Menu ahead of time, so all of our food will be served either on hot stones or on ice.
Many guests take the opportunity to get dressed up. And I’ve heard a lot of couples get engaged there, too. Butterflies do a tango in my stomach at the thought.
“No.”
I stop dead, a pair of black silk panties halfway up my thighs. The butterflies have turned to lead.
Did he hear me?
“What?”
“Not those. Wear the gems.” A pause. “Only the gems.”
A long pause.
“I have to wear a dress,” I whisper. My cheeks flare hot.
“Yes, but only the gems underneath. Nothing else.”
The command in his tone is unmistakeable. My knees go weak, trying to imagine what he’s got planned for me.
I swallow hard. Nod. And pull my panties back down.
The full circle skirt of my beautiful boat-necked 1950’s-styled black cocktail dress swishes sensuously around my calves as we walk the candle-lit path to the restaurant.
Valerie, the front-of-house manager at So Mote It Bee, told us some months back she’s also an indie fashion designer on the side—and only for plus sizes. I’d almost cried, I was so excited, and insisted on being first in line to order half a dozen custom dresses and lingerie.
I haven’t had many chances to wear my Valerie James dresses, but I brought this one especially for this dinner in particular. It’s my most beautiful one, with hand embroidery and beading on the bodice. In my heart of hearts, I’m convinced it will be my magical charm to get my secret Christmas wish: a romantic proposal and the winter wedding to go with it, exactly a year from now.
I had been planning on wearing the matching black silk lingerie set she’d made, because it was specially designed as the foundation garments for this dress—but Ragnarr’s allowed me to wear the longline bra only because the dress doesn’t fit properly without it.
Other than that, the gemstone thong is all that’s keeping me from being completely bare under my skirt.
The feeling is decadent. Naughty. And very exciting.
I’m already wet, and I’m exquisitely aware of the fact with every step.
My low-slung black mules click confidently against the marble foyer floor as we stride in, but the noise is quickly dulled when we step onto the thick red carpet that lines it on the way to the formal dining room. My second gift to Ragnarr is in the oversized patent-leather vintage purse dangling from my free arm. My heart beats faster at the thought.
The walls are slung with fresh holly wreaths and pine garlands, and the foyer’s centerpiece is an enormous fully decked tree that must be at least nine meters tall. A string quartet dressed in formal wear softly plays classical Christmas music to the left of the tree.
In the midst of this luxurious setting, I feel like a queen on Ragnarr’s arm. I raise my chin, imagining that by sheer force of will I feel the weight of a diamond-and-ruby tiara nestled in my hair.
Ragnarr, never one to dress badly, is even more glorious than I’ve ever seen him to date. He’s wearing a formal tux, complete with polished Italian leather shoes and red satin cummerbund. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so handsome.
Every time I glance at him my heart skips a beat, and I can’t believe we’re bonded. I want to pinch myself to make sure it’s not been just one long, elaborate dream.
He looks down at me as if he hears. Smiles.
In a voice just loud enough for the two of us to hear, he says, “You’re stunning, häxan. You look like a goddess of love. I’d fall to my knees to worship you, but I wouldn’t want to make Freyja angry and take horrible revenge on us both.”
My heart melts. I can’t speak. All I can do is kiss him with all the love and need in my heart.
When I pull back, I see the hint of a glitter in his eyes. And feel an answering prickle in my own.
I blink rapidly, fighting back tears. I don’t want to ruin the makeup I so carefully applied for forty-five minutes.
And as Ragnarr gives his name to the hostess, I make a decision.
This, I decide, is exactly what I want him to wear at our wedding. If I close my eyes, I can see him, standing there, waiting for me on the other end of the aisle, eyes shining with love…
He glances at me as if he’s heard me—but I know I haven’t thought it loudly enough. Not in that special bonded way.
Still… does he suspect? Has he guessed?
I don’t know if I want him to or not. I don’t know why, but I’m desperately afraid that if I make it too obvious, he’ll laugh or turn me down, or tell me not to be silly.
And I think that would break me.
After one failed marriage, the thought of this relationship not even getting to that point would tear me apart. I always thought I was too sensible to ever want to get married again. And when he first hoarded me, I didn’t think twice about it. But now, I can’t stop thinking about it. I want to be his, and he mine, in every possible way—no matter how silly he might think it is.
I haven’t brought it up—not in as many words. I’m too scared.
Maybe he knows. Maybe he’s guessed.
I hope not.
My cheeks burn at the thought.
I hardly register the hostess’s small talk all the way to our table. We slip into the booth, and instead of sitting across from me Ragnarr slides in next to me like how we usually do. The sandalwood musk of him, as familiar as my own heartbeat by now, surrounds me like the mists of dream. I close my eyes, absorb it through every pore.
I inhale him.
But I feel crazy, swinging like this from anxiety to heated desire and back again.
Flash back to yesterday in the sauna—how confident I was, as if possessed by Freyja herself. No doubts, no fears—only sensual confidence. I knew—totally, completely knew—that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me.
With me.
To me.
And that if I could only gather the courage to ask him to ask me, then he would. He would marry me. Of course he would. And why wouldn’t he?
But that old ghost of Peter is still there—far back, certainly, but not totally gone—and it’s enough to give me pause. Tears prick my eyelids.
And it’s so, so hard to hear Freyja’s voice over Peter’s.
“Fan!”
“What is it?”
Ragnarr gives me a sharp look of concern as he slides in next to me.
I’ve only just remembered the gift in my purse, but the waitress approaches the booth before I can answer.
“Good evening,” she says. “I see you’ve ordered the three-course Fire and Ice Menu. It does change daily according to what ingredients the chef has sourced fresh from our local suppliers. But before I go over the specifics of today’s menu, would you like to order drinks?”<
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“Just two rocks glasses, please, with ice on the side,” I say before Ragnarr can give an order. He gives me a quizzical look.
“Oh, and a corkscrew, and a carafe of water. But maybe we’ll get a bottle of wine, depending on what you’d suggest to pair with dinner.”
“Very well. And I have been told that there is to be no seafood at this table, is that correct?”
“Yes, definitely not, thanks.”
“Right. So, for your starter, we have smoked reindeer bone marrow served with freshly baked sourdough toast points and a salad of microgreens grown in our greenhouse, served on a hot stone—I had some earlier, and it’s excellent, one of my favorite dishes we serve. Your main is grilled loin of wild elk, served with creamed sautéed wild mushrooms and a puree of roasted seasonal root vegetables, also served on stone. Is medium rare all right?” We nod, and she continues. “And for dessert, we have a hjortron sorbet with crispy oat biscuits and softly hand-whipped cream, served on ice.”
“Sounds amazing, thank you.”
As the waitress goes to fetch the glasses, I reach into my purse and pull out Ragnarr’s gift.
“Maybe it’s a little predictable,” I say, “but, again, this is for the dragon who has everything. I hope you don’t mind.”
He quirks a smile at me.
“Don’t be silly, häxan. I’d cherish anything you gave me.”
The package is very mysteriously bottle-shaped, wrapped in silver paper and tied at the top with blue curling ribbon.
I return the smile.
“I know it’s hard to guess, but still, try not to be disappointed by the contents.”
Ragnarr gives me an amused shake of his head and opens it up. A bright smile lights up his face. And again, I am struck by his beauty—it never fails to take my breath away. My heart melts with love for him.
“Not Your Daddy’s Scotch,” he reads. “Single-malt braggot made with local late-summer honey and lapsang souchong tea, aged on heavy toast French oak for six months.”
Ragnarr raises an eyebrow at me.
“Am I sensing a theme?”
“Smoke?”