Page 51 of Viking

And smirks.

Then, without a word, he peels off his shirt and tosses it to the floor like it’s nothing.

I swallow.

Because it suddenly feels very, very hot in this kitchen.

A single EKG line that he didn’t have in Vegas is drawn over his heart, sharp and black against his skin. The dark lines of his other tattoos climb the ridges of his arm and cut across muscle onto his large chest. My gaze drags lower, to the deep ridges of his abdomen, to the V of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts. He’s somehow bigger than when we met, more muscle packed on with age and experience.

“Based on the look on your face,” he says, voice low and smug, “I’d say you like what you see.”

Desire punches through me.

He steps closer, closing the distance between us in one fluid move. Before I can breathe, he lifts me onto the island, stepping between my legs like it’s the only place he’s meant to be. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing as wrecked as my own.

“What are you waiting for?” I whisper, my voice ragged with need.

A slow smile curls across his lips and then he’s kissing me. Hard.

I gasp against his mouth and hook my legs around his waist, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us. His kiss deepens, all tongue and fire. The chaos around us vanishes, flour-covered floor, uncooked pasta, time itself. Gone.

His lips trail down my jaw, then along the curve of my neck. Each kiss ignites something deep and molten in my core. When his hands slide under the hem of my T-shirt, I arch into his touch, aching for more. He pulls the shirt off slowly, careful not to catch my hair in the braid it’s falling out of anyway.

His gaze drops, taking me in, and something carnal flashes in his eyes.

I roll my hips over the hard length of him pressing between my legs, and a low, guttural sound escapes his throat.

I grab his hand, guiding it up my stomach, stopping just beneath the lace edge of my bra.

He doesn’t need more prompting.

“You’re perfect, Lila.” His voice is husky, reverent. Like I’m something holy.

And then his mouth is on mine again, his hand teasing the peaked nipple beneath the lace of my bra until I’m writhing beneath him, desperate and breathless.

“More. Please,” I whisper, not above begging.

He grinds against me with purpose, his hands firm on my waist. I bite his lip, chasing the friction, needing it like air.

When his hand trails down between my hips, teasing the waistband of my leggings, I whimper.

“Logan,” I whimper.

I press his palm against the heat between my thighs, gasping when his fingers flex instinctively. He kisses a path down my throat, his tongue warm and slow and possessive.

He gets my leggings off like he’s done it a hundred times before, smooth, sure, no hesitation. My thong is still in place, but barely.

He brushes his knuckles along the edge of the lace and goose bumps bloom across my skin as his mouth finds mine again. His hands grip my hips, dragging me closer until there’s nothing between us but heat.

I gasp. He swears softly and kisses me harder

And then—

His phone rings. Sharp. Jarring.

We both freeze.

“Shit.” Logan startles, his forehead dropping to mine. “I’m sorry. It could be work.”