Page 79 of Viking

My hands move back up, stroking over taut thighs and firm hips. When our eyes meet, I swear the world falls away. His gaze is dark, ravenous, and locked on me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to break but desperate to devour. That look sends a shiver down my spine.

I press my palms to his chest and push him back onto the bed, taking control—not just because I want to, but because I need to remind him he’s here. With me. Not trapped in the past.

A slow, knowing smirk curves his mouth.

He opens it, probably about to say something cocky.

I don’t let him.

I climb over him, straddling his hips, my skin flush against his. The heat between us is molten, the air so thick it practically crackles. My pulse pounds in my ears. I lean down, brushing a kiss over the tattoo that stretches across the sculpted muscle of his shoulder—an F-15 in perfect detail, inked in shades of shadow and smoke.

“I’ve thought about this since Vegas,” I whisper.

Logan’s eyes flicker, the pain in them momentarily replaced by something teasing. “My tattoos?”

“Tracing them.” My voice is a breath against his skin as my fingers follow the lines of the jet, wings wrapped around his bicep, its tail slicing down his forearm. A missile cuts across his arm in a stream of smoke that intercepts a shattered sword. And tucked within the swirling linework, so small it’s almost invisible, are the words Semper Donatus.

The weight of it sinks into me before he even speaks.

My hand shifts to his chest, fingers brushing the EKG line etched over his heart. His pulse hammers beneath it, wild and unsteady.

“Tell me about them,” I murmur, rocking my hips against him slowly, grounding him to this moment, to me.

He stiffens, just for a second. Then he points to the Latin script. “Semper Donatus,” he says, voice hoarse. “It means always given.” He swallows hard. “The sword’s broken because of what’s left behind. The part of me that’s still standing after…”

A breath. A name, barely audible.

“Reaper.”

The ache in my chest tightens. His pain is a living thing, clinging to him. “I can’t let go,” he whispers. “So I carry him with me. In pieces.”

His mind is slipping. I see it in his eyes—the way they drift, the way the air is charged with memory.

But I don’t let him go.

I press a kiss to his throat, his jaw, his lips, soft at first, then deeper, more demanding. “Come back to me.”

I guide his hand to my breast, needing him to feel me, to be here. His fingers pinch and tease my nipple, and my breath hitches, pleasure coiling low again.

Then I slide down between his legs, gathering my hair over one shoulder.

He hesitates, like he’s about to stop me, but he doesn’t.

The moment my tongue touches him, he gasps, his control faltering. I only get a few strokes in before he growls, low and guttural, and pulls me back up, dragging me over his body with urgency.

“I need you,” he rasps against my mouth.

In that moment, those three words are everything. More powerful than a confession. More vulnerable than love.

I kiss him fiercely, then whisper against his lips, “I’m yours.”

He stills. The words settle into him like a vow.

I reach for the drawer, pull out a condom, and roll it on with maddening slowness. He groans through gritted teeth, his hands gripping the sheets like if he touches me, he’ll lose it. I straddle him again, hovering just above, teasing, testing how much longer he can hold out.

“You’re right,” he hisses. “You’re mine.”

Time fractures.