Couldn't really decide on a specific episode so I went for the most important scene that set everything in motion. When Ragnar and Athelstan locked eyes first time.
We are happy to announce the prompt list to our last Winter Solstice. It is scheduled for December 17th to December 23rd. As always, you are free to post after the event as well, it's usually a month until we post the round up, which means you don't have to rush.
Our Rules:
Please create something new that hasn't been posted before.
Tag us @vikingsevents and use the hashtag #snowyvikings
Make it visible within your post which prompt you used, so we'll know how to tag your creation. i.e.:"Entry for day 3, Moonlight" above a readmore if you use one, or below an artpiece.
A little (fast-written and not thoroughly proofread) something for the Summer Solstice Event hosted by @vikingsevents. I combined day 4 (Sweet, Salty, Metallic) and day 5 (Moan, Whimper, Scream) and created a Vampire AU (doesn't every writer need one at some point xd and JRMs role as Dracula gave me the perfect pic). I'm a little late, but I'm here :)
Pairing: Heahmund & Ivar
Words: ~4000 [AO3]
Warnings: Mention of Blood (what a surprise), M/M Blowjob, Mild Smut
If his heart would still be beating in his chest, he was sure it would have stopped the moment he finally put his lips on the soft pillows he had painfully longed for weeks. Or rather, for centuries. It felt like a gentle death, and in a way, he actually died the second their lips touched, uniting in a kiss.
In an instant, he felt as if he had been reborn. His old self ceased to exist. The suffering self, driven by pain. All the pain of the past centuries, all the suffering that had accumulated during that time, slipped away from him, peeled off like a skin that no longer belonged to him, making way for the hope of a future in which love and passion would once again become his driving forces.
Caught in the maelstrom of his sensations, he gave himself completely to the feeling that the lips, which at first only hesitantly pressed against his, triggered in him. He would have loved to take possession of them directly, to feast on them like a wild animal that had had to wait too long for new prey. He was hungry, wanted more, but he held back. He mustered all his willpower to do so. Even though it was difficult for him, he instinctively knew that he had to give his counterpart the time to slowly get used to the feeling he was most likely experiencing. It was probably unfamiliar to him and overwhelming at the same time. Not the kiss alone, but the wave of emotions it unleashed. He was sure that he wasn't the only one feeling this way, but that the boy in front of him was also stirred up inside. He felt the uncertainty and probably also the disbelief about what was happening in his tentative approaches, heard it in his fastened heartbeat and shaky breaths.
Sweet - was the prevailing thought that burst upon him, unannounced like a storm on the high seas, as soon as their lips parted a crack, clearing the way into a world full of new sensations. He felt as if there was a slight hint of caramel, or perhaps honey, on these soft pillows, which further enraptured him. He wanted to devour every last trace of this delicious taste, chased after it like an addict after his favorite drug.
A smile formed on his lips, and had he not disturbed the kiss with it, he would have shaken his head in disbelief at his own surprise at the beguiling taste. Of course, his sweet prince still tasted like the sweetest temptation he had ever tasted. He hadn't gotten that nickname for nothing. Back then, a very long time ago.
He caught himself thinking that he could do without blood for the rest of his life if only he could sip on those very lips every waking minute. They were the elixir he needed more to live, the loss of which had made him an empty shell.
A stupid thought, perhaps, but he was far from being wise. Not when he was close to the one person he love the most and which he had believed he had lost forever.
The fact that he was here, unarmed, and without even having thoroughly checked his surroundings beforehand, was already proof enough that he might not be in his right mind.
The boy, who so willingly allowed himself to fall into his arms, was Ivar - the youngest scion of the Lothbrok family, whose roots as famous hunters went back a long way. Hunters who had tried for several generations to banish him and his kind from this earth, yet they had never been successful. At least in his case. Many of his kind had fallen victim to them, which had only magnified his anger and hatred toward those people, and perhaps it was now up to him to fall into the easiest of all traps that would cost him his survival.
He was walking on dangerous ground, but this kiss alone was already worth the risk. With not a fiber of his being could he imagine that the Lothbroks knew what old soul was slumbering in this boy when not even Ivar himself seemed to comprehend why he too was drawn to him as well. Ivar could have killed him already. He had several opportunities to do so, since he was too careless when near him, but Ivar hadn't done it, instead, the boy surrendered to the kiss as well, letting himself be guided by something hidden deep inside him.
Gently he let the tip of his tongue trace this sweetness and silently begged for further entry into this paradise-like cave.
He had fought many battles in his life already, had brought down many enemies who were begging for their lives on the brink of death. During those times, he also faced many weapons that were specially created to cause him pain and the most suffering before his ending. But never before had he felt anything like fear or a sense of weakness. Never had he felt defeated or unable to fight against something life-threatening.
However, the soft moan that escaped Ivar's lips when he opened his mouth a little wider, which led him to take possession of it immediately, made him feel a sense of weakness for the first time. He felt weak to the bone, on the verge of crying because he couldn’t believe his luck.
Ivar could stab him right in his cold heart, he wouldn't mind right now, but apparently, his luck hadn't run out yet. No wooden peg dug deep into his chest, but a shy tongue invaded him now, began to circle his, and nestled against it. Another moan sounded. This time from his mouth, and he could feel how it was working its magic on Ivar as well. He could hear his heartbeat increasing, could feel the tremors dancing across his skin.
His sweet prince pressed himself closer against him, wrapping his arms around his waist. Seeking hold, he was more than willing to give it to him.
Of the many battles he had already fought, none was as difficult as this one he was now fighting with himself internally.
Triggered by the sweetness that had overpoweringly anchored itself in his senses, he was overcome by the urge to want to possess Ivar, with every last molecule that made up his existence. He wanted to have him all for himself in fear of losing him again.
It was easy to say that continuing life without him would be unthinkable for him. Exaggerated poetics for most, but he knew that these were not just empty words. He had already had to live through it, knew how bleak his existence had been for the last centuries.
He had already lost him once. About 300 years before. Hunters had ripped him away from him in a brutal way. They had used Ivar as bait to lure him out of hiding, driven by the painful screams of his beloved. Pain caused by consecrated silver arrows that had been drilled into his legs in various places.
At that time, he had not been able to free him and thus had not been able to save him. In the end, he had only been able to watch in horror from a distance as they had beheaded his most loved one. Thus destroying a love that had lasted over 200 years. His existence thereafter was marked by hatred. His drive was revenge against all those who had been involved in this cruel event. Including their descendants. No one should be allowed to walk the earth who carried the blood of those people who had taken the dearest from him.
The dark time seemed to be over now. Although darkness was still his accomplice, needed for protection, it no longer ate through his insides.
Ivar was back. Even if so far only as a shell, he was sure that also his consciousness, his soul would soon push back to the surface. He was as sure of this as he had been at their first brief eye contact that this young man was his Ivar.
- His eyes, those azure depths, had been the first thing that had given him away. Back then, a few weeks ago, when they had run into each other in the twilight. A brief crossing of their eyes had been enough and he had lost himself in those familiar eyes. Had lost all sense of time, overwhelmed by all the memories that had burst upon him at that moment. They both had stopped for a moment as if they had been forced to stand still by some supernatural force and just looked at each other in silence.
That brief moment had been enough to trigger a realization in him, and when his senses had returned and with them, Ivar's heartbeat had reached him, he had been absolutely certain. Many people were nothing special. They were lost in the steady rhythm of the faceless mass, but there was something special about his sweet prince. A striking unevenness that sounded to his ears like the most beautiful classical song, whose tonal perfection no one had yet put on paper. He would recognize his heartbeat among millions and millions, had never heard a comparable one since he was robbed of his beloved.
Only briefly had he been able to catch a glimpse of Ivar's legs, trapped in metal braces, before the young man had awakened from his stupor and continued on his way, turning around again a short time later and eyeing him once more with interest.
The sight of the maltreated legs had triggered sheer rage in him and only with difficulty had he been able to suppress the scream that had been brewing inside him. Just like the memories that rose along with it, at the same time. -
Flatly, he pressed his tongue against the warm skin on Ivar's neck, licking over it with relish. The throbbing of his heartbeat made itself felt as a gentle vibration on his tongue. He heard the rush of blood flowing through the human shell and the thought of wanting to taste it overwhelmed him. Greed took over. When already on the outside such a foretaste of the sweetest nectar was waiting for him, how delicious would Ivar's blood be then?
His grip around Ivar's waist tightened, his nails deformed into claws almost leaving small holes in the fabric. His sharp teeth grew, scratched over the sensitive skin while he alternated between licking it and covering it with kisses. He was seconds away from plunging his teeth into the thick vein, ready to satisfy his curiosity and hunger, but the tip of a sharp object pressing into his side, right below his rotten heart, made him pause.
Carefully, he licked over the tempting spot once more before lifting his head and looking Ivar in the eye.
Already as he moved away, the pressure at his side also eased, even though the sharp end still lingered menacingly close to his body. Nevertheless, he was not afraid. He could read in Ivar's eyes that he had no intention of driving the peg deeper. It was merely a warning. The marking of a border that should not be crossed.
Devoutly, as if it weren't only Ivar's legs that seemed fragile, he enclosed his face with both hands and examined it for a moment, putting all the love he had for him into his gaze.
"I promise that I won't harm you. More than that, I promise that no one will ever hurt you again. No one will ever lay a hand on you again and cause you pain. From now on, I will protect you. No matter what it costs."
He saw Ivar frown as he let the words sink in. They didn't seem to make any sense to him. How could they, if he didn't remember?
"I don't need protection. I can stand up for myself."
The same pride as before gleamed in Ivar's eyes. The same confidence that almost bordered on arrogance, which had fascinated him even way back then. He smiled at him and nodded in understanding.
"I know. And yet I will protect you. I am your loyal servant and anyone who harms even a hair on your head will die. Like all the others before. That is my promise to you." He kept his voice soft, almost a whisper, even when no one was around to overhear.
"No one has ever hurt me."
"Your legs tell a different story."
He watched Ivar as he looked down at himself for a moment as if he had to see once again what had been done to him. Something so terrible that even centuries later it was still manifest in his body.
"I was born this way. It's nobody's fault, it's just the genes." Ivar sounded puzzled. Partly unsure maybe if this was actually the reason.
He stroked over the soft skin on Ivar's cheek, felt the first stronger hairs forming on his jawline under his fingertips. He left it at that. It was obvious that Ivar didn't remember the details and that he was struggling with himself inside. He could see it in his inquiring gaze, could almost hear the questions that Ivar was surely asking himself inwardly, undecided about what he was actually doing here. But his interest seemed to be stronger, his desire for closeness far from satisfied.
By initiating the following kiss, Ivar also made a statement that he was not here to talk. While he had been shy and cautious before, he now took what he thirsted for more confidently. Willingly, he opened his mouth, welcoming the foreign tongue into his realm.
He could feel the warmth of Ivar's breath mingling with his own cold one, creating an electrifying current that surged through their bodies. The touch of his lips was soft, yet firm, their movements synchronized in a passionate dance. Their tongues and lips met with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Breathy moans and sighs that echoed in the air were like a symphony, created by their desire and need, a testimony to the intensity of their connection.
Once again the heartbeat of his once-lost love accelerated, his skin became warmer, exuding a pleasant fragrance that crept into his nose, taking hold of his whole being. Everything around him was once again forgotten, declared unimportant. His world was Ivar and Ivar alone and he took this place as self-confident as ever.
His hands roamed over Ivar's back, possessively, yet tenderly tracing patterns along his spine, further igniting the fire that burned within them. Ivar's fingers clawed into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss even more. They only separated to get rid of each other's shirts. In a hurry, they tore them off their bodies and threw them carelessly on the floor, where also the wooden peg had found its resting place in the meantime.
The air crackled around them and fire blazed in their eyes as they looked at each other breathlessly for a moment. Their bodies yearned for more, their hands could not leave each other, slid exploratively over naked skin. Once again their lips found each other, sealing their testament of passion anew.
He started to open Ivar's pants, slid his hands in the sides, wandered to his butt, and dug his fingers into the plump cheeks, kneading them while he pressed Ivar closer, letting their hips gyrate against each other. Another moan was breathed into his mouth, unleashing another storm of desire to unfold. Without effort, he lifted Ivar up and helped him wrap his legs around his waist before walking to the bed on the other side of the room, continuing to kiss as if Ivar didn't need oxygen either.
When he reached the bed, he bent down and let Ivar slide gently onto the mattress. He propped himself up with his hands, and bedded himself on top of him, gyrating his hips again. Their moans mingled and Ivar leaned his head back to catch his breath, thus invitingly presenting his seductive neck to him. Without hesitation, he let his lips slide back there, kissing his way over the throbbing vein. He didn't linger there long, feeling how Ivar was tensing up again. Purposefully, he slid to his collarbone, licking his way down to one erect bud, nibbling on it, causing Ivar to voice his delight.
The scent that emanated from Ivar wrapped him in an invisible cloak. It had changed in the last few minutes, had intensified, and he felt like he was lying on the softest pillows, carried by the warmth that poured out of him.
The hands that ran through his hair, clawing almost painfully tightly into it, unmistakably pushed him deeper. He let Ivar guide him, but still took the time to explore his upper body first with tongue and lips, spoiling kisses here and there.
A tremor ran through Ivar's body and a sound of relief escaped his mouth as he opened his pants further and hastily pulled them down to his knees along with his underwear, freeing that part of his body that craved attention the most.
Desirously he looked at the wet shimmering tip, which stretched towards him. The witness of Ivar's lust was emblazoned on it, arousing in him the need to taste it. Turning his head sideways, he licked the hot flesh with the flat of his tongue, saving the best for last, when he finally absorbed the drop with the tip of his tongue, letting the salty taste melt on his tongue.
Ivar whimpered as his lips closed around the tip, begging for more with the next gasping exhale. He was only too happy to comply with this request, given that his own hunger for more was far from being satisfied. Nibbling, he let his lips glide over the head, savoring each new drop of pleasure as it rose to the surface. He relished the deep sighs that were coming from Ivar's mouth, bathed in the knowledge that it was he who was giving him this pleasure, these moments of absolute bliss.
Once again he licked over the entire length, noticing the trembling that flowed through Ivar's fragile legs, before he opened his mouth and placed it around the tip, this time taking it deep inside him. Immediately the grip on his hair tightened, urging his head deeper.
Sucking blood was a necessity for him to stay alive.
Sucking Ivar's cock was like a revelation that made him feel alive again.
The pulsing that spread through his mouth made him feel like he had a heartbeat of his own. He took Ivar deeper inside him, letting the sensation penetrate further down his throat. The sounds emanating from Ivar became more and more indignant, his hips reared up, his movements became desperate. He tried to follow the rhythm, willingly letting himself be used for Ivar's own pleasure, not letting the roughness deter him. He let it happen, enjoying the satisfaction he could give Ivar with a little sucking and bobbing his head up and down. He hadn't felt this fulfilled in a long time.
And something else distracted him, making his thoughts wander off.
The buzz of Ivar's blood sounded loudly in his ears. Two thick veins on his lower abdomen sought his attention. They stood out clearly. He saw them pulsing, and he could almost see through the skin how the surely delicious blood was pumped into Ivar's lower body at a hurried pace. His hunger for it grew with every second. A growl came deep from his throat as the urge finally overcame him, bouncing as a vibration against Ivar's cock, eliciting an equally guttural moan from his sweet prince.
He freed himself from Ivar's hard grip, sucked the tip of the shaft again intensely, and then let the cock slide out of his mouth completely. His tongue slid one last time over the length, made its way to the thigh on which he breathed fleeting kisses. Kissing and licking, he approached the lower belly, took Ivar's cock in his hand in the meantime, and continued pumping it in the same rhythm as he had previously spoiled it with his mouth. He increased the pressure around the head, sliding his thumb over the wet tip, rubbing the juice of their lust into both their skins.
Licking his lips, he came closer to one of the pulsating veins, firstly, just pressing his tongue against its pulse, letting it pass over him. He felt how the greed turned his features animalistic and how his teeth extended. It took all his strength, but he raised his head briefly to take a look at Ivar. A smile flitted across his features as he once more realized how gorgeous he was. His beloved had his eyes closed, his features tense with pleasure, his lips slightly open, breathing heavily. His fingers clutched at the sheet to his left and right, and his hips continued to thrust toward his hand, demanding.
He is mine was the prevailing thought as he lowered his head again. Forgotten was the previously made promise.
A scream fought its way through Ivar's lips, triggered by the shock when he couldn't hold on any longer, sinking his teeth into the soft skin of Ivar's lower abdomen. The metallic taste of his blood immediately filled his mouth, increasingly befogging his senses. Greedily he sucked the juice of life into himself, was overwhelmed by its delicious taste which he now well remembered.
Ivar reared up briefly, trying to push him away, but his resistance was only half-hearted, disarmed by his hand still pumping Ivar's arousal in a steady rhythm. He continued to drink, feeling the twitching in his hand grow stronger until he heard Ivar moan loudly. The feeling of warm drops landing on his cheek caught his attention and out of the corner of his eye he saw how Ivar slumped limply back onto the mattress, trying to catch his breath.
Weak hands tried to push him away once again, but he hadn't had enough, kept sucking the delicious blood into his mouth, intoxicated.
"Heahmund, please don't."
The soft, almost brittle voice of Ivar reached his ears and with a jolt he came to, jerked his head up and pressed his palm on the small wounds to stop the bleeding, but also to avoid being overrun by lust and hunger again.
He hadn't heard that name for a long time, had never used it again after his biggest defeat so far. The memory that came with it was too painful.
They looked at each other. Silently, yet he read so much in Ivar's eyes. Realization shimmered in them, accompanied by tears that tried to flood out. With the back of his hand, he first wiped his mouth, removing the bloody residue from his lips, before leaning down to Ivar, stopping just before his lips. With his thumb, he collected a tear that had made its way out of the corner of Ivar's eye as a glittering pearl.
"My sweet prince," he whispered before sealing their lips again, encouraged by the hand that had settled on his neck, pressing him closer.
The taste of his own blood didn't seem to deter Ivar. Much more it spurred him on, made him become more impetuous again. It was going to be a long night. Of that he was sure. A night in which he would hear his old name even more often, breathed and moaned and accompanied by sweet sounds.
It was time for a new identity anyway and Heahmund knew exactly which one he wanted to revive.
My entry for day three of @vikingsevents Valentine's week prompts. Day three is first date.
Pairing: Rollo x Gisla
Warnings: None, unless you count fluff.
Word count: ~500
Rollo paces the length of the dining hall nervously. He has faced countless warriors fearlessly on the battlefield and yet this, this moment strikes genuine fear into his heart. What if Gisla does not like it? What if she laughs and all of this has been for naught?
Fresh cut wildflowers adorn the table, their aroma made headier by the candles that flicker beside them. He has ordered the finest of wine to be pulled from the cellars. His cup sits half empty already, a much needed elixir to soothe his nerves.
He knows that Gisla did not get a say in their marriage, she was treated as a mere prize for his cooperation with Francia. Such a large part of their union has been strained under the weight of her unhappiness, she had despised him. He has worked hard to earn her affections, changed every part of himself, even given up his sacred arm ring.
Their first kiss was a more satisfying victory than any battle he’d ever won. Rollo’s history with the fairer sex was not an admirable one. His heart twists painfully when he thinks back on Siggy. She had died not knowing how he truly felt for her, because had never shown her, let alone told her. He would not make the same mistake with Gisla. Their coupling may not have had a happy beginning, but he would make sure she never doubted his feelings for her.
As she sweeps into the room, long dark hair flowing in soft waves past her shoulders, his breath is taken away; just the same as it was the day they first locked eyes over the ramparts during the attack on Paris. However, this time when Gisla looks at him her gaze does not burn with contempt, there is something softer in her expression. If Rollo did not know any better he would mistake it for love.
She smiles as she takes in the scene before her, gratefully accepting the wine cup that Rollo offers to her. “What is all this?” She asks softly.
Rollo has never been one to be bashful and yet he finds himself nervous. Gods, Rollo, you’ve fucked her already. Why is this so difficult?!
He averts his gaze, clearing his throat, before looking back to her. “Before you, I was with a woman.” He says, green eyes looking earnestly into her brown ones. “I did not treat her well. And I know you did not choose to marry me, but I wanted, no, needed to let you know that I…Gisla, I love you.”
The words tumble out inelegantly. This is the most vulnerable Rollo has ever allowed himself to be with anyone and there is a part of him that hates how he looks to her like a lost dog seeking the approval of its master. He holds his breath, awaiting her response. The silence feels like it stretches for an eternity, surely his heart will hammer its way out of his chest before she responds.
Words are not needed though; as she reaches up and presses her lips softly to his, he knows all he needs to know and it calms the tempest in his chest. She loves him too.
@vikingsevents Day 4 Prompt: Candlelight
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Emma x Canute
A/N: Yep, its more domestic fluff. None of you should be surprised. Thank you so much to the wonderful humans over at vikingsevents for hosting another exciting fandom event for us all to enjoy and I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season!
Read on AO3 if you prefer
She should be ashamed of herself.
A grown woman, a mother, the Queen of England for god’s sake, and she was sneaking around in the dark in search of food because she had acted like an adolescent and flagrantly disregarded the rules of propriety by overindulging in the wine at a Christmastide celebration.
Never, in all her years under the roof of London, had she been in such a predicament.
Her candle, the only source of light, flickered in the cold English night and the glow of the flame cast her shadow against the stone as she felt her way through the darkened corridors in search of the kitchen, not completely trusting of her own steps on the uneven flagstones.
What all had transpired over the course of the night, Emma could not say, and she was still unable to pinpoint what had made her partake so enthusiastically in the celebration.
The hall had been loud with laughter and warm with the smell of rich foods and not once had she found her cup empty. She had done her best to measure her sips and nibble at the plate that had been set in front of her, but somewhere in the chaos of festivities she had lost track of all sense of her normal conformity.
In the end, she could only blame herself for the current situation.
The scent of the holiday meal hung in the air as Emma drew closer to what she sought, and her treasonous stomach growled with impatience. It was the mince pie that she was after, the savory and sweet flavor of the season that she craved more often than she would like to admit and now, shamefully, sought out because of her immoderation.
Much to her relief, the kitchen was empty as she entered, the hearth barely a glow with spent coals, but with the aid of candlelight, she could make out a collection of bowls and pots within it. That would be where the cook would have left the ends of the holiday meal, keeping it safe to be served again or shared amongst the servants in the morning.
Surely, they would not miss one mince pie.
Careful not to upturn the stacked pottery, Emma helped herself to a pie, and dragged a stool from beneath the work bench, hoping the scratching of wood against the stone did not wake any that slept close.
The tickling of shame she had felt whilst sneaking around quickly faded and was replaced with the simple hum of joy. She gave an involuntary groan of delight at the first taste of lamb and dried apple.
The sudden sound of footsteps on the flagstone stopped her mid chew.
“What do we have here?”
Emma muttered an oath as a familiar figure moved from the shadow of the doorway. Of all the people and in all the moments, why him and why now.
Turning slowly, she swallowed the mouthful of pastry and watched as her husband sauntered into the kitchen, an amused smile playing across his lips, as if it was commonplace to find her pulled up to a workbench in the kitchen eating at an improper hour.
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I-”
What was she to say? That she had indulged in too much wine and had thought it a good idea to raid the kitchen as the rest of the castle slept because she had a hankering for mince pie?
Unfazed by her flustered response, Canute moved into the dimly lit room and stopped to peer over her shoulder, his finger trailing lazily against the nape of her neck. “Mince pie. A good choice.”
Emma stiffened at his touch. She felt like a child who had been caught red handed stealing from their mother’s larder. Her instinct was to run from the kitchen and hide, but it was too late for that now, she had been seen.
As comfortable in the kitchen as he was on one of his ships, Canute sought out a second stool and set himself across the bench from Emma. “Care to share?”
She pushed the pie towards him.
“So,” he licked some filling from his finger, “what brought you down here at this hour?”
Her gaze flicked to her husband, their eyes meeting for a moment before she settled her attention on the lone candle in front of her. Any number of lies crossed her mind, but they would be fruitless. Very little missed her husband’s notice and Emma had no doubt that he had his own suspicions for her late night wanderings.
“Mince pie,” she finally offered.
A hearty chuckle vibrated through his chest. “Do you do this often? Raid the kitchens at night after all have gone to bed?”
“I imagine you would know if I did,” she retorted without a second thought, the effects of the wine loosening her usually curbed tongue.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a lazy smile, entertained rather than angered by her curtness, and Emma felt her stomach flutter.
Canute pushed the pie back across the workbench. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”
“I did.” Emma picked at the crust in front of her, the dough crumbling between her delicate fingers. “It seemed that our guests did as well.”
A twinkle of amusement shone in Canute’s eyes while he watched his wife’s nervous fingers destroy the unforgiving coffin crust. “It appeared that they were especially fond of the wine.”
Emma swallowed audibly. “Yes, I think they were.”
“And you too, my love,” he said, the humor in his voice unmistakable.
An undeniable flush broke across her cheeks, even in the dim of the candlelight she knew he saw, and there would be no point in trying to deny his accusation. She dropped her eyes to study the ring on her left hand rather than chance a glance his way.
“You should indulge more often,” Canute continued easily, his fingers grazing across her knuckles as he reached out and broke off another piece of pie. “It suits you.”
Emma’s gaze snapped to him, dumbfounded by what she had just heard. Certainly he would not approve of such displays in court.
She arched her brow. “Are you encouraging your wife to partake in common drunkenness?”
He gave her a wolfish grin. “Perhaps on a rare occasion when the kitchen can provide mince pie for a late night raid.”
The air around them changed as they sat in silence, a half eaten mince pie and candlelight between them. In the dim glow, Emma caught a glint of something feral in her husband’s gaze and heat began to pool low in her stomach.
She leaned cautiously across the table. “It would not be fitting for a queen to act in such a way.”
“Only if our guests were to notice. You hid it quite well this evening,” Canute shifted to meet her halfway, their lips a breath apart. “It could be our little secret.”
The sound of her heart thudding in her chest echoed in Emma’s ears. Even after all this time, Canute affected her in a way she struggled to make sense of. One look, one touch, from this man and she found herself feeling like a young girl all over again rather than the experienced woman she was.
And, if the way his breath caught was any indication, she was confident he was as equally affected.
Canute leaned closer, his lips brushing hers but rather than engage Emma sat back and took a bite of mince pie, her own eyes dancing with amusement as confusion clouded her husband’s features.
She chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I’ll take the proposal under advisement,” she said, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a teasing grin.
The look they shared in the candlelight promised Canute would get his kiss and much more.
