Curse of the Fae (PA #3)

Chapter Eleven

Willow

Ragnar tastes like home. Not the place I was born, the one I grew up in, or even a place at all. It's a feeling mostly. He's strength and security, a safe spot to land when I've always been afraid of falling.

I didn't wake up this morning and decide that today would be the day to lose my virginity. It's something I've thought about from every angle, discussed with those whose opinions matter to me, but I couldn't quite decide the whens and wheres and hows.

I was sitting in that arena, doing my best to compartmentalize my conversation with Darragh, smacking it down with all the other things I had yet to truly deal with. I was struggling, and Ragnar provided a lifeline without even trying.

Before, I chose him to be my first from a stance of practicality. After a process of elimination, he made the most sense.

But sense and practicality aren't exactly great reasons to have sex with someone. I'm far too sentimental to treat sex like it's anything other than two (or more) people exposing their vulnerabilities and trusting that they'll be handled with care.

So, yes, logically and emotionally, Ragnar makes the most sense.

I love Ragnar. I've loved Ragnar since I was a child, but that love has been like wet clay—malleable and evolving. I feel romantic love now that I was incapable of then.

That's the realization I had in the arena when he paired us together in some noble mission to prepare me for the trial by fire. He cares about me, and he's willing to risk my dislike if it means keeping me safe.

How could I want anyone else to help me face my fear of total intimacy?

Rome read it on my face. Everyone gives him shit for his intelligence, but he's been my best friend for nearly two decades and he understands me better than just about anyone.

Don't tell Eli I said that.

Anyway, Rome helped me pick out this lace teddy weeks ago—I don't want to know how he got it—saying it does wonders for my eyes. It was waiting on Ragnar's bed when I arrived, meaning the Lust demon stopped here before hiding from Kian.

I shouldn't need it, but I appreciate this sign of his approval.

"Willow?"

I wonder how long I've been quiet. Long enough to force Ragnar into speaking, so plenty long indeed.

Not the only thing that's long.

Maybe thinking about Romeo is not a good idea when trying to have sex with his brother. I pick up his habits, worst of all his penchant for dick jokes.

"Will you fuck me, Ragnar?"

Ragnar's eyes are black, barely discernible between iris and pupil, but I swear I watch his pupils swallow the iris entirely.

Which is a good sign, I think? He gave a grunt of agreement earlier, but I could have misread him.

"I need the words," I continue, feeling a ramble coming on. "You remember the lesson Eli and I gave on consent last year? It has many different forms, and it's not always a clear question and answer, but it should be enthusiastic. Like, if—"

Ragnar covers my mouth, thank the Devil, and I fight the desire to lick his palm.

He kisses the back of his hand, the space right over my lips, and I melt into a pool of Willow-shaped butter.

"I'm enthusiastically consenting to fuck you, little warrior."

My eyelids fall to half-mast. Something about those words spoken in that tone of voice does it for me. Something that should be illegal, and probably is in middle-of-nowhere Arkansas. Or Utah.