by Ruby Sirois
Ragnarr: Heat in the Snow
Thor’s Sons Crave Curves, Book 1.5
Ruby Sirois
First Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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Copyright © 2020 Ruby Sirois
Cover copyright © 2020 Ruby Sirois / Nighttime Birds Creative
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Cover design, interior design, chapter illustrations, book layout by Nighttime Birds Creative
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Stock photos: stetsik / Depositphotos.com, Luke Besley / Unsplash.com, rocich / canstockphoto.com, dvargg / Depositphotos.com
The scanning, uploading, downloading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book including for review purposes, please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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This book is intended for sale to adult audiences only. It may contain substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language, which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store this work where minors cannot access it.
Blurb
Santa’s given this curvy girl (almost) everything on her list, but there's one more little jewel that eludes her…
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It’s Christmas, and voluptuous Emelie has seven days to relax with her fated mate, fire dragon shifter Ragnarr. Seven days full of winter magic, hot chocolate, and delicious local fares. Not to mention the other diabolical activities he has planned… ones hot enough to melt the Ice Hotel’s frozen walls into steamy puddles.
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Their relationship is as hot as Lapland is cold, and things could hardly be better.
So what’s been nipping at Emelie’s nose? Only Santa knows her heart’s desire.
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Ragnarr’s replacing the coal in Emelie's stocking with the steamy, dreamy Christmas his curvy girl has always wished for.
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Ragnarr: Heat in the Snow is a steamy alpha male dragon shifter and curvy girl holiday-themed novella which takes place after Deal With Her Dragon. It can be enjoyed as a standalone, but reading in order will offer the most satisfying experience.
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Every book in the Thor’s Sons Crave Curves series is high heat with a guaranteed HEA and no cheating.
Author’s Note:
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Who doesn’t love a good holiday romance? You don’t need to be freezing your butt off to have your heart warmed by one. Although I daresay it’ll be more than just your heart being warmed by this steamy Christmas novella—written on request by fans who demanded to know more about Emelie and Ragnarr’s HEA.
So remember, Dear Reader, safety first: don’t forget your battery-powered fire extinguisher… you’ll need it when your Christmas stockings start smoldering!
What is “A Rousing RubyNesque Romance”™?
RubyNesque knows how to turn up the HEAt!
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A Rousing— means not only is it exciting, it’s also sexy—you’ll be turning page after page under the covers all night long.
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RubyNesque— is the promise of honoring all kinds of women in a body-positive and uplifting way: no bashing of any body types, ever. It’s the promise of heroines dealing with and conquering their self-esteem issues when strengthened by unconditional love, desire, and acceptance—no matter their size, age, or background.
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Romance— lets you know there’s always a HEA and no cheating, ever!
A Rousing RubyNesque Romance: it’s a promise and a guarantee.
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Love,
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Ruby Sirois and RubyNesque Publishing™
Contents
1: Emelie
2: Emelie
3: Ragnarr
4: Ragnarr
5: Emelie
6: Emelie
7: Emelie
8: Ragnarr
9: Emelie
A Note from Ruby
But Wait, There’s More!
Landing Her Dragon
Copyright
Linnea
Aegir
Glossary and Swedish Pronunciation Guide
Also by Ruby Sirois
About the Author
Acknowledgments
1: Emelie
“Mmm. Like that, Ragnarr. Fy fan—damn—that’s good.”
I’m between Ragnarr’s legs with my back facing him, and his big hands are all over me. His right hand is between my legs, two fingers teasing me there, and the left tweaks and teases my nipple.
We’re in his big silk-clad bed, and there’s nothing touching my skin that doesn’t feel like heaven. His warm sandalwood scent is everywhere, mixed with my feminine wildflower musk. The balcony door is barely cracked open, and the fire roaring in the fireplace pops and crackles when the hint of a chill breeze moseys in to explore. The contrast of temperatures is luxurious against my bare skin.
“Tell me what you need, lilla häxan min—my little witch,” he murmurs in my ear, and I shiver. “Because perhaps, if you beg me just right, I will give you what you want. What you need.”
His huge, muscled body is hot and hard against my soft curves, his cock thick and pressed deliciously up against my backside. Curvy as I am, the size of my fire dragon mate still makes me feel little and delicate in comparison. Tendrils of his wheat-colored hair trail over my shoulder, blending with my own red-gold locks like exotic tiger stripes.
Long, lean fingers trace tiny circles in the tender depression around my clit hood—teasing, and never quite close enough to give me what I need.
I wriggle my bottom against him, and he groans, then laughs.
“Aren’t we eager,” he says. “Looking for something? I promise, it’s all there.”
“Stop teasing me,” I say. My voice is high and breathy. “Why do you love teasing me so much?”
“Why wouldn’t I, when it’s so enjoyable?”
He nips at my neck with his teeth. I gasp. He answers with another tweak of my nipple, and his fingers edge just a millimeter closer to my clit.
“So wet already.”
He lifts those fingers to his mouth, laps at them to make them wetter. My pussy throbs in response. He returns glistening fingers between my legs, tracing the honeyed line of my slit with a feather-light touch.
“Is this what you need?”
His voice is low, his breath against my ear making me shiver.
Up and down along my slit, slick and sweet.
“Nej—no—higher, please—ohh!” One finger brushes my swollen clit and my words turn into a moan.
“Beg me for it, häxan.”
His voice is a rumble, almost a growl. His old-fashioned accent is thickened by desire.
“Please—please! Just—make me come, please! I can’t take it anymore!”
His cock hardens further against me, nestled there against the crack of my ass. A hint of the ridge of his mating fist. The wetness of his pre-cum.
I writhe against him, craving him, burning for him, needing any part of him, every part of him…
“Häxan,” he says.
“Just do it!”
“What? What are you dreaming about?”
“Hmm?”
A gentle shake at my shoulder.
“What are you doing? Don’t. I want to come. Don’t stop now.”
A chuckle.
“I’d really love to hear
more details about this dream of yours, but we have to get ready. The porter gave the wake-up knock, and we’re arriving at the station in an hour.”
I open my eyes and groan.
“Not fair,” I say, rubbing sleep from my face. “I was so close, too.”
It’s not Ragnarr’s hard body at my back, but a narrow sleeper bunk only big enough for one—and despite the first-class designation, not all that comfortable.
The background noise I’ve been hearing is not the roar of the fireplace, but the train chugging along over snow-covered tracks in the far north of Sweden. And it’s not Ragnarr’s hand between my legs, but my own.
Reluctantly, I withdraw it.
“What’s the matter?”
There is a knowing smile in his voice.
“I’m disappointed to wake up from that,” I grumble. “It was a very nice dream.”
He sinks down on the edge of my bunk, pulling me into his arms and kissing me breathless.
“Are you so disappointed to wake up to the real-life me?”
One hand strokes down along my side, petting me like a cat. Deep in my throat, I hum a purr.
“Well—maybe not so much anymore.”
I wrap my cold arms around his warm neck and pull him closer.
“Kiss me again.”
“Just for a bit, häxan. I don’t want to be caught with my pants down—so to speak—when we pull into the station.”
“Why not?”
“I think you mean, why? Knot.”
His smile and eyes are hot but his tone is teasing.
I groan at the pun, releasing him to get ready for departing the train.
We’re on our way to the Ice Hotel in Lapland for an idyllic Christmas vacation. He hasn’t really told me anything of our plans—telling me he wants me to be surprised by everything, which I think is outrageously romantic—but knowing Ragnarr, this could be anything from an expensive dinner to some kind of kinky sex romp. And I won’t lie—I’ve packed my favorite dress and some of my prettiest lingerie with all of that in mind.
But in my wildest dreams, it would be a romantic wedding proposal.
Not that Ragnarr would propose. Why would he? We’re already mated and hoarded—and that’s a bond far stronger than any wedding ring. In light of being a dragon’s hoarded mate, engagement is extraneous and frankly a bit silly.
Still, though—what girl doesn’t dream of the perfect engagement proposal? And after one failed marriage, I can’t help but want to make up for it. To do it right this time.
And wouldn’t he look like a fairy-tale prince, on one knee there in the snow? I would drop my ski poles, cry, and he’d sweep me up in his arms and kiss them away and ask me right then and there where I want to have the wedding…
I sigh. Do my best to shrug it off.
And I remind myself I already have my heart’s desires: success for my business, So Mote It Bee Meadery, and Ragnarr as my mate. On top of that, we’re on what might as well be a honeymoon. I’ve never been this far north, but now we have seven days together to stargaze, dogsled, ski, drink cocktails in the Ice Bar, relax in the sauna, and eat locally-sourced delicacies. A whole week to relax and enjoy the amazing experiences only found north of the Arctic Circle.
What more could a girl want?
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, over and over, like a mantra that’ll come true if only I repeat it enough times.
To long for more would just be greedy… wouldn’t it?
I guess I really am more draconic than I’d like to admit.
I’m glad that despite our hoarded telepathic bond, Ragnarr still doesn’t have access to all of my most private thoughts, nor I to his. I’m too afraid he’ll tell me I’m being silly if I tell him what I really want. Or worse, reject the whole idea.
I know it’s silly, in light of everything. It is silly. Still, I can’t imagine anything worse than him telling me as much.
No… it’s too risky.
So I hold my tongue.
“Not the rear end I’d prefer to be admiring,” Ragnarr says in my ear two hours later.
I laugh.
We’re on our way to the hotel from the train station by dog sled. Eight fluffy dog butts adorned with a Rudolph-style jingle bell harness sprinting across sparkling drifts of hard-packed snow dominate the front view. It is an adorable sight, but I have to agree—I prefer Ragnarr’s backside.
To the left and right of us, huge evergreens iced like gourmet cupcakes race by. It’s beautiful, but even so, I can’t wait to get inside and get warm.
This must be how Jultomten—Santa—feels, driving his sleigh back to the North Pole after a night of delivering presents, ready for hot chocolate and a cuddle with the missus. I’m bundled up in four layers to Ragnarr’s two of winter gear and still feel cold.
But even through the six layers between us, the heat of his arms around me is like a furnace. I tighten my grip on the handrail with both hands, relaxing into him.
“When I’m not freezing my ass off,” I say, just loud enough so that the dog driver can’t hear, “you can look at your favorite rear end all you like.”
His arms tighten, and I feel him smiling.
I don’t need an answer to know what he’s thinking.
After our luggage and accommodations are taken care of, we wander around the little village of Jukkasjärvi to take in the abundance of adorable Christmas decorations.
We’ve stepped into a traditional Swedish fairy tale.
There are herds of julbockar—Christmas goats—and flights of angels woven from straw, with softly glowing paper Advent stars or candelabras in every window. Snowflakes outlined in white fairy lights hang from every streetlight.
Each house is a gingerbread dream, good enough to eat.
In the tiny town square, there’s even a life-size set of six moose carved in ice galloping in place by a bustling little restaurant in an old log cabin. They’re wearing a harness of tiny Christmas lights, as if they’re drawing an invisible sleigh. I can almost hear Jultomten’s cheerful ho-ho-ho, and it makes me laugh just imagining it.
The air is icy and brisk, scented with pine and the threat of fresh snow. Somewhere, carolers are singing, coloring the air with cozy holiday spirit. Now that it’s December, this far north, the sun won’t rise until next month, and the sparkling strings of lights in every corner are a charm against the curse of darkness and the ancient threat of eternal winter.
Ragnarr’s arm around me is yet another such charm, and I shiver with pleasure. He pulls me closer and smiles down at me, eyes sparkling glacier-blue.
I couldn’t be happier.
That is, except for one little thing… a certain ring-shaped thing.
“I thought the dogsled ride was amazing, but this might be even better,” I say. “Just as cold, though.”
We’re ending the day with an after-dinner nightcap in the Ice Bar, where everything—from the furniture to the bar to the cocktail glasses—are all made of ice. The bar and walls are backlit with colored lights, and it’s like being inside an igloo discotheque.
Top 40 plays at just the right volume where we don’t need to shout to be heard. There’s a dance floor made of packed snow, and a bunch of Canadians dressed in tailored snowsuits are dancing with drinks in mittened hands and laughing uproariously at the antics of one of their party.
“I’ve heard of the one in Stockholm but I’ve never gone. I always figured it was a tourist trap. But this”—I gesture in a vague circle—“it’s incredible. I wonder if So Mote It Be shouldn’t look into a distribution deal with them, get our mead noticed internationally.”
“Always working, häxan. You’re on vacation, remember? No more work talk.”
“Ja, ja. I’ll do my best to remember—if I don’t, you have my permission to spank me.”
“Like I need permission.” He raises a pale eyebrow at me, gaze hot.
I blush. Clear my throat.
“How’s your drink? You haven’t touched it.
”
Ragnarr eyes his Old-Fashioned. Pokes warily at it with one finger.
“I’m afraid to touch the glass.”
“Hmm?”
He quirks a smile at me, taking care not to rest his arms on the ice table.
“This is why we aren’t staying in any ice bedrooms. Because I’d melt everything in sight, and it would cost me a fortune in damages.”
“Oh,” I say with mock disappointment. “And here I thought it was because you didn’t want me to have a million clothes on all night.”
“That too. But melting a hotel room is up there on expenses I don’t need.”
Ragnarr pulls his coat sleeves over his hands, using them as oven mitts to hold his glass while he takes a careful sip. It starts melting as soon as his lips touch it. He sets it back down and wipes the drips of water from his chin.
“So dignified. Much draconic. Very wow,” I say, winking at him over my perfect cosmopolitan.
“Quoting memes may also warrant spankings, häxan. And at any rate, if I had a choice in melting any frozen glassware,” he says, his ice-blue gaze hot on me, “then it’ll be to drip it onto your bare body. From head to toe. And then to lick it off.”
