by Ruby Sirois
It’s right out of a Christmas folktale.
I sink gratefully to sit on the lounge, and Ragnarr helps me off with my skis before removing his own. He opens the basket and pulls out two rustic wooden cups, a thermos, and a little box. I wrap another blanket around my shoulders from a neatly folded pile on the lounge and smile up at him.
“Coffee?” I ask hopefully.
“Even better. Hot chocolate.”
He pours me some, then plucks a homemade marshmallow from the little box and pops it into my cup.
“Oh, this is decadent.”
The marshmallow is already melting. I take a sip and give a little sigh of pleasure. It’s super rich, made partly with cream, and so thick with real chocolate that if I had a spoon it’d probably stand up by itself.
“This is like, every woman’s wet dream in a cup right here.” I wrap my hands around the cup and take another sip.
“You’re my wet dream.”
“Why dream?” My voice is throaty with want. “I’m right here.”
“Hurry up and drink your fill.”
“Don’t rush me.” I give him a stern glare. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you never to get between a girl and her chocolate?”
He grins at me, unrepentant.
“Maybe I have more delicious things in store.”
“More delicious than chocolate?”
I raise a dubious eyebrow.
“You tell me.”
I shrug, then gasp from the sensation. Between the surprise of warm blankets and hot chocolate, I’d almost forgotten the gemstone bra. Its beads brush once more against my nipples, and I shiver.
“Cold?”
I shake my head—it definitely wasn’t a shiver of cold—but he pulls me into his lap and wraps his arms around me anyway. I put my cup down, cuddle up to him, breathe him in.
Cinnamon, vanilla, sandalwood musk.
So male, so masculine.
So delicious.
Fy fan, he drives me crazy.
—Forget the bra. I don’t need any other aphrodisiacs than you.
He kisses me, right below each eye. My skin tingles all over.
—I know you don’t. But what else should I get the woman who has everything for Christmas but something just a little magical, just a little naughty?
A giant diamond solitaire maybe? And the fairy-tale proposal to go with it?
It takes an effort, but I don’t think this in the way he can hear. I’m just too afraid he’ll brush me off or call me silly, since we’re mated already.
I feel immediately ungrateful. Although it’s not the jewelry I had in mind, I do love the bra and its effect on me. And on him.
I bite my lip.
Get it together, Em.
—I’d like anything that comes from you, I think to him instead.
He raises an eyebrow.
Does he know? Does he suspect?
I hope he does.
I hope he doesn’t.
I do the first thing that comes to mind. The first thing that I think will take both of us somewhere else, stop us from overthinking.
I wrap my arms around his strong neck and pull him in for a kiss.
His mouth is hot and tastes of vanilla-laced chocolate. Tightening his arms around me, he takes charge, deepens the kiss.
Slowly, sensuously, Ragnarr explores my mouth as if it’s somewhere he’s never been before. I melt into him, under him, gladly giving up all control to him. I don’t even realize he’s laying me down until his weight is pressing down on top of me.
“So warm,” I sigh.
The heat of him is like my own personal space heater, and I might as well be inside by the fireplace instead of outside on a picnic in the dark winter woods.
“You won’t freeze,” Ragnarr says. His voice is dark velvet. “I promise.”
His fingers find the zipper of my overcoat and tug it down just to my waist. After that, the zipper of my inner jacket.
Then of my cardigan.
Then my woolen undershirt.
Under that, I’m bare… almost.
My breasts are exposed completely, but not much more of my skin is out in the open. My nipples harden, peak against the cold air. The gemstones absorb the ambient temperature, chilling my skin like small beads of ice. Ragnarr’s kisses move down my throat, following the path the strings have traced.
One thigh between mine.
He’s solid and warm on top of me. I wriggle against him, positioning myself just so against him. And if I can rock my hips just like this…
I moan. He laves circles around one breast, teasing, then the other. The passing of his tongue heats the gems like a forge, then they cool slowly as he focuses elsewhere.
Everywhere is a contrast of hot and cold, and I hardly know where to focus my attention. My senses are overloaded.
When his mouth finds my nipple, I cry out—my hips buck up, my clit presses against his thigh. It’s the most delicious friction. He suckles me, the heat of his tongue an intense contrast to the winter air.
—You’re going to come just like this, he says.
It’s not a request.
—With my tongue on your tight little nipples, sucking you, teasing us both.
—Fy fan. Even my mental voice is soft and weak with need.
—Fy fan indeed. But what I really need is to taste that sweet little pussy.
I moan, pressing my hips harder against his thigh. He suckles harder.
—Don’t stop. Oh gods, I’m close.
—My cock is so hard for you. I can’t wait to fuck you again—my curvy little sex goddess.
His tongue dances across my nipple. Switches to the other.
Back and forth, just long enough to remove the chill, just long enough to let it settle back into the other.
Hot and cold.
Back and forth.
—So soft where I’m hard. Gorgeous curves I can’t keep my hands off of. And you’re so sexy, the way you respond to my touch.
I nod, my hips grinding against him.
—Don’t stop. Please, Ragnarr.
—I want to feel you wrapped around my cock, feel my mating fist swell inside you, binding us tight. I want to fill you up with my hoarding come, feel it spill out with every thrust. I want to claim you, make you mine. No other man will ever touch you.
I cry out.
—Ja, sådärja—there, like that. Ja, come for me, häxan. Do it. Now.
I cannot disobey.
My cries echo across the clearing as stars brighter than the ones above shoot through my vision. My whole body rocks against the heat of him.
He fills my senses.
I gasp for breath, and the scent of him, just the delicious, spicy scent of him, sends me off on another fresh wave. My fingers dig into him like claws, my pussy throbbing against his thigh, my own wetness a tease that pushes me further over the edge. More than anything, I want him inside me.
For an endless moment, I forget to breathe. I hover in space somewhere, filled with energy. Filled with love.
He is back at my mouth. He breathes into me, brings me back to life.
—I adore you, häxan, he says at last. You are my hoarded mate, my love. And I would do anything to make you happy. Never doubt that.
—I know you would, I say, my body still sparking with aftershocks of orgasm. I love you so much.
I no longer feel the cold. His smile is all the warmth I need.
3: Ragnarr
We’re trudging through the snow across the village, stopping for a bit to listen to a live quartet of Sami musicians seated across from the lead moose in the square. They’re playing Christmas music on traditional folk instruments to the large crowd gathered there. A Christmas market with at least two dozen stalls has sprung up like a stand of mushrooms overnight.
Tantalizing smells of candied almonds, cinnamon buns, gingersnaps, and hot coffee waft by on a light winter’s breeze. The atmosphere is cheerful and festive, and Emelie exudes delight like an aura.
She wants to look at everything. Touch everything. Taste everything.
And I would do anything for her.
“I really want some candied almonds,” says Emelie, stopping in her tracks in front of one warmly-lit stall. “They’re my absolute favorite.”
The scent is intoxicating—rich caramel toffee and toasted nuts. I don’t blame her.
“I thought crème brûlée was your favorite?”
My tone is teasing. Light.
“I’m allowed to have more than one favorite.”
“As long as I’m your very most favorite.”
“I wouldn’t dream of anything else.”
* * *
After Emelie carefully peruses each stall, making little purchases for friends and family along the way, we’re ready for a well-deserved fika. We head over to a little restaurant called Hembygdsgården—The Homestead Restaurant. It got its name from the building: a rustic 17th-century farmhouse built of hand-cut logs, decorated with delicate carvings at its eaves. The tiny lights strung along the carvings illuminate some and leave others in shadow, making the hand-painted little mice and foxes and birds frolic and dance.
As we’re hanging up our heavy overcoats, another merchant, set up on one side of the main dining room, catches Emelie’s eye.
A dark-haired Sami woman blessed with generous curves sits at a jewelry stall in a brightly colored traditional dress of white, red, and green. The rough pewter embroidery at her throat and shoulders reflects the light from dozens of candles. Above her head is a banner that says “Sokki Designs”. Trays of delicately forged rings and bracelets are arranged just so on the table she sits at, alongside rustic wooden stands hung with carved necklaces and ornaments.
“Let’s go look!”
“Three minutes ago you were dying for a fika.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
“Never get between a woman on a shopping spree and a jewelry display.”
“I thought it was never get between a woman and chocolate?”
She gives me a look.
That Look.
I laugh and hold my hands up in surrender.
“Fair warning. Well then, lead the way, häxan.”
She introduces herself with a warm smile and a few friendly words, and the Sami woman—who tells us her name is Gunná Sokki—is instantly won over.
I don’t know how she does it, because it comes anything but naturally to me—but Emelie always charms everyone she meets without even trying. I honestly think it’s another witch’s gift she’s not entirely aware she has. It’s like watching a swan take to wing from the surface of a still pond; the swan doesn’t realize it’s doing anything remarkable, but to the onlooker it’s magical.
“What beautiful jewelry, Gunná.”
The woman’s cheeks pinken with pleasure, and her dark eyes sparkle.
“Thank you. We specialize in fair-trade gold and locally-sourced reindeer antler—the antler comes from my family’s herds in the area, and only ever from naturally dropped antlers. So no reindeer are ever harmed, and you can be sure that they are all loved. I know, it sounds like a sales pitch, but it’s the truth and we’re proud of it.”
“That makes everything even more beautiful. Who is the artist? Are they local?”
“My brother Ánte and I. Our gold-smithing studio is quite nearby here in Jukkasjärvi, but we’re not set up with a proper showroom.”
“So how did you end up here? I guess you know everyone since it’s a small village.”
Gunná nods.
“The manager here at the restaurant is our cousin, so in the high tourist seasons he’s arranged for me to have a regular pop-up store. During the lower traffic parts of the year, we mainly do our selling online.”
“That’s amazing. Do you make everything yourself?”
“Ánte does the rough work—making blanks from antler and gold for pendants and rings and things. I enjoy detail work, so that’s my department.”
“Oh—Ragnarr, look at this!”
Emelie plucks a gold ring inlaid with reindeer antler and carved with intricate knotwork, examining it closely.
Her interest doesn’t go unnoticed, but I don’t even crack a smile in case it gives something away.
“I can also do personalized pieces with custom carving and engraving,” Gunná says, “if you have something special in mind.”
Emelie nods. Puts the ring back in its tray. Scans the table.
A thought hits her.
“Do you have pet tags? You know, like, to put on a collar? Not that it’s for a pet, exactly—I’d love to get one for my familiar, if that doesn’t sound too weird. Obviously, he can tell people who he is, but Whimsy is a vain little thing anyway. I think he’d like one.”
Gunná laughs kindly, the tin ornaments at the throat of her traditional costume tinkling and sparkling like tinsel on a tree.
“Oh, not at all. I’m a single lady with three dogs, and I love them all to pieces. Hmm, let me see—I don’t have pet tags with me, not exactly, but…” she turns to a tray of antler pendants and selects a flat heart-shaped one from the display.
“Well, I do have this piece. I think it might work.”
Emelie accepts it and runs her fingers over it in awe.
“This is so cute. Ragnarr, it has sweet little birds and hearts carved into it—this detail is amazing.” Her face is delighted as she holds it out for my inspection. “Don’t you think he’d love it?”
“I’m sure he’ll be very proud to wear it.”
The joy in her makes my heart ache in the best way, and I don’t know how I ever managed without her. So many hundreds of years filled with emptiness, and I didn’t even know it until now.
A powerful surge of possessiveness sweeps over me, almost steals my breath away.
Mine.
But she’s already mine—in all ways, that is, but one.
I have an inkling of just what she’s not been entirely happy with.
And I have plans to rectify that as soon as possible.
“I can engrave the back of it right now as you enjoy your fika, if you like,” says Gunná. “By the way, I recommend the prinsesstårta—the princess cake. I think it’s the best thing they bake here. Personally, I can’t resist it—in case you hadn’t guessed.”
The goldsmith pats her belly and winks conspiratorially.
Emelie grins back. Nodding, she digs out her wallet.
“Sounds perfect—thanks so much for your help, Gunná. Sold and sold.”
As they take care of the details, I go to the bakery display counter and order two individually-sized servings of prinsesstårta and two cups of coffee. Emelie has barely sat down at the little two-top table when the teenaged waitress delivers the order.
Instead of the usual pink marzipan rose, my prinsesstårta has a perfectly sculpted little tomtenisse on it—a Swedish Christmas elf—complete with big white beard and pointed gnome hat. Emelie’s has a marzipan julbock—Christmas goat—with crimson ribbons delicately painted around its caprine horns.
“These are too pretty to eat,” she says. Her voice is dramatically mournful.
I can’t hold back a laugh.
“I suspect temptation will get the best of you eventually.”
“It always does.”
I wink at her, and she blushes.
“Lucky for me.”
She takes a deep breath, braces herself, and plunges her spoon into the soft cake.
“The hapless julbock falls victim to a terrifying Christmas massacre. You murderer.”
“Shut it.”
She takes a big bite and her eyes sink half-shut in bliss.
I love watching her eat, if only because of the unfettered enjoyment she gets out of it. My mind immediately goes to other places, and I picture how she enjoys herself in other ways…
“It’s sooo good. It’s a perfect balance of whipped cream and raspberry jam, vanilla sponge and marzipan. Gunná wasn’t kidding.”
She takes
another big bite, whipped cream oozing out at the edges. Chases it down with coffee. Nibbles happily at her horribly murdered little julbock.
Poor little guy never stood a chance.
“They mentioned it on the menu, but I thought I’d surprise you. Although, having just witnessed your cold-blooded julbock assassination, I don’t want to rile you up any further just in case I’m next.”
“You’re only next if I don’t get what I asked Jultomten to bring me for Christmas.”
“And how would I know what you asked for? We aren’t on a first-name basis, so it would be rude to ask.”
“You call him Herr Jultomten?”
Mr. Santa.
She can’t hold back laughter at the ridiculous formality. I fight back a smile.
“Of course.” I widen my eyes, give her a very serious look. “I don’t want coal in my stockings for disrespect. And dragons have very large feet—so that’s a lot of coal.”
She giggles again, the sound like silver bells. I’ll do anything to hear her laugh like that.
“Large feet, large—”
“Can I bring you anything else?”
Emelie peeks in her cup, biting her lip to hold back an embarrassed giggle. Clears her throat.
“I’d love a latte, actually—with whipped cream on top. Tack så mycket—thanks so much.”
“Nothing for me, tack.”
The waitress nods and goes to fetch the order. I wait till she’s out of earshot.
“You were saying? I’d love to hear your thoughts on the enormity of my various body parts.”
She swats at me. “As if you need any more ego-boosting.”
“Try me.”
Taking my hand, she guides the tip of my index finger through the mass of whipped cream on her plate. And brings it to her lips.
The heat of her mouth and the sensuous movement of her tongue as she delicately sucks the cream off makes me instantly hard under the table. I can’t take my eyes from hers.
“Häxan,” I say. My voice is low and rough. “Fy fan.”
Her eyes crinkle in a knowing smile. The tip of her tongue swirls around my fingertip.
I recognize the move. I shift in my seat, because all I can picture is how it feels on my cock.
It’s all I can do not to groan.
