Ragnarr- Heat in the Snow

by Ruby Sirois

  “I can take care of it tonight. What was it that you wanted engraved?”

  I tell her what I have in mind.

  Gunná gives me an odd look.

  “For an engagement ring?”

  “He’ll know what it means.”

  She nods and makes a note, the tin adornments at her throat tinkling merrily with her movements.

  “All right then, I just wanted to make sure I had it right. I had plenty of inside things I shared with my ex that no one else would have gotten, either.”

  She sounds wistful, even a bit sad.

  My heart softens.

  “I’m sure you’ll find that again,” I say, wanting to encourage her.

  “That’s sweet of you to say. Well, seeing you with your man gives another curvy girl hope, anyway.”

  She smiles and makes one last notation.

  “There, you’re all set. Come back tomorrow—I’ll be here until five o’clock.”

  7: Emelie

  Like any red-blooded Swede, on Christmas Eve at precisely three o’clock in the afternoon, it’s time for an hour of old Disney cartoons. My favorite has always been Donald versus the annoying jungle parrot… but I can’t stop thinking about the ring. Not even the scene with Cinderella and the mice affect me—the scene that never fails to make me cry every year.

  I tell Ragnarr I need to go for a walk afterwards, and I trudge over to the homestead restaurant through the snow to pick up his third gift.

  The Sami artisan has wrapped it in more handmade paper stamped with hearts and birds. I admire it, tracing the motifs with one finger.

  “I thought maybe something more romantic than the one for your cat,” she says with a smile.

  I thank her, tucking it into my pocket along with her business card. I’d love to be able to do some kind of partnership with her in the future.

  Dinner is again in the fine restaurant, but with a full Swedish Christmas smörgåsbord. We’ll have our own private table and room, but the buffet is out in one of the dining rooms. Whenever we want something, we’ll go and fetch it ourselves.

  “But I insist on ordering you a special dessert, häxan. I can’t have you going sans crème brûlée on Christmas of all days. That would be a travesty for the ages.”

  “You really don’t need to do that,” I say, adjusting the hang of my cherry-red silk jersey Valerie James. It’s clingy in all the right ways in all the right places, and makes my breasts look frankly amazing—but doesn’t do quite enough to hide the full gemstone lingerie set underneath. The lines of it are visible through the slinky fabric—even though I have a slip on underneath. It makes me feel brazen, exposed, as if I’m telling secrets in a spotlight in front of a crowd. But I don’t hate the feeling, if I had to admit my most secret feelings. In that respect, I’ve grown.

  But Ragnarr insisted, and I’m not heartless enough to deny him. I’m not acetic enough to deny myself, either.

  And I want him in a good mood, after all, when I give him his gift. I feel like my entire life hangs in the balance. I want desperately for him to be happy. To say ja.

  Ja.

  Ja!

  My heart pounds every time I think about it, and I get a bit dizzy because I think I’m forgetting to breathe—so I try my best not to think about it. I focus on doing my hair and makeup just so—the perfect shade of liquid lipstick to match the dress, the perfect curl in my red-gold hair.

  And when I slide on my red pumps, I’m ready to take on the world.

  Or Ragnarr.

  I’m not sure which is more intimidating.

  My plate is piled high with tiny succulent moose meatballs, slow-cooked short ribs, baked mustard ham, dill-boiled potatoes, Brussels sprouts with bacon fried in butter, lingonberry jam, rowanberry jam, and julvörtlimpa—Christmas spiced bread—with butter. It all looks delicious, and I do my best to tackle my favorites, but I’m too on edge to really enjoy anything. All I can do is pick at things—even the meatballs and potatoes, always my favorites. But I can’t even finish those.

  Even Ragnarr is more quiet than usual, as if he’s picked up on my state and is sending it back to me.

  It doesn’t help things.

  Despite the promise of dessert, which never fails to make me hungry, I can’t enjoy my food. My plate is still half-full when I push it aside. My mouth tastes like metal.

  Ragnarr raises an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t say anything. He looks like he wants to ask what’s wrong, but says nothing. My anxiety grows.

  Finally my dessert arrives. It’s beautiful, and looks delicious: crème brûlée sparkles with a smooth layer of burnt sugar in its little cup, plated asymmetrically with ice cream and fresh amber-colored hjortron. The ice cream has been spread with a palette knife and, strewn with the berries, looks like an abstract painting on a canvas of ice.

  “It’s too pretty to eat,” I say. I don’t even dare to poke at it with my spoon.

  Ragnarr looks alarmed.

  “Häxan—”

  “Before you say anything,” I interrupt, “I have to give you my third gift.”

  “I think you should eat your dessert first,” he says.

  His voice is oddly strained.

  I shake my head and pull the little gift-wrapped box out of my purse.

  “I insist. I can’t wait any longer. Please, Ragnarr, just open it. Please.”

  There are two little lines between his pale eyebrows, and he hesitates, but accepts the gift from me at last. My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest, and the blood pounds in my ears like war drums.

  My hands ball into fists under the table, my nails digging crescents into the meat of my palms. I’m trying not to breathe too hard. Or too fast. Or to stop entirely. I hope I don’t pass out.

  He unwraps it slowly—too slowly. And when he opens the box, his expression is unreadable.

  “Look at the inscription,” I urge. Tears prickle at my eyes. I bite my lip to fight them back.

  I’m about to explode, my heart teetering on the precipice of ecstasy or despair.

  He peers at it.

  “…wich…” he reads. “I wish… for a… sandwich.”

  It’s inscribed on the inside of the ring in runes. My heart skips a beat or three.

  I can’t let it affect me. Not now. Not in this moment.

  A long pause.

  At last he speaks.

  “Eat your dessert, häxan.”

  8: Ragnarr

  “Eat your dessert, häxan,” I say.

  She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. Tears spring to her eyes and glitter there like crushed diamonds.

  But I can’t back down now.

  “I ordered it just for you. Eat it.”

  My voice is low, choked.

  She picks up her spoon slowly and begins to eat like it’s her last meal. I bite my tongue until it bleeds to not say anything.

  To say something now would ruin all my plans.

  Tears sparkle on her lashes but do not fall. My heart writhes in my chest like a dying thing.

  I can’t bear it. I take a breath to tell her—but then her spoon clinks against something. She scrapes at the artfully arranged ice cream on the ice plate. The edge of her spoon has caught on something.

  She pokes at it, experimentally. The corners of her eyes are glimmering.

  “What…?”

  She scrapes away the ice cream, excavating something.

  “Em…” she says, reading aloud what she’s uncovered.

  And scrapes faster.

  The pot of crème brûlée is pushed brusquely to the side, forgotten. The ice cream and berries are mounded to one side like dirt on a construction site.

  And when she’s cleared the plate of debris, she finds what I’ve been waiting for her to find. It’s limned in white cream against the gleam of transparent ice.

  “Marry me, Emelie,” she reads slowly. Her voice is thick.

  I take her hand, bring it to my lips. Gaze into her eyes, now overflowing.

&nbs
p; “Marry me, Emelie,” I repeat.

  Her cheeks are wet. She’s speechless.

  She looks from the words engraved in her plate, to me, back to her plate. Notices something. And digs at one last mound of ice cream to uncover the diamond engagement ring buried just underneath.

  She plucks it out, wipes at it ineffectually, then pops it in her mouth to get it clean. And when she pops it out again, it sparkles nearly as brightly as her eyes in this moment.

  Emelie stares at it, speechless. Another fat tear streaks down one cheek.

  “This is better than anything,” she says at last. Her voice is choked with emotion. “Better than anything.”

  Her gaze drops to the ring she’s given me, untouched in its box.

  “But I can’t answer you until you answer me.”

  I pluck the ring from its box, kiss it, and slide it onto my left ring finger.

  It fits perfectly.

  I hold out one hand and conjure her a sandwich: smoked ham with avocado cream cheese, on fresh-baked Danish rye bread. Just like the one she originally asked for, perfect to the last detail.

  I place it carefully down in front of her, but she barely looks at it. Her gaze is locked on mine.

  “I’ll marry you, häxan,” I say.

  I’m fighting back tears of my own.

  “It would be my greatest honor. I would do anything for you. Anything to make you happy, anything to make you mine, and keep you mine forever. I love you, and I would do anything to make you my wife. I want nothing more.”

  I slide off of my chair and sink to one knee in front of her.

  “Marry me, Emelie. Please. Say yes, häxan min.”

  A wordless yowl—indiscernible between pleasure and pain—and Emelie leaps out of her chair down to where I kneel before her. She throws her arms around me and covers my face in kisses.

  “Ragnarr!” she cries, half laughing, half weeping. “Fy helvete, I was so scared! I thought you were saying—oh! And you—oh, you jerk! I thought—I thought…”

  Emelie sounds crazed. I wrap my arms tightly around her and kiss her with everything I have, everything I am—for I’d be no less mad in her shoes. I shouldn’t have done this to her… but somehow, it was worth it just for this.

  She returns my kisses with the fervor of someone who has just had a terrifying brush with death. She’s trembling, laughing, and crying all at once.

  “So will you?” I ask between kisses.

  “Ja!” She cries. “Ja, ja, ja!”

  My cheeks are wet and I can’t tell if they’re her tears or if I’m crying with her.

  It doesn’t matter. I’m as ecstatic as she.

  From far away, I hear the applause of the wait staff. They’ve been hovering around for the whole event, unable to stay away at the critical moment they all knew was coming. And the applause doesn’t dampen as I pick Emelie up and carry her all the way back to our room.

  I slam the room door behind me with one foot. Emelie jumps at the noise, then laughs. It’s a nervous, frantic sound, still tinged with panic. I toss her lightly onto the bed and growl. She screams of mock annoyance, which turns quickly into light giggles.

  I stand over her. Look down at her. She knows what I want.

  Emelie meets my eyes. Tugs at her dress. Gives me a look.

  That look.

  I’m more than ready to comply.

  I tear at my clothes, heedless of buttons, seams, zippers. I toss them like rags on the floor. And I yank impatiently at the hem of her skirt.

  Emelie wriggles her hips, helping me to pull it up.

  Her hips are luscious, full, irresistible. Her skin is soft, crying out for my touch. I want—need—to taste her. Her skin is creamy and smooth, just begging for me to worship her.

  I hook my fingers in the elastic waist of her panties. Pull them down. Her eyes are locked on mine—wide, full of desire.

  “You’re going to spread your legs for me, häxan,” I say. My voice is a low rumble. “Give me what I need. Let me taste you while you come for me. Then I’m going to take you. Fuck you hard, fuck you for hours. Like a real husband.”

  Emelie gulps. Nods. Obeys.

  “I was so scared,” she says. Her voice is faint, and her eyes are suddenly filled with tears. I kiss them away. “Scared you’d turn me down. That you wouldn’t want to marry me, that you’d say I was being silly. I don’t know why.”

  “The only silly thing is that you’d think it in the first place. You never have anything like that to fear from me. You can always be honest.”

  A smile like the sun breaking through clouds lights up her face. And I’m struck for the thousandth time by her beauty—the beauty of her body and soul—and the strength of my love for her. She sees it there, and it’s like a switch flips in her.

  Now, she’s my sex goddess. Ready, willing, demanding.

  Emelie wiggles her hips, lets me work the thin silk down around her thighs. Her calves. And to the floor.

  Only the gemstone lingerie is left between our bodies, like the whisper of a lover’s promise in the dark.

  I wedge my knee between her thighs. Force them fully open with my palms. She spreads herself for me like a rose blossoming.

  The heat of her is a forge. I lick my lips against the heat of her. Run a finger down the slit of her. Her folds part for me.

  I bring my wet finger to my lips. Suck her honey off.

  I groan.

  “Häxan,” I say. “I need—”

  She cuts me off.

  “If it’s up to me,” she says, “you’ll never go hungry. Don’t you dare stop.”

  I growl. And I plan my attack.

  My mouth waters for her, my cock throbs for her. I wrap my arms around her thighs, spread her inner folds open with both thumbs. Her hard little pearl waits eagerly for me—I breathe on it, and it pulses for me. Glistens invitingly.

  I smile. Circle it with my tongue.

  She is slick, sweet, salty.

  I feast on her.

  Her thighs tighten around me, drawing me in, begging me—for mercy, for release.

  I don’t mean to give her either—at least, not yet. I am in total control.

  The delicate roughness of her hair there taunts me, contrasting with the wet silk of her inner lips. So delicious. So smooth. I relish the feel of her. Would linger there for hours, just to please myself.

  But she shivers, digs her fingers into my hair. Calls my name. Drives me on.

  And I remember that I’m not here just to pleasure myself.

  I focus—right there. Give us both what we want. She squirms, cries out, bucks up to meet me.

  I’ve found where I need to be. Where she needs me. My heart aches with love for her, and every stroke of my tongue, every caress, communicates that love in every way I know how. She is mine, entirely, forever, in every sense. She’s my wife, and I’ll never let her go.

  Emelie cups her breasts, playing with the strings of gemstones, strumming them over her tight coral nipples in time with my tongue. The beads make a faint rattling sound like drizzle on a metal roof. She rocks her hips up to meet each stroke of my tongue.

  I intensify my efforts. Emelie opens fully for me. Her flavor deepens.

  Sweet. Salt. Musk.

  My cock throbs, my mating fist aching to fill her, expand within her, own her.

  Fy fan, she’s delicious.

  I circle back to her clit. The strand of rubies and pearls lies just to one side of it. I flick it with my tongue, enjoying her sharp reaction as the beads tease across the sensitive flesh.

  “Do it again,” Emelie begs, panting.

  Once more, twice more. Her voice is high-pitched, her cries like sobs of pleasure. Then my fingertips find her slick entrance, and I slide a finger in. Another. And I beckon to her.

  —Come. Come for me. Then I’ll fuck you, take you completely, make you come harder than you ever have before.

  I time the movements of my tongue with the rocking of my fingers inside her, against the tender i
nner spot I know will tip her over the edge. Her thighs tense around me, encompassing me—and she lets go as if every bone has dissolved all at once.

  Her fingers dig deep grooves into my skin as she shudders in climax, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The walls of her squeeze around my fingers so tightly that I can barely keep moving inside her—but I do. Emelie is so wet, delicious little floods of her honey filling my palm with each stroke. I drink her down, urge her on for even more.

  My cock is hot and hard against my bare thigh, and my mating fist is throbbing to the point of pain. My balls are drawn up tight, and I don’t need to touch myself to know how wet she’s made me.

  Once I feel her relax, I withdraw from her. Suck each finger clean.

  “I need you, Ragnarr,” Emelie says, tugging at my arms, trying to pull me up on top of her. “Please. I want to come with you inside me.”

  “Only if you leave this on,” I say, tracing the gemstones of her lingerie set with two fingers. She nods, licking her lips. “I want to feel how you come for me with it on.”

  Emelie nods again, more fervently.

  I nudge her thighs open wider with one knee. She writhes in anticipation, wraps her arms around my neck and purrs as I settle my weight on her. My cock slides up along her slit, the ridge of my mating fist bumping her clit and making her gasp. My foreskin is already drawn down, the sensitive head completely exposed. I’ve never been so naked for her before.

  “Is this what you want, häxan? You want to feel my cock filling you up, pumping you full of my hoarding seed? Owning you, taking you, filling you up…”

  I reach down, tug at the beads down there, let them play across her clit. Move my hips against hers at the same time, teasing her with my shaft as well.

  “Stop teasing me and fuck me, damn you,” Emelie says, angling her hips up for me. My cock finds her entrance and we both gasp. I take her mouth in a searing kiss. I linger there at her entrance before sliding in, gaining ground inside her inch by inch, with shallow strokes of my hips.

  She claws at me like a cat, urging me on.

  —More, she begs. Harder. Stop teasing me and fuck me, damn you.