The carriage lurched over a dip in the road, pressing Circe more firmly into his lap, and the sudden friction tore a low, broken sound from Ragnar's throat. His hips rolled upward once, his hard length unmistakable beneath the layers of silk and wool that still separated them.
Circe gasped at the contact, her thighs tightening around his, the heat pooling low and languid between her legs. She felt his length throb against her, thick and insistent, and the knowledge that he wanted her this fiercely sent a fresh rush of want and arousal through her entire body.
"Circe," he rasped, the single word ragged, sounding almost as desperate as he felt.
His hands dragged the delicate fabric of her skirts higher, inch by torturous inch, until cool air kissed the backs of her thighs and the lace edges of her stockings.
His palms followed, calloused and warm, tracing the soft skin above the garters with something close to worship.
