The heavy doors to their private chambers clicked shut behind them, sealing out the noise and pageantry of the coronation day. Ragnar let out a long breath. His patience had frayed hours ago, worn thin by the endless formal greetings he had been forced into, and the sight of Circe in that crimson gown all day. The fabric had tormented him from across the throne room, drawing his eyes to the swell of her breasts and the sway of her hips with every graceful step.
Even after years together, his desire for her burned hotter than ever. Some days, it was a miracle he managed to get anything done at all.
Circe crossed to the vanity and sat down. She reached up and began pulling pins from her hair. He could hear each soft click as they landed on the wooden surface.
Catching his reflection in the mirror, she offered him a small smile, the kind that still made his heart flutter after all these years.
