Ragnar's pulse hammered in his ears as he hovered over Aria, the mattress dipping under his knees. His cock brushed her entrance—warm, slick already—but she pressed a small hand flat against his chest.
He stopped dead. Shit. Too fast. She's gonna think I'm some animal who doesn't care.
She didn't say anything right away. Just turned her head toward the window where the night wind was rattling the curtains, making everything feel colder than it already was.
"Close it," she murmured. "Too cold."
The knot in his stomach loosened a fraction. He nodded, climbed off her quick, crossed the room in four long steps. The shutters groaned when he forced them shut and dropped the latch. Silence settled back inside, thicker now.
When he turned, Aria was already up, clutching the sheet around herself like armor. Small, green, suddenly looking half her age.
"I'll change," she said, voice so soft he almost missed it. "Into something… better."
Before he could even open his mouth she slipped toward the little changing alcove at the back. The door clicked closed.
Ragnar dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floorboards. What's she doing? Regretting it already? Regretting *me*? Twenty minutes dragged by. He kept glancing at the door, half expecting her to come out crying or—worse—not come out at all.
Inside the alcove Aria was shaking. Too much skin and he'll think I'm a slut goblin throwing myself at the tall human. Too covered and he'll think I'm boring, not worth the trouble. She yanked dresses off hangers, tried one, hated it, tossed it. Another. Another. Pile growing. Heart racing faster with every minute.
He's going to get bored. He's going to leave.
Her fingers caught on something buried at the bottom—thin white fabric, almost sheer, tiny pink roses stitched along the neckline and hem. Her mother's gift. From when life still felt like stories instead of survival.
She pressed it to her face for a second, eyes stinging. Then she pulled it on.
When the door finally opened Ragnar stood up so fast the bed creaked.
Aria stood in the doorway, the nightgown clinging to her like it was painted on—every small curve outlined, nipples dark little shadows under the cloth, roses sitting soft against her green skin.
He crossed the room in two strides, pulled her against him, kissed her hard. She froze for half a heartbeat, then her hands settled on his shoulders, hesitant but there.
"Best thing I've seen since I landed in this world," he muttered against her ear, voice rough. Better than any overpriced lingerie back home. Real.
He scooped her up—light as nothing—and carried her back to the bed. Laid her down gentle, climbed over her again. Missionary first. Eyes on eyes.
He lined up, pushed slow. She was tight—goddamn tight—and there was that quick resistance, then the tiny wet heat of her giving way. A thin line of blood slid down her inner thigh.
Aria sucked in a sharp breath, fingers digging into his sides. Her legs came up, hooked behind his lower back like she was anchoring herself to him.
He sank deeper until he bottomed out, then just stayed there a second, letting her adjust. Her warmth wrapped him like a fist—soft, living, pulsing faintly. He dropped his forehead to hers, breathing her in.
"You okay?" he whispered.
She nodded quick, nails pricking his skin. "Keep going."
He started moving—slow rolls at first, feeling every inch of her grip him. Her breaths came shorter, little ah-ah-ah sounds slipping out each time he filled her. Shy at first, then louder when he found the angle that made her back arch.
Ragnar's thoughts splintered. This is the same girl who stared daggers at everyone in her father's hall—cold, untouchable. Now she's under me whimpering, thighs trembling, pussy fluttering every time I hit deep.
The thought lit something feral in his chest.
He sped up. Bed started creaking under them. Her moans turned into broken little cries—higher, needier. He hooked one of her knees over his elbow, opened her wider, drove harder.
"R-Ragnar—" Her voice cracked.
He shifted again—pulled out slow, flipped her onto her stomach. She gasped when he tugged her hips up, knees under her. Doggy now. He gripped her waist, slid back inside in one long stroke.
Aria buried her face in the pillow, muffling a long whine. Her walls clamped down hard, slicker now, coating him. He could feel every ripple when she squeezed.
"Fuck—you feel so good," he groaned, mostly to himself.
He leaned over her, chest to her back, one hand sliding under to cup a small breast, thumb brushing the stiff peak. She pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, greedy little movements that made his balls tighten.
Another shift—he sat back on his heels, pulled her up so she was kneeling upright, back against his chest. Reverse now. He wrapped one arm around her middle, the other hand dipping between her thighs, fingers finding her clit—swollen, slippery.
Aria's head fell back on his shoulder. "There—right there—"
He rubbed tight circles while rocking up into her, shallow but hard. Her breathing turned ragged, hips jerking. He felt her start to shake—really shake—then she clenched so tight it dragged him right to the edge.
"Gonna come," he warned, voice gravel.
"Do it inside," she gasped. "Please—"
That did it. He slammed deep one last time, hips locked, spilling hard—hot pulses that seemed to go on forever. Aria cried out sharp, walls milking him, her own release hitting in frantic little spasms. She trembled all over, fingers scrabbling at his forearm.
They stayed like that a minute—panting, stuck together—until he softened enough to slip free. A thick bead of cum followed, sliding down her thigh.
Ragnar eased them both down sideways, pulling her back against his chest. She curled into him, still trembling faintly, one small hand resting over his heart.
Exhaustion hit like a hammer. Eyes heavy, bodies sticky, they drifted toward sleep.
Somewhere far off, back in the kobold village, trouble was already moving.
But right now, none of that reached them.