His eyes fluttered shut, as though he were savoring the warmth of her touch, the gentle drag of her fingertips on his skin, the tender pressure of her palm against his cheek.
Circe's breath caught in her throat.
His words still lingered in the air between them, soft, yet somehow heavy, like a thick layer of smoke that refused to fade.
I missed you.
It wasn't the kind of thing Ragnar said lightly. He wasn't a man that was used to giving out sentiment or idle confessions, and perhaps that was what made the words so disarming and so utterly impossible to brush aside.
Her hand was still on his cheek, her thumb resting on the sharp line of his jaw. Beneath her touch, she could feel the steady thrum of his pulse and the subtle shift of his jaw as he watched her, waiting for something, for any kind of response to his declaration.
A sign to show him that she felt even a fraction of what he did during his absence.
He found nothing.
