Stavanger Bay Well it's too late

Kjalarr was nothing short of captivated by the scent her body was giving off, though for all it was worth she in and of herself was the apple of his eye in the moment. Though it was simply: the chemical reaction induced by her own hormonal secretions, followed by the heightening (more like discovery) of a previously dormant, currently useless and archaic instinct to spread his gene pool that was near to driving him mad with the flush of desire and ache in his loins coupled by the torture of not being able to relieve himself of it. Of course he could choose to walk away and hump the nearest tree but where was the victory in that? And why? When the most divine and beautiful of Goddesses was before him. So she was teasing him …Kjalarr couldn't claim that he hated it because he didn't. Only a fool would choose a tree to the most decadent and ethereal flesh incarnation before them.

Freyja pounced on him, a low rumble of pleasure lingering in the strong column of the viking's throat. His head canted ever so slightly up towards her, claws digging into the soft soil beneath his body with restraint. Whether it was his patience or his obedience that was rewarded Kjalarr didn't know — for the lines had blurred a while ago — the touch of her tongue against in kisses against his chin, leaving a trail of fire up as she kissed up to the junction of his temple and the base of his ear, where her lips lingered. His eyes closed against the tantalizing tease of her touch, knowing that it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He wanted all she had to offer him. He felt her absence as she retreated some, though she lingered near to him, her scent strong against the flare of his black, leathery nostrils and his eyes opened, clouded with his desire as he sought the monochrome details of her face. 

He was unsure if she would retreat if he demanded more, and so he settled for another low rumble of pleasure hoping that it might encourage her.