There was no doubt in Ragnar’s mind, clouded with fever as it was, that he had successfully managed to annoy Thistle, if her huff and following words were of any indication upon that. Insufferable. What an extremely accurate term to describe her man child husband. In fact, it was not immaturity that spurred him to do it so much as it was his reigning curiosity as to what Thistle would do, if she would really try to force them down his throat as she promised in that deadly voice that had brought a smirk to his lips. It was a test, this game (though she already knew he was possibly the worst patient ever in the history of patients), even if it was crafted by his delirium to sate his curiosity to see just how far she would go for him, how much she loved him. The end result would probably let him with the deduction that he didn’t deserve her - and maybe, truly, he didn’t. His laugh was a coy and devilish sound, born of his delirium and the mirth this game gave of him even as she denied him what he wanted. If Ragnar had been thinking with any semblance of logicalness he would not have kept pressuring for what he wanted, but he wasn’t, exactly, in his right mind. He had given over to the fever and carnal desire, finding that he didn’t want to keep ignoring that tempting scent she was putting off, similar, nearly identical to the scent of her in her heat season despite that she was heavily pregnant.
He let out a soft grunt of surprise when she sat down on him then, pinning him - in a manner that left him feeling dissatisfied - helplessly to the ground.