12. Jana
Twelve
Jana
Y ou know, you might think you’re ready to have sex for the first time, but when a broad-chested, muscly, six-foot-something adventurer stretches out on top of you, it’s only natural for alarm bells to ring in your brain. Especially after feeling his cock, and measuring the thick girth with your fingers. Especially when the blunt head presses against your core, and all you can think is: no freaking way.
No way is that thing gonna fit inside me.
No way is this meant to work.
There’s been some administrative error. Evolution? I’d like a word.
But: “ Please , Stig,” I hear myself whisper, despite the panic clanging in my skull, and yep, my traitorous body is still at it: arching and clawing and writhing against the man on top of me, urging him with every passing moment to push inside me already. The voice of reason is just one tiny voice in my head, drowned out by a loud chorus of yes and finally and lick him, you know you want to.
And I do. I really, really do want to. I’ve wanted to lick Stig Hansen since the first night I met him. And he’s been wandering around, toweling his damp hair after a shower, taking his sweet time to button his shirt in the morning, smiling and teasing, generally looking like a sexy popsicle on legs.
So when Stig pushes the first inch of his cock inside me, I don’t freak out and make him stop. No way am I going to ruin this chance with my nerves. Instead, I distract myself from the sting of his intrusion by licking the patch of skin beneath his ear.
A rumble spreads through Stig’s chest, vibrating into my body like a lion’s purr. He mutters something under his breath, something I don’t catch, then turns his head to kiss me long and deep and filthy, his cock still only buried in me by an inch.
I whimper into his kiss. My hips lift and squirm, and somehow, Stig’s lips on mine make me instantly so much wetter. That burning stretch, that uncomfortable sting, it fades so quickly it’s almost like I imagined it.
And now I’m empty. Panting and writhing and desperate to be filled.
Still kissing me, Stig palms my ass with his free hand, squeezing it hard like he owns it.
He does. Oh my god, he does.
So when he lifts me off the bed, scooping one arm beneath my back, and sits me up in his lap to take his cock—I let him. I’m pliant in his arms, slick and needy and ready to be used, damn it, used as a plaything for Stig Hansen’s pleasure. Want him to take out every ounce of his pent-up frustration on my body. Want him to show no mercy, none at all.
Stig’s teeth scrape against my collarbone, then he’s hunched over my boobs, sucking and nipping at the stiff peaks, muscles flexing in his strong, tan back—and all the while he thrusts ever so slightly deeper, deeper, deeper.
I cling to the adventurer like a climber huddling against a rock face in a storm, the sticky evidence of my arousal leaving glossy patches on my inner thighs. When I glance down between our bodies, those patches shine in the lamplight, showing the exact spots where I’ve ground down on Stig and got his thighs messy too. And the more Stig fills me, the more that solid girth stretches me open and claims me for his own, the harder it gets to remember why we weren’t doing this before.
Because this… this is the best thing I’ve ever felt.
Every slight movement sends pleasure crackling down my spine. Every time he licks a new patch of skin, I quiver.
“Doing okay?”
Stig sounds as winded as I feel, and when he raises his head to look at me, his eyes have never been so blue. With those blown-out pupils, he looks wired, drugged out of his senses by what we’re doing, and you know what? The feeling is mutual.
I whimper, grinding down on his cock. He’s wedged way deeper now, but there are still a couple more inches to go, and I want more. Want every part of this man. Every ounce.
Stig huffs out a breath, then palms my ass cheek again, holding my gaze as he spanks it lightly.
Fifty volts shoot through my system, lighting up my nerves like live-wires. I stiffen in Stig’s arms, head tossed back, gasping in surprise—then blink at him, dazed and so freaking turned on.
He grins at me, slow and sinful.
Then spanks me again.
My hips jerk. I push down on his cock, the movement instinctual, taking another inch inside me, my fingernails clawing at Stig’s chest.
He snarls.
Then pushes up as deep as he can go.
After a couple false starts, we find a rhythm together, bodies grinding close, my ass bouncing on top of Stig’s strong thighs, his hands surely leaving bruises where he grips my hips. And it feels so good , so tickly and overwhelming and delicious, and god, I never want to stop. Never want to sleep or eat or walk again—just want to keep doing this.
“Jana.” A bead of sweat trickles down Stig’s temple, and he stares at me as he thrusts up into my body, lip pulled back and teeth bared. So much more intense than he usually looks. “ Jana. Fuck.”
My orgasm takes me by surprise. Usually, when I’m—ahem—taking care of my own business, it’s a slow build, something I craft and shape and coax into being, my eyes squeezed shut so I don’t get distracted and let it slip away. But with Stig, it’s like he tilts his hips and strokes my insides with his cock right there , and then I’m blown over by a sudden gale-force wind.
It’s stronger and wilder and more intense than anything I’ve ever felt on my own.
A force of nature. Dangerous and untamed.
“Yeah,” Stig pants into my neck, still grinding between my thighs, working me through the waves. “ Yeah , Jana. Give it to me. Show me how you feel when you come.”
His thumb finds my clit and chases me even higher somehow, daisy-chaining another explosion after the first. My voice cracks as I cry out, weak from exhaustion and pleasure, and our bodies are wrapped so tightly together now that we might never untangle. Blurring into one.
Stig waits until the last aftershocks quake through my body, then wedges as deep as he can get between my thighs. With two hands clamped on my hips, holding me tight to his lap, Stig Hansen groans and fills me with three long, hot spurts. It’s filthy—and so delicious.
The cabin seems quieter afterward. We cling together, still kneeling up in the center of the messy bed, limbs trembling and bare skin tacky with sweat.
And all the while the fire pops in the log burner, as the wind moans past the cabin window and an owl hoots somewhere out in the darkness.
* * *
Reality takes a few hours to settle in. The reality of what we’ve done—the line we’ve crossed—doesn’t really catch up to me until I’m lying in bed hours later, my belly full from dinner and my body pleasantly sore from round two, watching Stig Hansen breathe steadily on the other pillow.
He fell asleep so easily. Like switching off a lamp. One minute, my adventurer was awake and chatting to me, teasing and smiling and sneaking one hand beneath my pajama top to stroke my waist—the next, his head was tossed back and his breaths turned slow and deep. How does he do it?
Chewing on my lip, I stare at Stig in the lamplight, memorizing every faint line at the corner of his eyes; every burnished gold beard hair; the divot in his square chin. The harsh line of his cheekbones and the angular lump of his Adam’s apple.
This face is so precious to me. Even his flaws are perfect in my eyes—the worry lines and old scars.
Oh, jeez. I’m screwed, aren’t I?
Anxious bees buzz in my stomach, getting louder and busier until there’s a whole killer swarm in there. And when I first lay down in this bed with Stig, I was relaxed and happy, but now that I’m alone with my thoughts…
I’m rigid as a plank. Sweating under my pajamas, and not for fun reasons this time.
A high-pitched noise starts ringing in my ears.
My hand shakes as it reaches toward Stig, resting gently on the adventurer’s chest. His heart thumps steadily beneath my palm, strong and sturdy even through his gray cotton t-shirt, and I wet my lips. Force myself to blink.
My breaths are coming shallow now. The bees buzz angrily inside me, stinging me with constant zaps of nerves.
Because… what was I thinking? What am I doing ?
This man wants a marriage of convenience from me. A partnership on paper; a fake arrangement to win some bet, nothing more. I’ve got no business catching feelings for this man, let alone sleeping with him, and now…
My thighs squeeze together reflexively, and I wince against the ache inside my body. Earlier, I relished that soreness, loving every twinge and reminder of what we’d just shared, but now the faint ache taunts me.
I gave him everything. Let him touch me in ways no other person has.
And… how can I possibly do this? How can I ‘date’ Stig Hansen, and marry him knowing full well that it’s a transaction, nothing more?
How can I go through the motions of the thing I want most in the world, knowing that it’s all hollow and meaningless, without breaking my own heart?
Answer: I can’t. Obviously.
…Shit.
A million worries rattle around my head as I sit up in bed, the covers rustling and pooling around my waist. Worries about things like accommodation, and where the hell I’m going to live over the winter season; things like my friend Tess and what she’ll think of me after this bonehead mistake.
But the loudest, most insistent worry in my head is for one person: Stig.
Will he be okay? Will he hate me for leaving?
Or will he move on without a second thought, and find another arranged wife? Is it awful that I’d hate that even worse?
My throat is tight as I swing my legs out of bed. My bare feet pad over the floorboards, softened in places by the rug, as I gather my belongings and stuff them in the biggest backpack I have. The circle of lamplight is small, leaving the rest of the cabin in shadow, but I move around those areas by memory, feeling my way in the dark.
This is how I came here, after all: stealing in like a thief, carrying one single backpack of belongings. Wracked with guilt and sick with shame, but too desperate to turn back.
It’s no different now, fleeing from the man who offered me shelter and friendship and who, only a few hours ago, taught my body how to come fully alive for the first time. Stig breathes steadily in the bed, crashed out deep in sleep, completely oblivious as I tiptoe around him and pack my things.
Every now and then, I glance in his direction. Every time, the sight of him is a punch to my chest.
The slack, trusting expression on his handsome face; the single arm tossed casually over his head, fingers curled into his palm. This is something I’ve learned over our brief time together: you don’t really notice the strain that Stig Hansen carries around in his face and body until he falls asleep and it finally melts away.
It doesn’t take me long to pack, but I linger anyway. Hover at the cabin’s front door, fiddling with my keys and warring with myself, partly wanting to climb back into bed and melt into Stig’s arms, and partly wanting to sprint out into the darkness before I can break my own heart any worse.
Stig makes a hoarse sound in his sleep and rolls over, one arm stretching across my side of the bed.
My side. If only.
Nothing in this cabin is really mine. It’s all stolen goods, all borrowed temporarily—including the man asleep in the bed. If I want to keep even an ounce of self-preservation, I need to remember that.
My key scrapes as it slides into the lock. The door creaks as it opens, a wave of cold air crashing inside. With one last glance, I check on Stig.
He doesn’t stir.
Stars glitter in an inky blank sky, and the air is so cold my breath forms chalky clouds. Heart raw, body sore, I step out onto the deck and heft my backpack higher on my shoulders. The door clicks shut behind me, my stolen key tucked safely beneath the mat.