Chapter 3
Chapter Three
I take my time in the shower, letting the heat and the steam chase away my chills.
I pinch some of his shower gel, and the glass enclosure fills with the scent of sandalwood and amber.
It’s like he’s in here with me, and for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to shower with him, to have his big body sliding wet against my own.
My cock stirs, and I give in, briefly lowering my hand and fisting my length.
It’s stiff and throbbing, and I can feel the seed slippery on the head.
My whole body tingles, and I bite my lip to hold in a moan.
“Sigurd,” I whisper, his name falling from my lips without any control.
My eyes fly open as I hear a low rumble.
It’s deep and fills the room, and my hand falls from my cock. The sound dies away, leaving only the noise of running water.
What the hell was that? Is there a train line running near here?
I shake my head, laughing at myself. Of course, that must be it. It accounts for that rumbling I heard earlier too. It was a train passing on a nearby track.
My mood is broken, so I shampoo my hair quickly and then climb out. The towels are set on a heated rail, and I sigh in pleasure at the warm, soft fabric. My flat is small, and the shower enclosure is tiny. Every time I turn inside it, the curtain clings clammily to my skin. This is luxury.
Knotting the towel at my hips, I peek into the bedroom.
It’s empty and there are some clothes laid out on the bed.
They turn out to be sweatpants and a tee.
He’s a lot taller than I am, so I roll up the legs a couple of times and slide on the T-shirt, which advertises a surfing competition in Newquay.
It’s far too big on me, so I knot it at the hem.
I run my hand through my hair and catch sight of myself in a big mirror resting against one wall.
I look faintly ridiculous—like a child playing dress up.
Nevertheless, something in me thrills at wearing his clothing.
The mirror is huge, and the frame has intricate patterns carved into it.
Intrigued, I step closer. My eyes narrow.
They look very similar to the carvings I imagined I saw on the rocks down at the beach.
With a sudden shock, I realise the glass has grown cloudy.
The clear, reflective surface is now opaque, almost like milk, and even as I watch, it swirls slowly.
I reach out, and the surface roils as if liquid is moving away from my touch.
There are lights in it now, almost like stars, and when my finger touches it, there is no glass, just a silky feel like satin slipping through my fingers.
“I would not do that, Cary.”
Sigurd’s voice startles me, and I spin around to find he’s leaning against the doorjamb, dressed now in jeans and a navy jumper with a white T-shirt peeking out at the neck. Ironically, he looks even more like a Viking now than when he was naked. He’s also rather incongruously holding a tea towel.
“S-Sorry,” I stutter. “The mirror is very strange.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I turn back to the mirror and suck in a sharp breath.
The mirror’s surface is once again clear, and my reflection looks back at me. My eyes are enormous and worried.
“But it didn’t look like that a minute ago,” I say, spinning back to him urgently. “Did you see?”
He nods gravely, and I relax, knowing he saw it too. The way my day’s going, I was starting to worry about my mental health.
He says, “It is always unwise to touch things without knowing their provenance.”
“What do you mean?”
He walks closer, and I look back into the mirror, seeing his reflection next to mine. We look strangely right together, with him tall and lean, hovering almost protectively over my slighter figure. I quickly push that thought away before it takes root and makes me do something stupid.
His eyes hold mine in the mirror. “Objects have a life of their own, do you not think?”
“It’s not something I’ve ever considered,” I confess.
“Ah, well. All things in this world carry flashes of their history, and sometimes that history can be a dark one. It is why the old ones always said to look and not to touch.”
I flush, feeling mortified. “I’m sorry for touching something that belongs to you.”
He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me so I’m facing him. I relax when I see the openness of his face. There’s no anger there at all, just a kind steadiness.
“You do not need to apologise to me, Cary Sutton. The blame lies on me. I forgot the mirror was out. I shall put it away. But you may safely handle any of the other possessions in my hall.”
“Hall?”
He checks. “House. Sorry. My language is not so good sometimes.”
“You speak English wonderfully.” I grin. “It’s much better than my Norwegian.”
His face clears, and he smiles, but it’s a funny smile, almost wistful. “Come. You shall sit in my kitchen and eat my food. It has been a long time since I had company such as yours.”
“You should really try getting out more.”
He laughs, and it’s such a wonderful sound—loud, robust, and filled with a genuine amusement that makes me feel proud to have caused it. I immediately want to make him do it again and again.
I follow him down the corridors and into a kitchen. As with the rest of his home, it’s luxurious. The oak cupboards look like they’re handmade, and the counters are marble.
Fairy lights have been strung over the tops of the cupboards, and they twinkle merrily. He guides me to a barstool at a huge breakfast bar. “Now you shall seat yourself and be comfortable.”
“Something smells nice,” I say, and my stomach rumbles. It’s loud in the quiet room, and I flush. “Sorry,” I mumble.
He laughs. “Ah, I believe I shall not have to possess much skill preparing food. Anything would satisfy that beast in your belly.”
I snort and watch as he sets a white earthenware mug in front of me. It contains an amber-coloured liquid, and steam wafts over the surface. “What’s this?” I ask.
“’Tis wassail—a warm cider. It is always drunk at Jol. It will put hair on your chest.”
I laugh. “Something my waxer does not like to hear.”
His eyes kindle. “Ah, I like hair on a man.”
“Well, you’re bound to be disappointed in me, then. I’m less hairy than a hippo.”
He roars with laughter, and it’s so infectious that I join him. Then he nods at the drink. “It will warm you until I can.”
I give a mock groan. “Has that line ever worked?”
He winks. “You would be surprised, Cary Sutton.”
“What is Jol?” I take a sip of the cider and moan in pleasure. It’s warm and perfectly spiced.
I look up to find him watching me. His gaze is fastened on my lips, and as I lick them, his eyes flare bright and hot.
Then he blinks, and the expression is back to his brand of flirty friendliness.
He’s very charming. I know I could have him, but I’m equally sure that if I choose not to, he’ll be a gentleman.
“’Tis the old Norse word for the feasts and celebration of the winter solstice.”
“Pardon?”
His eyes twinkle. “Ah, you asked what Jol is.”
“It sounds like yule.”
He smiles. “That is where it came from. Your English church wrapped the old pagan customs around it like ivy around the yew tree. Intertwined and indistinguishable. The perfect handbook for conquerors.”
He fiddles with his phone and soon Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” plays on a speaker.
Then he turns to the hob, where pans are steaming and sizzling.
I take another sip of the drink, looking around the kitchen with interest. It’s evident that he enjoys cooking.
The room is filled with every gadget you could want, and a wide pot of herbs is flourishing on the windowsill.
It’s completely unlike my own kitchen, where herbs lie down and accept their death as soon as they’re planted.
I’ve hopefully bought them in little packets, only to find them weeks later in liquid form tucked behind the beer in the fridge.
A bowl is set in front of me, and I stop my nosy perusal of the room to look down. “Stew?”
He nods. “Finnbiff with mashed potatoes and lingonberry jam. I tend to reach for the dishes of my homeland when I’m not concentrating.”
I take a bite and groan. “God, that’s lovely.”
He smiles, his face open and pleased. “I am glad you approve.”
“What meat is this?”
“Well, the dish is usually made with reindeer.”
I freeze, my spoon midway to my mouth. “Reindeer? Like Rudolph?”
His eyes twinkle. “Not at Christmas. I do not believe Santa would approve.”
“Thank god. I’ve managed to stay off the naughty list all year so far.”
He laughs. “Somehow I do not believe that. Anyway, ’tis beef. Would you like more cider?”
I realise that my mug is empty. “Better not, or I won’t be able to drive home.” I remember my car with dismay. “Shit. I’ve still got to go and hire a car.”
“Why not stay here?”
“Pardon?”
He gestures around. He seems to talk with his hands, and it’s very endearing. “I have many bedrooms. You could sleep in one, and tomorrow I will take you to Penzance, and you may hire another car.”
“It’s that simple?”
His eyes twinkle. “Life is complicated, Cary Sutton, but some things are easy—like hospitality and a welcome to a pretty stranger on a cold day.”
I take a breath, feeling the cider warming my veins and giving me courage. “And what if I didn’t want the spare room?” I whisper.
His eyes flare. “Ah, then you would be my favourite type of guest.”
I start to laugh, and he chuckles too. When I sober, I smile at him. “I somehow think they’re probably your only type of guests.”
He shrugs, and our gazes tangle, heat kindling to life in my belly. I lick my lips, and his eyes flare as he watches me. Doubts and concerns swim in my head, but then I breathe out and they’re gone. “If you don’t mind, it would be lovely to stay the night.”
“I am honoured,” he says solemnly, but his grin is far too broad and pleased. As if I’m doing him a great favour, when in reality, it’s completely the opposite.