Chapter 3 #2
He takes my mug, raising his eyebrow in question, and I nod, watching as he fills it from the pan on the stove.
He sets it in front of me and then grabs his own bowl of food, and I watch as he slides his long body onto the barstool next to me.
His arm brushes against mine, and I inhale, taking in his spicy scent.
“What cologne are you wearing?” I ask impulsively. “It smells lovely.”
He pauses in the act of putting his napkin on his lap. “It is something that a friend in St Ives makes for me. I shall take you to see her if you like?”
What I’d actually like is to roll around his sheets with him so I have that scent all over my body, and for a second, I imagine how that would look. My pale body against his long, lean length, his sunset hair falling into my face.
He’s watching me, now, his eyes knowing and hot. Sweat breaks out on my skin, and the air feels as if I’ve stepped too close to a fire. I suck in a breath as our gazes hold, and a wave of desire washes over me.
The mirth that clings to him like stardust is gone, and in its place is want and need, his expression becoming fierce. Then my stomach rumbles. It’s loud in the quiet room, and it breaks the moment immediately.
He roars with laughter, and it’s so infectious that I can’t help laughing too, my embarrassment fading.
“Ah, Cary, you should eat,” he says, taking his fork and doing the same.
The stew is delicious, and silence falls as we eat hungrily. Maybe that’s why I’ve had such an odd morning. I barely ate breakfast and walked away from my lunch. The thought is a relief.
Eventually, I come up for air. “So, you’re a student in England?” I ask. “What university do you go to?”
He looks confused. “I do not go to university.”
“Oh, sorry. Outside, I asked if you were a student, and you said you’d been studying the English for a while.”
“Ah, no. I am… I’m a writer.”
I have a sudden conviction that secrets lie behind his words.
“What do you write?” I ask, taking another sip of cider.
He smiles, his eyes warm. He’s really a very charming man. “Very dull treatises of England’s legends and myths.”
“I’m sure nothing you could write would be boring,” I say, my cheeks flushing at the passion I hear in my voice.
His eyes twinkle. “Thank you,” he says gravely.
“Myths?” I rush on. “Like Lyonesse and Cornish giants?”
He takes a sip of his drink, his powerful throat working. “That is exactly what I write about.”
“How interesting. My father used to tell me stories of Cornwall’s legends when I was little.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I heard all about the court of Arthur, piskies, and mine knockers.” I shrug. “It’s almost sad when you grow up and have to put the childish beliefs away, isn’t it? There’s a sense of loss.”
A beat of silence falls as he watches me, his eyes now intent and earnest. “Sad it is,” he agrees. “One should never lose sight of the other world, because it is a surety that it never loses sight of you.”
I stare at him. What did that mean?
“Hmm,” I say after a moment.
His face clears, his eyes once more a little amused. Again, I sense his amusement is not at my cost; it seems like it’s about something he couldn’t explain even if he wanted.
“Well, I’d love to believe in all that again. It’s my favourite memory of my parents.”
He hesitates. “Memory? Have they passed, then?”
“Oh no. Sorry. They’re on a cruise at the moment.”
My fork scrapes on my plate, and I realise I’ve finished my meal while we were talking. “Gosh, that was lovely.”
He smiles. “I hope you have room for dessert.”
“Always. I have a terrible sweet tooth.”
“Then I must brush up on my dessert repertoire.”
“Smooth.” I wrinkle my nose.
He chuckles. “Thank you.”
He takes my plate and his and dumps both of them in the sink. Then, grabbing a tea towel, he opens the oven door and produces a baking tray. A sweet, sugary smell fills the kitchen, and I inhale greedily. “That smells yummy.”
He sets the tray down on the counter. On it is what looks like a thick pretzel covered with icing, and I hang over it, watching as he cuts two thick slices.
“That looks so good.”
“It is kringle—a soft pastry made with cinnamon sugar and topped with icing. It is a sweet treat where I was brought up. The catholic monks brought it into my country. Such excitement amongst the children when that happened, but then our lives could be rather dull.”
“You sound like you were there.”
He seems to freeze for a second and then chuckles. “I have a vivid imagination. I would certainly have been overexcited by sugar. My mother used to make this for me.”
“Does she still live in Norway?”
“No. She died many years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sets the plate down in front of me and then opens the fridge, producing a bowl of cream. He hands it to me. It’s creamy-gold and thick, and I spoon it onto the warm pastry.
“There is no need to be sorry. I have naught but good memories, and we will meet again in the Sunlit Lands.” When I look up, he’s smiling at me. “Nothing is ever gone forever.”
“That sounds rather lovely, although I do hope it doesn’t stand for parking tickets.”
“Life is always about adventures, but even I draw the line at those.”
“Well, my adventure consisted of college, uni, and then a research job. I don’t speak another language like you, and I’ve never lived in another country.
Pretty boring when you think of it.” I take a mouthful, and the pastry melts on my tongue.
“God, this is lovely,” I say thickly through my mouthful.
He chuckles. “I am glad you like it.” He refills my glass, his arm brushing against mine, and I wonder if he wants me as much as I want him.
Sexual parity has never bothered me before, as long as both parties got off, but with him, I’d love to know he’s as desperate as I’m starting to feel about him.
I glance up to see he’s watching me intently. “I do,” he says softly.
“What?”
His eyebrow arches. “I do want you as much as you want me. I merely answered your question.”
“I didn’t ask one. I just thought it.”
He shrugs. “Your face is very expressive.”
“Said no one ever.”
“Maybe they don’t see you as I do.”
I open my mouth to scoff, but something stops me.
Maybe it’s the earnest look on his face.
Perhaps it’s the sense of some odd connection I feel here.
It’s like a ribbon that’s pulling me towards him—a little tug on my senses telling me that this man is different.
I push the silly thought away and he watches me, his eyes knowing and dark.
Then they begin to twinkle, and he gives me a very wicked smile, his full lips touched with sugar.
“Ah, Cary. The offer will remain, even if you change your mind.”
“I wasn’t aware I’d even made up my mind in the first place.”
“Didn’t you? Silly me,” he says innocently.
I consider him for a second. Wildness dances along my veins, and when he moves and his arm brushes mine, I press back.
He sucks in a breath, his eyes flaring hot and a muscle ticking in his cheek.
I stand and pick up our dessert plates and take them to the sink. “I’ll wash up.”
“Nay. You are my guest.” He gets to his feet and tries to take a plate from me.
I pull back, and the plate falls, smashing on the floor.
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry,” I say, bending to pick up the shards.
“Leave it,” he says, his tone guttural.
“Sigurd?” I look up.
His golden eyes are hot as flames. We stare at each other for a second. Then I lift, and he lowers, and our lips meet. It’s as simple and as profound as that. My life labelled BS and AS—before Sigurd and after Sigurd—because I’m already ruined by this kiss.
His lips are full and soft, and his tongue pushes into my mouth to tangle with my own.
Energy zaps between us, so fierce and intense that it makes my body tingle, and I swear I can feel my hair rising as if filled with static.
He gives a moan that sounds almost startled and pulls back.
His eyes are wide, his lips wet with a sheen that came from me.
“Did you feel that?” he asks hoarsely.
I nod, relieved that I’m not alone in this. I don’t think I can manage speech. I’m not even sure I remember my own name.
Then I’m not sure whether he surges forward or I pull him. Either way, our mouths crash together, and the kiss is wet and wanting from the start.
I twine my fingers in his hair, the soft strands silky against my skin, and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me tighter and tighter against his lean body. My head goes back with the force of his kiss, but I wouldn’t complain even if I could. It’s perfect. It’s all perfect.
Our pants and groans are loud in the quiet room, along with the slick sound of tongues and lips coming together.
I realise he’s tugging at my T-shirt, and I quickly get with the programme and wrap my hands in his jumper, our hands meeting and fumbling and getting in each other’s way. Our kiss never breaks.
When I try to pull back to concentrate on the buttons of his jeans, he gives a choked groan. “No, don’t stop,” he whispers, before retaking my mouth.
Eventually, we have to pull away to breathe, and we hang there panting.
“Wow,” I finally say faintly.
He gives me a crooked smile. His colour is high, his hair wild, and his lips full. I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.
“I want you naked,” he says.
I nod. And then nod again for good measure. “That’s the best idea.”
“I have had a few over the years.”
I gesture at his body. “You do you, and I’ll do me. It’ll be quicker that way.”
His lip twitches. “Ah, the impossible romance of it all.”