7. Rory
“Can I take you to dinner tonight?” I ask, standing outside Asmundarsafn. It looks like we are the last to leave as the staff close the doors behind us. I take her colder hands in my warm ones, and a zap of static electricity travels up my arm from the point of contact. There must be moisture in the air. Or maybe it’s these shoes.
“I’d like that. How about we meet at a bar on Laugavegur?”
“Is that the street you recommended last night?”
She nods, blond waves bouncing around her, and I can’t help myself. I bend to brush my lips against hers. God, I’ve been wanting to do that all day, and it’s as fucking amazing as I thought it would be. Her lips are cool and sweet and so tempting that I bend to sample some more. But I’m too slow, because her head turns as a couple of women speaking Icelandic walk past, and her cheeks flush pink.
“Do you want to translate that?” I ask, knowing the women said something to cause the reaction.
“No, the compliment will just go to your head.” She reaches up on her toes to kiss me briefly. “I’ll text you the address of the bar and see you at seven.” Without waiting for my response, she spins on her heel and walks away in the opposite direction of the one I need to take.
I watch the sway of her denim-clad hips until she disappears from view. With a quick adjustment of my semihard junk, I stride back through the quiet late afternoon streets to my accommodation. I may need to pump one out in the shower before meeting Freya, just to relieve a bit of the pressure building in my groin.
Now, that’s something I’ve never had to do before a date.
***
I can’t take my eyes off her or the gold shimmery dress that skims the curve of her butt and threatens to display a whole lot more every time she moves on the barstool. But where most women would pair the cocktail dress with heels, that’s not what Freya has done. Her foot, currently swinging at the end of her crossed legs, is encased in a classic Dr. Martens chunky platform boot laced up over her ankle. It’s kick-ass empowering, and along with the black leather jacket she’s been wearing most of the night, it’s a rock-chick style that suits her free, impulsive personality perfectly. If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that Freya doesn’t like to dance to anyone else’s tune.
And I like it a lot. It”s a sexy, untamed combination.
“Another drink?” I ask, noticing that her cherry-pink cocktail glass is empty. “Or are we moving on?”
She tilts her head from side to side as if she’s weighing the options.
Following our casual dinner, this is the third bar we’ve visited on Freya’s tour of Reykjavik’s nightlife. The first one was an intimate speakeasy-type bar, all dark tones and rich red carpets, with art covering the walls. Being a whisky lover, I felt at home. But it wasn’t the kind of place I expected Freya to take me to. I’m finding it hard to know what to expect from her. She’s a bubbly package of contradictions and surprises.
From the whisky bar, we moved on to a microbrewery. Different from her uncle’s place, it was a small bar tucked away at the side of a hotel. Easy to miss if you don’t have an excellent local guide. The beers were insanely good, and we stayed for two.
Now we are in a bar with vibrant street art covering the walls and a DJ blasting music from large speakers over a crowded dance floor. It’s after midnight, and the Saturday night party scene is just getting started.
“Let’s dance,” Freya says, jumping from the stool and grabbing my hand. I laugh along with her. It’s impossible not to be swept up in her enthusiasm. I’m thinking she’s missed home, and tonight, she wants to share all her favorite places and memories with me while reliving them again.
She quickly strips off her jacket and passes it to the bartender, who she of course knows. This time, it’s a girl she went to school with, not an ex-boyfriend. I have no desire to meet any more of those. I suspect there might be a few lurking in the bars, hoping for another chance with her. They’d be fools not to want to be with this woman.
Freya leads me to the center of the floor and, still holding my hand, begins to sway her hips seductively to the beat of the bass. This might have been a very bad idea. Or possibly an excellent one. I reel her in closer, wanting her hips moving against mine. It’s dark enough that we become one with the confusing mass of gyrating shadows. The occasional strobing light catching on Freya’s gold dress and setting her aglow. My jeans are hiding the effect she’s having on my body, but I want her to know. I want her to feel what she does to me. So I pull her closer, my arm wrapping around her waist from behind. And when her butt brushes against my erection, I feel the gasp leave her body. She turns within the circle of my arms, still pressed up close against me, then reaches up to pull my head down to hers.
How sweet her lips taste, like the first strawberries of summer, and I slide my tongue over them, savoring their softness. A whimper escapes from her, and I swallow its promise. Her lips open beneath mine, and my tongue slides in to taste her.
Freya, whisky, and the sweet cherry of her recent cocktail is a heady combination and could become my new favorite flavor. Her fingers dig deep into my hair, nails scraping against my scalp with surprising force as she tugs me closer. I never expected Freya to be shy about asking for what she wants, but this desperate clawing is fucking brilliant. This is no tentative first proper kiss; it’s fiery and demanding. I hope she wants to take this further; otherwise, I am going to be in a whole world of blue-balls hurt.
I fill my palms with her seriously hot curves, squeezing her hips closer to mine. Every delicious inch of skin beneath the thin fabric produces another tick up in the beat of my heart. I want Freya, and I’m fucking sure by the way she is grinding against my cock that she wants me too. My palms run from her narrow waist, over the flare of her hips, and down to cup her ass. I want to throw her over my shoulder like my Viking ancestors would have done. Modern civilization be damned.
She releases my lips from where she’s been holding them captive and speaks close to my ear. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
I can’t move fast enough. Taking her hand in mine, I lead us to the bar to grab her jacket, then without even stopping for her to put it on, we are at the door. The sudden shock of light after the dark interior of the bar is jarring. A midnight sun takes some getting used to.
“Your place is closest,” she explains, slipping her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. All doubt that we would end up in bed together just flew out the window and pumped another rush of blood to my dick.
She takes my hand again and begins striding up the hill to my bed and breakfast. I match my pace to hers, which is surprisingly quick.
“You seem to be in a bit of a rush,” I tease, noticing that she is showing no signs of breathlessness despite the steepness of the hill.
She laughs. “What? And you’re not? I’ve been wanting to get you naked since yesterday when you walked through the door of my uncle’s bar.”
Laughter roars up from my chest. “You just had to say.”
We reach my place, almost running up the two flights of stairs in our eagerness to reach the privacy of my room. I thank God for every one of those hours spent cursing the aches and pains of a tough workout at the local gym because I’m not even panting when I unlock the door.
With surprising strength, Freya pushes me over the threshold from behind. I like this side of her. Again, she’s nothing like the women in my past who have always expected me to take the lead. I’m learning that’s not Freya’s style. She will take what she wants when she wants it. And in this moment, that appears to be me.
Her fingers are at my waist, popping the button on my jeans and tugging the zipper down. Her hand reaches into my boxer briefs to wrap around my cock with a firm grip that has me seeing stars.
“Fuck, that feels good,” I manage to groan out before roughly burying my fingers into her silky soft hair and pulling her face to me. I crush my lips to hers. My tongue pierces through the gap in them, hungrily seeking her taste. In the last twenty minutes, I’ve developed an addiction to Freya’s mouth.
Her hands work to free me completely from the confines of my clothing, pushing my jeans and underwear down to my thighs. Then her hand is back gripping my cock, the other reaching to cup my balls.
I rip my lips from hers, gasping. “Fuck, Freya.”
“Yes please.” She half moans and half begs in a soft, husky voice before dropping to her knees before me. “Nice,” she purrs through lips that are less than an inch from touching the tip of my cock.
Grabbing a handful of her hair, I tilt her face up to mine. “Just nice? You won’t be saying nice when my dick is stretching your pussy and you’re screaming my name.”
Her mouth curves up into a sexy smile as her green eyes darken, a teasing glint lighting up their depths. “I like the promises you make. But first, I want to have a whole mouthful of fun.”
My grip loosens in her hair, allowing her to lick my crown like I’m her favorite flavor of ice cream.
I swallow another groan. I’m so fucking hard I can barely see straight. I want those sinful, teasing lips sucking on me.
She leans in further, settling into position on her knees in front of me, then tightens her hand around the base of my shaft. Her pink tongue darts out, licking the drops of precum that leak from my tip. My knees wobble.
She licks me again, running her tongue along the length, and my hips thrust forward. I want to fuck her mouth so badly. And when she finally seals her lips around my stiffened cock, my eyes roll back.
Desire roars through my veins. It’s so damn hot beads of perspiration dampen my skin. Each time her cheeks hollow as she sucks on my tip, she takes me in further. Impossibly deep in her throat, I try to hold on.
My fingers entwine in her hair again. “Freya, I can’t … Fuck!” I tug on her hair, but Freya just sucks harder, her nails digging into my thigh where she holds me. I’m hanging by a thread. But not for much longer.
My balls draw up, and all I can do is growl a warning. “I’m going to come.”
I spill down her throat in a thick stream. My release was inevitable, and when I blink her back into view, Freya is looking up at me. Satisfaction paints her beautiful face, with her eyes as innocent as a Botticelli angel and her smile as seductive as the Mona Lisa. My Icelandic princess is a temptress.
Leaning down, I lift her up to me, my lips sealing to hers in a long, gentle kiss. The frenzied activity of seconds ago has sated us for the moment. But soon, the need to press my bare skin to hers is sending a rush of blood south to my already thickening cock.
Roughly, I tug my sweater and T-shirt off over my head as one, only briefly getting stuck. And when my head is freed, Freya has dropped her leather jacket to the floor and is inching the gold dress up her body and over her head. She isn’t wearing a bra, and my first glimpse of her breasts is revealed. Her dusky pink nipples are taut, begging to be touched.
Frozen in place, I watch as her fingers inch the lace G-string down to pool at her feet. With less finesse, I unceremoniously rip my jeans and boxer briefs the rest of the way off. Finally, we stand before each other completely naked. Not touching. Just staring. She’s gorgeous, and I drink her in like a dehydrated man found wandering in a desert. While her green eyes filled with devilment travel over every inch of me.
“Very impressive,” she whispers in a husky voice that I swear has me growing harder.
Dragging my gaze back up to her face, I murmur, “Gorgeous.”
Her head tilts to the side, and her expression shifts to one of need. “Tasty,” she replies, and her teeth bite down into the pillowy softness of her bottom lip.
I reach for her waist, tugging her lushness flush against my body. Circling my free hand around to squeeze her butt cheek, I lift up, and her legs immediately spread apart to wrap around my waist. My cock brushes temptingly against her pussy. Already, I’m fully hard again, and the need to fill her consumes me.
Taking one step in the direction of the bed, I stop.
“What’s wrong?” she asks from where her face is buried in my neck.
Frustrated, I groan, and it rumbles from my chest. “It’s a fucking waterbed.”
A muffled laugh jiggles her tits against my chest. I fucking want this woman in a way that makes my blood rush south in a tsunami of need and my heart pound like it might just jump out of my chest cavity. I don’t remember ever feeling this level of need before. Over her shoulder, my gaze snags on the wooden desk. It’s not large, but it looks solid with thick carved legs.
A foot away from the desk, and I release one arm from Freya’s waist to sweep the contents off it. Pens, notepads, the still-spread-out map from yesterday, and a bunch of colorful brochures fall to the carpet at my feet before I lift Freya onto the edge.
Fuck, I want her, but first I need to know the taste of her weeping pussy.
Her arms remain hooked around my neck, and I reach up to release them. “I fucking have to taste you. And you need to lie back and take it,” I demand.
Lust sparks in the deep-green reflective pools her eyes have become. I want to get lost in their depths and never find my way out.
“Fucking do it,” she responds, bracing her hands against the desktop, one on either side of her hips. She spreads her legs wide, waiting. Then throws her head back to rest against the brick wall behind her, and long blond locks flow over her shoulders and down her back. Her nipples are pointed peaks begging for my attention. I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.
I duck my head down and take one of her tempting buds into my mouth, rolling the pebbled tip between my teeth.
Her increasingly loud gasps guide my tongue and hands, directing the pressure I exert as I massage the globes and suck and nip her pert rosy peaks.
Fuck, her tits are perfect, like every other thing about her. And another rush of desire shoots straight to my cock. But there is so much more to discover and worship.
I kneel before her, admiring the paradise between her creamy open thighs. A landing strip of trimmed, fair hair does nothing to disguise her glistening need for more.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” I wish I had more words—better ones to describe her—but she seems to have stolen them when our tongues tangled. Or maybe when she drank my cock dry. My sensory neurons have misfired, and I’m not sure they’ll ever be the same again.
Her head tilts down, her gaze merely emerald shards between her thick curling lashes.
“You want to watch me?”
She nods, and several golden strands fall forward.
“Do you want me licking?” I lean forward, place my thumbs on her pussy lips to spread them open, and swipe my tongue between her folds.
She releases a gasp on her exhaled breath. Her hands curling white-knuckle tight around the edge of the desk.
She likes that.
“Or sucking?” I ask, my gaze never leaving hers as I lean forward again and suck lightly on her clit.
One hand flies up to land on my shoulder; the sting of her nails digging into my flesh holds my mouth on her.
She fucking loves that. And so do I.
Soft sounds fall from her mouth unfiltered. And I alternate between licking and sucking, her pussy weeping on my tongue. She’s a dripping, needy hot mess, and I want to drink in every drop of pleasure I can tease from her body.
Her hips tilt up to give me better access. Rocking against my mouth, she reaches for the orgasm teetering just below the surface.
“Finger fuck me,” she begs. And she can beg all she wants, but the first thing I’ll be filling her needy pussy with is my cock, not my fingers.
“No,” I growl, briefly releasing my mouth from her. “I only want your pussy squeezing on my cock.”
She moans. “Argh! That’s so fucking hot.”
I grin, reaching one hand up to twist her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. “Come for me. Let me drink in your pleasure.”
“Yes.” The raspy whispered word falls from her lips as I capture her clit with my swirling tongue.
Her hips lift when I suck harder, and she’s bucking beneath me.
Her hand is digging into my scalp, holding my face against her as her orgasm is squeezed from her channel coating my tongue, mouth, and chin.
Aye, that was fucking hot.