Chapter 21
Our last two days in Iceland pass by in a dreamy haze.
During the day, I hold Ben’s hand as we explore the sights, laughing at his stupid jokes until my ribs hurt.
At night, we explore each other in our hotel room with the window propped open and the cool breeze skating over our flushed skin.
We stay at Hótel Búeir on the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, situated on the western coast with sweeping views of the photo-famous Búeir Black Church and some of the most dramatic seascapes Iceland has to offer.
The hotel is quaint and upscale, and as soon as we checked in, I knew these two days would be my favorite of the trip.
Sure, a lot of that has to do with Ben, but a lot of it has to do with the quiet beauty of the region—something that will certainly be noted as a cannot miss in my article.
We explore the land bridge at Arnarstapi, Skálasnagaviti lighthouse, and Ytri Tunga beach.
We spend quite a bit of time at Kirkjufell mountain—which Ben tells me was featured in Game of Thrones, and I nod like that means anything to me.
Then I tell Ben it looks more like a grass-covered Hershey’s Kiss than a mountain to me, which he seems to find baffling.
Kirkjufell is a two-for-one deal because across the street from the mountain is a waterfall (shocking, I know), so if you photograph it right, according to Ben, you get both in the same shot.
A third bonus is the herd of horses grazing on the mountainside, so accustomed to people by now that they let us walk right up to them and pose for a picture.
I have Ben snap my photo with a dark brown stud with a sand-colored mane who has a look in his eye that’s equal part friendly and equal part I-may-trample-you-with-my-hooves-at-any-moment.
As great as all these experiences are, as much as I’ll cherish each one of them till my dying day, the absolute best part of these last days in Iceland is my time alone with Ben at Hótel Búeir.
The countryside is something out of a dream, sheep grazing in the fields in such large numbers that we sometimes have to stop the car on the road to and from the hotel and wait for a herd of them to cross.
There’s one sheep in particular that hangs out around the gravel parking lot, and Ben and I name him Joseph.
At night, he bleats outside our open window and Ben yells, “Quiet, Joseph!” into the dark, and I laugh every single time.
It’s all so…good. Too good. And as much as I’m loving every minute and trying to relish this time, I can’t quell the sadness slowly sneaking in over our trip coming to a close.
It’s the worst case of the Sunday scaries ever, and I think Ben feels it, too.
The real world awaits us with deadlines and Calvin Cramer III and a million other outside influences waiting to pop this bubble we’ve found here in Iceland.
I think it’s why Ben is strangely formal when he asks me to dinner at the hotel’s restaurant on the last night of our trip, insisting we get ready in our separate rooms so he can “pick me up” at seven o’clock for our first real date.
He says it’s important to him to do things right, and to get to know the person I am now, not just rely on the history we shared years ago.
His solemnity about the whole thing has my butterflies swarming, my thoughts scattered as I pull on the black lacy dress Jacklyn packed for me.
The long-sleeved number has a deep V neckline that runs down my sternum (naturally the one Jacklyn selected out of my entire wardrobe of mostly modest clothing).
I finish with my dress and zip my black ankle boots.
I’ve already curled my hair and spent an eternity on my makeup, so I spritz on perfume and am adding the last detail to my outfit—the necklace from Ben—when he knocks at my door.
I hurry and pull it open, and Ben stands before me in navy pants and a white dress shirt, sans tie and the top button of his shirt unfastened.
His unruly golden brown hair has been mostly tamed into place with some type of product, but the front pieces are still tousled, as if he just couldn’t resist the urge to run his fingers through them right before he knocked on my door.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. It’s the only word I remember with him standing there looking that good.
“Hi, yourself.” Ben’s bright green eyes skirt up my bare legs, briefly catching on the hemline at my thighs, then continue upward until they come to an abrupt halt when they reach the M charm dangling at my breastbone. The corner of his mouth pulls upward.
He leans forward to kiss me, but I lean back.
“This red lipstick will get all over you,” I warn.
“And I couldn’t give a single fuck.”
He walks me backward as his mouth covers mine, pressing my back against the open door.
The kiss is agonizingly slow and sensual at first, quickly escalating into something heated and passionate.
Something that makes me think we’ll be missing that dinner reservation after all.
But Ben eventually pulls away, releasing my hips like they’ve burned him.
“I’ve wanted to take you on a real date for as long as I can remember,” he tells me. “I’m doing this the right way.”
His determined expression fills my heart, and I rub away what I can of my lipstick from his mouth, knowing that despite my efforts, everyone in the restaurant is going to know what we were doing as soon as we walk in.
Dinner at Hótel Búeir is easily the best meal I have in Iceland.
We dine on rib eyes with mushroom sauce and truffle fries, a bottle of white wine, and raspberry crème br?lée for dessert.
By the time we finish, I’m warm and full and tipsy, and Ben insists on paying for dinner instead of charging it to the Around the Globe credit card since it’s our first date.
The things this man does to me, it’s as if he wants me to jump him here in the middle of the restaurant.
After we finish with dinner, Ben runs upstairs to grab his gray wool coat and my teal one, then we take a long drive without any particular destination in mind, pulling over into an empty gravel lot when we spot some trails leading down to the rugged coastline.
Ben doesn’t bring his camera along, and I squeeze his hand a little tighter in mine, knowing that for both of us, tonight is about living in the moment with each other.
We walk slow since I’m in a dress and heels, but that doesn’t matter, I want to soak in every second of this time. We come to a stop when the matted grass beneath our feet turns into golden sand, my heeled boots unable to go any farther.
“What do you think your family will say when they find out about us?” Ben wraps his arms around my shoulders as we stare out at the edge of the horizon, the sun dipping low over the choppy gray ocean.
I consider his question for a moment. The truth is, I have no idea how they’ll react to the news of Ben and me together. “Well, I’ve never brought a guy home before, so I’m not entirely sure.”
“Never?”
I shake my head. “Nope. But I think that has more to do with my family than with the men I’ve dated.”
“What do you mean?”
I lean back against the warmth of Ben’s chest as I think of the best way to phrase what I’m thinking.
“You know how my family is. How my brothers are. Chaotic. Wild. Loud. I’m more of a background character, you know?
They are the stars, not me. Between Marcus and Mason and my dad, there’s not a lot of room left to shine.
And that’s okay.” I pause for another beat.
“But I don’t really need that put on display for someone I’m interested in. If that makes sense.”
Turning me to face him, Ben slides his arms into the front of my coat, forearms snaking around my waist. “I never knew you felt that way.”
The thing I love most about Ben in this moment is that he doesn’t try to offer a different perspective or talk me out of my feelings.
He was best friends with my brothers for our entire childhood, but he doesn’t mention a single word in regard to them.
Instead, he presses his forehead to mine, and simply says, “I’m sorry. ”
Suddenly, I don’t want to waste another second talking about my family or work or anything really. These are my last hours in Iceland with him, and I don’t want to talk, I want to feel.
I rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him urgently, twining my fingers in the soft hair above his nape and pulling him backward with me as I part my lips.
“Let me take you back to the hotel,” he whispers against my mouth as we stumble over uneven ground.
“No. Too far away.”
Footing regained, Ben pulls back and searches my eyes, but I’m too aroused for debate. I step forward and kiss up the column of his throat, bite his earlobe between my teeth, slide my hand over his erection. He drops his forehead onto my shoulder. “Someone could see us out here.”
“I don’t care,” I answer like the depraved woman he turns me into.
He lifts his head, searching for a solution while I suck on his neck and work my palm over him. “Here…” He walks me backward, hands gripping my waist. “At least…”
When I briefly pull my mouth off him, I see we’re shielded from view of the trails by a grassy sand dune.
Not absolute protection, but with it quickly getting darker out, it should suffice.
Grasping my hips, Ben maneuvers me up against the sandy hill.
Then he drops to his knees and pushes my dress up my thighs.
“You’ll get your pants dirty,” I say in ragged breaths, but he peers up at me with brows knitted together as if asking, Really?
His fingers inch underneath my hemline, and the cool air hits all my places as he slides my underwear down my legs.
I step out of them, and Ben tucks the silky garment into his coat pocket.
He kisses up my inner thigh, and when the warmth of his mouth settles over me, all my weight sinks against the damp, salty earth at my back.
The piercing breeze and the heat of Ben’s tongue working between my legs makes for an arousing, delicious contrast, and I can’t get enough.
It’s a goddamn shame having a gorgeous man go down on me up against a sand dune on the Icelandic coast won’t make the article. That’d be the real can’t miss for our readership.
Another crisp breeze blows across my cheek, and I shiver. “So good,” I say, twisting his hair between my fingers. Ben responds by groaning his want, the vibrations between my legs casting me closer to the precipice. He wraps a hand around my calf and settles my leg over his shoulder.
And fuck…
That angle…
This view…
I fall apart in seconds, biting my lips together to muffle any sounds that threaten to escape. Ben eases into featherlight strokes of his tongue as he brings me through the aftershocks of my orgasm, fading to open-mouth kisses before he rises to his feet.
“That was…” Breathless and mind-numbingly satisfied, I don’t finish my own sentence.
Ben slides my dress back down my hips before taking my hand. “I’m taking you back to the hotel. Now.”
This time I don’t protest.
“In a way,” I muse aloud on our walk back down the trail, “that was kind of the perfect way to say goodbye to Iceland.” Although intended as a cheeky sentiment, the words create a cloudy heaviness in my chest. I don’t want to leave Iceland.
I don’t want this trip to end. But what I can’t fully work out is whether the heaviness I’m feeling is over my dream trip ending, or the fear of what awaits me at home.
“Not so fast, Ems,” Ben says, breaking my thoughts. “I have a surprise planned for you tomorrow morning.”