17 #3
spoke to her parents and siblings only when absolutely necessary. She didn’t trust them, she didn’t intend to get comfortable
in their home, and she sure as hell wasn’t allowing them anywhere near her heart.
She was polite and uncomplaining, but chilly and distant as northernmost Lappland. A stranger in every fundamental way.
When they adopted her, they didn’t know her.
“But we already loved you” was her father’s perennial response whenever she said so. “That heart of yours was too big to hide,
no matter how hard you tried. And you tried very hard, ?lskling .
Frankly, we were impressed by your level of commitment.
It’s a shame TED Talks weren’t around back then, because you could have given a lecture on how to remain stone-faced and uncommu nicative in the face of blatant bribery and embarrassingly effusive displays of affection. ”
They’d tried the ice cream trick on her too. It hadn’t worked.
But that was the least of it. Gods above, Astrid had latched on to her like a tick from the beginning. And whenever her younger
sister wasn’t clinging to her leg, Vincent and Filip were walking Maria to school and taking her to movies on the weekends
and sneaking her absurd amounts of candy. Worst of all, every one of the five Ivarssons could sense when her defenses were
low and pounced immediately, like lions stalking a hapless blond gazelle who was really trying very hard not to have her heart
broken yet again.
They asked if Maria would like to redecorate her bedroom, because Stina loved assembling furniture, sewing curtains, and hanging
wallpaper—especially with company. If Maria wanted to learn how to bake a raspberry roll cake the same way Olle’s late mother
had, so he could pass on the tradition to the next generation of Ivarssons. If Maria was willing to have Vincent teach her
some self-defense moves, so if anyone at school ever gave her a hard time, she could make them pay. If Maria would consider
playing catch with Astrid in the backyard. If Maria needed a tutor for any of her classes, because Filip would be delighted
to help her with whatever subjects she found difficult.
They were fucking relentless. Despite her best intentions and considerable stubbornness, she couldn’t hold the line for longer
than a few months after the adoption became final.
Eventually, when they asked if they could hug her, she said yes and hugged them back.
Eventually, she started laughing again.
Eventually, the nightmares ended and she no longer woke in tears.
Eventually, she called Stina mamma and Olle pappa .
Eventually, when they said they loved her, she said jag ?lskar dig ocks? , and her voice didn’t even shake.
Eventually, she believed them when they said they weren’t going anywhere, and neither was she. Not unless and until she was
ready. Which she hadn’t been... until six years before, when she’d boarded a plane for LA and committed to spending months
of her life far away from her family for the first time since they’d become family.
Six years before, when she’d found herself in the same sauna as the man vibrating with suppressed emotion and holding her
with such tense care in her parents’ dark, quiet house.
All that emotion and all that care were for her, experienced and offered on behalf of the girl she once was, which felt like
a different kind of embrace. Both were appreciated, but both were also needless, which he’d discover shortly.
“Turn the page, sotnos ,” she said, then planted a kiss on that very feature. “See what happens next.”
His thumb stilled on her child’s face, and after a moment, he obeyed.
Olle’s photo choices explained more clearly than words ever could. The first page, she was cold and disconnected and lost.
But a few pages later, she was smiling, posing awkwardly, giggling as Vincent tickled her, carrying Astrid on her shoulders
at a Midsommar celebration, and resting her head on Stina’s shoulder as her mother stroked her hair.
In the later pictures, she was never alone.
Then came the final section of photos. A few months after Maria’s arrival, Filip had fastened Stina’s camera to a tripod, set a timer, and raced back for their first official Ivarsson family portrait.
A year later, he did the same thing. And now the album contained over twenty of those group photos, taken whenever all of them found themselves in one place.
For a long time, looking at those photos had made Maria cry. Now it only made her smile.
When Peter reached the final page, he closed the album very carefully and set it on the little table beside the chaise. “Next
time, I’ll ask for the stories behind each picture. Tonight, though, I have something else I need to do.”
“Oh?” Maybe he wanted to sleep now?
When she twisted her neck to see his expression, it told her nothing. But his jaw still ticked with whatever emotion had brought
high color to his face. The long muscles of his legs remained knotted with tension.
He was holding her very, very tightly.
Even though he’d seen the final family portraits, seen how happy she became and how happy she’d remained, his distress hadn’t
eased. It had only... shifted, in a way she didn’t understand.
Until his hold around her shoulders loosened, but not to let her go.
Instead, he slid those big hands up her belly and cupped her breasts, unhurriedly thumbing her nipples to aching hardness.
With his chin, he shifted her hair away from her right ear. The prickle of his beard, the heat of his breath, sent fire between
her legs.
“The guest shower is pretty generous,” he murmured, and licked the rim of her ear.
Resting her hands atop his, she let out a shaky breath. “Not generous enough for two people of our size to fuck.”
“Hmmm.” His teeth closed around her lobe, and she shuddered. “Just generous enough for me to make you come with that detachable
showerhead.”
Hand jobs didn’t require much space either, despite the impressive size of his growing erection against her lower back. Clearly she hadn’t given the matter of rabbitlike-fucking sufficient consideration, and Peter had. That kind of initiative and creativity deserved a reward, did it not?
When he lightly pinched her nipples between his knuckles, she pressed her leggings-clad thighs together. “We’ll have to be
quiet.”
Because the water would drown out some noise, but not the volume of sounds the two of them usually made.
“I’ll put a hand over your mouth,” he told her.
Gods above, why did the thought of that only turn her on more?
As if in demonstration, he slid one hand upward until it covered her parted lips, and stroked the other lower, over her stomach
and down farther. Wedging a hand between her legs, he palmed her pussy. Squeezed. And as promised, her breathy moan emerged
faint and muffled, made private, offered to him alone.
“Up.” After a final, firm stroke of his thumb over the fabric covering her clit, he let go and started maneuvering them both
off the chaise.
As soon as they managed to wiggle themselves free, he snatched her hand and propelled her forward, up the stairs and into
the guest bathroom.
Turned out, there was plenty of room for a detachable showerhead aimed at her clit and deployed at various intensities, because
Peter was a fucking tease. Only...
He didn’t seem playful. His intensity didn’t diminish, even for a moment.
Not when he let the water drift away from where she needed it every time she got close to orgasm, or twisted the showerhead until the spray became too diffuse and gentle to do anything but provoke her further.
Not when a relentless, targeted stream of water hit her at just the right spot, and he finally—finally—let it remain there until she arched and came and cried out against his hard palm, nearly collapsing against the thick arm bracing her back.
Not when she shoved him against the wall, covered his own mouth, and gripped his dick exactly how he liked it, pumping him to a fast, hard orgasm.
Not even when they held each other afterward, limp and spent and waterlogged, or when he went to his knees by the sink to
dry her with his own towel.
His lips remained pressed in a grim line. His intent focus on her never wavered. He kept at least one hand on her at all times
until the moment they said good night. His mouth devoured hers outside her bedroom doorway, his fists buried deep in her hair,
before he abruptly let her go and stalked away.
He was trying to prove something. She could recognize that much.
She wished she had the slightest idea what it was.