“Early.” He guides us in the direction of the house.
Roman stretches into a perfect downward dog before giving himself a shake. I don’t care what Odin says—he’s a doodle. I think whoever sold him the dog played him. Still, he’s adorable and wags his tail, happy to see us.
We enter the house, Odin takes my jacket, and we kick off our shoes, leaving them on the boot tray next to the door. Then we stand there, surrounded by nervous excitement—at least I am. All my bravado faded during the drive.
“Something to drink?” he offers.
“Water would be great. Thanks.”
He pours two glasses and gives me one. With his free hand, he clasps mine and leads me over to the couch. It’s rich, worn brown leather. We sink into the soft cushions, me in the corner and him next to me. I down my water in a few long chugs, nerves or dehydration making me thirsty.
“You’re too far away.” He sets his still full tumbler down on the wooden trunk that serves as his coffee table.
“I’m right here.” I rest my hand on his arm.
“Not close enough.” He tugs me onto his lap. “Better.”
Gazing down at him from this new angle, I slide my hands through his waves. Long hair on guys has never been my thing, but I like the wild mess, more benign neglect than a willful attempt at style.
His fingers grip and flex on my hips.
“I like this.” I tug on a strand.
“My hair?”
Nodding, I tip his head back. He lets me.
I pet his facial hair. “And the beard.”
His almost-too-wide-for-his-face mouth curves with amusement. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
“Bearded hillbilly not your type?” His smile fades.
“I don’t think I have one.”
“What about Norse gods and superheroes?” He bites his bottom lip.
My eyes flash to his.
“You called me Vegetable Thor in the woods.”
My lids close automatically, my body shielding me from the embarrassment of having to face him.
“It beats the Jolly Green Giant.” I feel his laughter shake his chest.
Bravely, I open my eyes. “I never said you were …” Did I think it, though? Yes.
“No, you didn’t, but others have. I’m not that tall.”
“Or green,” I reassure him.
“Sadly, only my thumbs.” He sticks them both up to show me.
Without thought, I lift his hand to my chest, and the energy between us switches from flirty nonsense to charged.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Odin
I’m not certain who initiates the kiss, but her hands find their way back into my hair and mine rest on the round swell of her chest. Straddling me, she’s in control, swaying in a rhythm on my lap, grinding her hips over my thickening cock. The friction creates a sweet agony.
I tug the neck of her shirt to allow my mouth more access to her skin. My fingers skate above the waist of her jeans, brushing against her softness. Breathless moans fill her kisses as my own breathing goes shallow, my hands cupping and squeezing her breasts through her bra.
Breaking our connection, she asks, “Should I take off my shirt?”
“Only if you want to.” Restraint leaves my voice ragged.
“Or you could do it.” She lifts her arms and waits.
Her tee hits the ground in a flash, leaving her in only a cream, lace bra.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I whisper into her shoulder as I drag my mouth over her warm skin. “I want to be clear you want this as much as I do. I’ll stop if you ask me to. Just say the word.”
Gripping my jaw, she tilts my head up and confirms I’m looking at her before she answers. “I’m sure. Don’t stop. Please, for the love of all that is holy and good in the world, do not stop.”
I brush my mouth against hers before sliding my tongue inside. She moans and grinds her hips.
“I want to make you feel good. Tell me what you like.” I nip her bottom lip and tug gently while my hands guide her into a rhythm.
“Take off your pants, Odin.”
Chuckling against her neck, I take a moment to appreciate a woman who’s direct.
“I’m serious.” Her tone emphasizes her words.
“I don’t doubt that. Wrap your arms around my neck.” When she complies, I slide my hands under her ass and stand. “Hold on.”
With her legs embracing my hips and her arms coiled around my shoulders, I march down the hall to my bedroom. I built the simple frame from reclaimed wood I found on the property. Nothing fancy, but the king mattress will give us more room than the couch.
I set her down on her feet and kneel to remove her jeans and then her socks. Standing back up, I admire her body, highlighted only by her bra and underwear. Using the tips of my fingers, I trace the fabric. She shivers and tries to cover her chest.
“Don’t be shy. Don’t deny me the beauty of your body.” I drag her underwear down her legs, leaving a trail of kisses in my wake.
“So sexy,” she whisper-moans as her eyes flutter.
She wiggles out of her bra and tosses it somewhere behind me.
“Your turn.” She slips her fingers under the hem of my shirt.
I help her out by reaching behind my neck and yanking it over my head. Moving onto my jeans, I quickly unzip and drop them to the floor along with my boxers. Her audible inhalation tells me she likes what she sees.
My chest rises and falls as we stare at each other, drinking in the new knowledge that comes with seeing someone naked for the first time.
“Climb on the bed,” I tell her, my voice stern and commanding.
Contemplating me, she tips her head to the side before sitting down and sliding back to the pillows.
While she did what I told her, I suspect she prefers a balance when it comes to being in control and relinquishing it. I’m happy to test this theory.
I crawl over her, encouraging her to open her legs for me so I can kneel between them. My erection bobs at attention and I give it a slow stroke as she observes me.
“You have condoms, right?” Her voice is raspy with need, and it’s beyond sexy.
“Patience, darlin’. Remember this is a multi-course meal, and we’ve only just begun.”
“Sweet lord.” She tilts her head into the pillows. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I promise my goal is the exact opposite. I want you to feel alive.”
Her eyes close and she softly whimpers.
I kiss a path from her shoulder down, lavishing each breast with attention before continuing down past her navel to the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. Using my tongue and hands, I learn the topography of her pleasure until she’s tightening around my fingers, bucking and pulsing with an orgasm.
I’ve always been amazed by and more than a little jealous of a woman’s ability to have multiple orgasms back to back with a tiny refractory time. Easing up on the pressure of my tongue, I give her a moment to catch her breath before going for round two.
When she’s flushed and molten from her pleasure, I kiss each hip a final time in reverence. “Thank you.”
She barely lifts her head from the pillows. “Why are you thanking me? I’m the one having all the orgasms.”
“And I’m grateful you shared them with me.” I lick my bottom lip, savoring her.
“You gave me the orgasms—you should take credit.”
“I wish I could, but that was all you.” I kneel and slide open the drawer of my nightstand for a condom.
“I think I came so hard I lost brain cells.” Her eyes close again as she shakes her head.
“Your body created the pleasure. I merely provided the right stimulation.”
She slowly peels open one eye and then the other.
Reaching for the silver packet in my hand, she strokes me with the other. “We could continue discussing this, or we could continue having sex. Your choice.”
> A deep groan escapes me as she tightens her grip around the swollen head of my penis. She deftly opens the condom and sheathes my length.
I can’t remember the last time I had sex and I know this won’t be an epic marathon, but I’m reassured by the thought that this is only the first of many times we’ll be having sex.
“Do you want to be on top? I’ll last longer,” I admit.
When she straddles me and slides onto me, my head lolls back with the agonizing gratification of finally being inside her. Dark waves of her hair surround us as we discover our rhythm, and her inner walls grip me when her third orgasm shakes her body. As I hit the peak, I flip us so I’m on top, chasing sensation as I come in wave after wave of pleasure.
Panting and satiated, I roll to the side to discretely dispose of the condom before scooping Daphne into my arms and kissing her.
“Thank you,” I tell her again.
“Mmm,” she softly hums. “You’re welcome.”
Daphne’s still asleep, her lips slightly parted. She smells of spring and the tender flowers of a pea vine, and the antique, stained-glass window above my bed throws a rainbow across her back.
I give myself permission to stare, taking notice of the details I’ve only skimmed over before.
Her typical expression around me varies between deer in headlights and suspicious. She senses I’m up to no good but can’t put her finger on why. I came clean about the apples today, as a peace offering. Telling myself I’m withholding the truth to protect her is a waste of time. Even I don’t believe the lie anymore.
At rest, the line between her brows disappears and the furrows of her forehead relax. There are exactly eleven freckles on her nose. I counted.
Saying she has brown hair lacks imagination. The strands are a blend of auburn, gold, chestnut, and molasses threads.
The sheet has slipped off her left shoulder, exposing a tattoo of a butterfly chrysalis. At first glance, I thought it was a bean. Given I’m a man with a few vegetable tattoos of my own, it wasn’t an odd assumption.
In the strong afternoon light streaming through the panes of glass, I can tell the skin beneath the pale green is raised like an old scar. I want to trace the texture of it with my tongue, tasting her skin, savoring the flavor of her. Instead, I use the pad of my finger to outline the ink.
She stirs and twists her neck to face me. Without moving the hair out of her face, she murmurs, “It’s a chrysalis.”
Now that she’s awake, I kiss her tattoo.
Wiggling her arm free from the sheets, she brushes enough strands away to reveal her eyes. “‘She is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are becoming new.’ Corinthians.”
“Another scripture quote?”
A little wary, she blinks at me before nodding. “One of my favorites.”
“Why not the butterfly?” I ask, my mouth still against her shoulder.
“At the time I got it, I had no idea who I’d become. I wanted to capture the promise of going through a major change and coming out the other side a better, more beautiful version of myself.”
“That’s deep. How old were you when you got it?”
“Eighteen. One of my first acts of rebellion.” She smiles—sleepy, smug, and perfect.
“And the scar underneath? What’s the story behind it?” I trace the outline.
“It isn’t a happy story.” She rolls over, blocking my view of her back. “I was getting punished for something, I can’t remember, but it was bad enough for my father to use his belt. His grip slipped and the buckle hit my shoulder.”
I recognize the detachment from trauma in her flat, distant voice.
“Fuck.” How hard was he hitting his child?
“Pretty much. I forgave both him and my mother for their actions when I cut all ties. Forgiveness doesn’t have to equal connection.” The rims of her eyes redden with unshed tears.
Pulling Daphne close, I kiss the top of her head, wanting to protect her and soothe away the bad memories of her childhood.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Daphne
Other than a few bathroom runs and his trip to the kitchen for water and snacks, we’ve spent hours exploring each other’s bodies and talking while we recuperate from having sex. I definitely am never kicking him out of bed for crumbs.
He asked about my scar and for the first time, I told the true story. In the past, if anyone asked, I’d make up an outrageous story about barbed-wire or a clumsy curling-iron incident, something to satisfy the curiosity enough to change the subject. With Odin, I wanted him to know the truth.
Sex permeates the room and my skin. Odin’s scent is all over me. We’re both sticky and in need of a shower.
He joins me and we go for round three, kissing under the spray of hot water. After, we soap each other up and he washes my hair.
Wrapped in a thick towel, I watch him change into clean clothes, mourning the loss of skin with each new item he dons.
Reluctantly, I get dressed too.
The afternoon light is fading when we finally come up for air and dinner. While something delicious simmers away on the stove, we’re sprawled on his couch, our bodies continually touching and seeking out the other.
“Have you ever been to a contra dance?” Odin breaks the quiet that has settled between us.
“I’ve never heard of it. Is it like contraband?” I twist my neck so I can see his face from my spot resting my head in his lap. He’s been playing with my hair, and it’s almost lulling me back to sleep.
“There’s a band playing live music. Think square dancing, but with more waltzing.” He makes a show of dipping forward and sweeping his right arm across his chest while swinging his left arm out to the side.
The idea of him dancing makes me giggle.
“What’s funny?” He scowls.
I sit upright and poke him in the bicep. “You.”
“I dance,” he replies, defensive.
I lift my eyebrows in challenge. “Really? I can’t imagine it.”
“Nannie Ida insisted we all learn the basics. It’s her 100th birthday and she’s requested the family hold a dance. You should come with me.”
“Like a ball? Do we need fancy clothes?” I own nothing fit for a party involving waltzing. Given my lack of budget, I can’t afford to buy something new, but maybe I could drive to Merryville to check out the thrift stores in hopes of finding something somewhere between prom and mother-of-the-bride that isn’t a wedding dress. Showing up to his grandmother’s party in a bridal gown might give the wrong message.
He snorts. “The Hills don’t know fancy. Most of the men will be in clean jeans and a collared shirt—pressed by their wives. A skirt or dress is fine. Nothing with sequins or lace—this isn’t a prom.”
Sometimes, I swear he reads my mind.
“I never went to prom, or to a formal dance of any kind.”
“Me neither.” He grins.
I purse my lips and contemplate flat-out saying no. If I don’t go, I’ll miss the sight of Odin dancing. Something in the center of my chest tells me I might regret not having that visual for the rest of my life.
“Stop thinking up excuses why you can’t go. You won’t even be partnered with me for much of the dancing. Like I said, this isn’t prom.”
His words puzzle me. “If you don’t need me to be your partner, why do you want me to go as your date?”
Holding my gaze, he narrows his eyes, dark lashes nearly joining to cover his warm brown eyes. “First off, I never said—”
I cut him off before he can finish saying this wouldn’t be a date.
“I get it. You need to bring someone, and I’m the easy choice.” I should’ve said respectable. “Not that I’m easy. I mean—”
“You done?” He doesn’t let me finish my sentence.
Ignoring his interruption, I continue. “I didn’t mean to imply you think I’m easy. I meant I’m respectable and the kind of woman you can bring to your great-grandmother’s
birthday party without scandal or feeding the local gossip mill.”
“Nope, obviously not done.” He crosses his arms and lifts his chin. “Give me a hand signal when you’re finished.”
My jaw tightens. “All I’m saying is I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure there are plenty of other women who’d be happy to go to the dance with you. Bet they know how to do-si-do and fro-di-fro. No need to feel obligated to ask me because we’ve had sex.”
Rubbing his beard-covered jaw with the palm of his hand, he observes me, probably waiting for me to continue speaking, only I’ve said all I need to say. We enter another stretch of silence, this one more uncomfortable than before.
“Is it the idea of going to my family’s party or of spending an evening dancing that has you more uncomfortable?” His knowing gaze pierces me.
“Pfft. I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Are you sure?” His lips curve a tiny bit.
I go to shrug my shoulders and find my arms locked, hands on opposite elbows.
“Words weren’t necessary when your body language was clear as a mountain stream.”
Loosening my viselike grip, I swing my arms and wiggle my shoulders, all loosey-goosey.
“Which is it? Me or being around a bunch of hillbillies?”
His misperception about himself is weird and bothersome. “Quit putting words in my mouth.”
Crossing his arms, he mirrors my former pose.
“Fine. It’s the dancing, okay? I don’t know how to dance.” I grimace at the heat settling over my cheeks.
“Nothing to know for a contra. There’ll be a caller who tells the dancers what to do.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It is and it isn’t. Think Simon Says with a fiddle and no winner.”
“I’m not sure if that makes it better.”
Meeting my eyes, reassuringly, he tells me, “I can help.”
“How?”
“I’ll teach you. If you can count, you can dance. Easy. Follow after me: one, two, three, four.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
Stranger Ranger: An Opposites Attract Romance (Park Ranger Book 2) Page 18