Nordic Lessons

by Christine Edwards

  She shakes her head. “I really am at a loss for words, Mikkel. Your timing was perfect tonight. To be able to help me, I mean.”

  She blushes again, staring down at the carpet. It’s so damn sexy when she does that.

  I’m getting harder by the second. I need to get the fuck out of here ….

  The words spill from my lips. “God natt og drøm søtt min skjønne.”

  Wide eyes shoot up to stare innocently at me.

  She hasn’t a clue what I just said.

  I release her soft hand and turn to leave, but she surprises me with a light touch on my bicep, right below the sleeve of my tee. I turn back to look down into her face.

  She tilts her head to the right and asks in a curious whisper, “Wait, please tell me, what did that mean?”

  I reach out to run my left index finger slowly down one of her luxurious, shining strands of hair. Surprisingly, she doesn’t pull back.

  I repeat it again, slower this time. “God natt og drøm søtt min skjønne.” I lift my chin up to her door, “If you’re that curious, Elora, go inside and look it up.”

  With that I turn on my boot heel and stride out the way I came, already beyond certain that I have to see her again…soon.

  * * *

  I stare at the patch on his broad back as he disappears behind the elevator doors. I turn and unlock the door quickly. Once inside the large, dark space, I toss my handbag onto the zebra wood entry table, kick off my heels, and race for my laptop. I plop down onto the sectional with my bare feet tucked halfway beneath me and my computer resting in my lap. Leaning forward, I type the words into my Google translator, hoping that my spelling is close enough.

  Come on … what did he say to me?

  The screen instantly pops open. “Good night and sweet dreams, my beauty.”

  My heart flutters as I touch my lips with the tips of my fingers and say the last foreign words out loud, “Min skjønne.” My beauty.

  Oh, my. I really like that.

  I flip over the matte black business card and hold it up to the light of my screen. It’s in English. He must have different versions depending on the client. The font is an icy, pale gray color. All the letters are set in a slightly raised, thick, menacing-looking script.

  Heavy’s Custom Cycles

  Mikkel Torvik ~ Owner

  Appointment Only

  The telephone number and address are included.

  Even now, in the safety of this secure apartment, my mind races with the recollection of our intense encounter. His hypnotic eyes … my God, that scent on his tanned neck … those thick, manly hands and oh, yes, the wicked things that he could do to me with them ….

  I quickly set my laptop aside and slide onto my back, leaning into the shadows playing against the cushions of the buttery-soft, suede sofa. In a rush I tug impatiently at the hidden zipper on my hip. As soon as it’s free I shove the skirt down and kick it off my ankles. Next, I quickly work my ecru lace Brazilian bikinis down to my feet. Kicking them off I spread my bare legs wide and bring my right hand, the one he just held moments ago, up to my nose to breathe deep. His scent still lingers. So gorgeous, ever so dark … like him.

  I lower my hand and allow my fingers to roam down through the soft down of my sex as my eyes slide shut. I fantasize that I’m engrossed in one of my abstracts. My headphones are blasting and I’m unable to hear him stalking me from behind. Before I know it, he grabs me, wrenching down my black leggings as I cry out and drop my paint tipped brush to the floor.

  He wastes no time ripping my thong clean off me in one sure tug, and the next thing I know, I’m on the ground beneath him. He positions me on all fours and I swing my head around to look at him. His face is a mask of blatant lust as he wrenches open those well-abused jeans … determined to take exactly what he wants.

  My fingers play faster, swirling in the slick wetness of my opening. I stroke once over my clit, envisioning those strong, thick fingers working me from behind, pushing into me in a determined glide, all power and smooth control, filling me, preparing me ….

  I can hear his growling voice against the back of my hair, “That’s right, min skjønne, fuck my fingers, ride them good baby, show me how exactly you need it.”

  “Oh, uh, oh!”

  My back arches up off of the sofa as the clenching waves of pleasure take over without warning, drowning me in the luscious fantasy, the dark sexuality of him. I groan as the strength of the orgasm powers through my body with the strength of a massive wave. His mesmerizing eyes and body are at the forefront of my wicked thoughts as I reluctantly float back down from the high, gasping rapidly for breath.

  Legs still splayed, I flop my palm across my damp forehead and stare straight out of the long row of windows at the myriad of city lights, surrounded by darkness. The vivid images I just had of him are becoming hazy now, and I can’t help but anticipate our next encounter. He’s danger and wildness personified and something deep within me craves him like no other. Could this man be the catalyst to release my tightly contained passion? Undoubtedly.

  I need to go for a very long, hard run tomorrow to try and burn off some of this newfound lust…

  Chapter Two

  Party Central

  I can’t resist taking the exit. I’m already running behind, but the thought of her coming along with me to the clubhouse tonight is exerting too strong a pull to resist. It’s only been twenty-four hours and I’m already impatient, on edge with the need to see her again.

  It’s colder out tonight, so I’m sporting full leather. The gear feels good, shielding me from the brisk night air. I cut left down her street, almost there ….

  That face, coupled with her soft, melodic voice, has been burning in my brain since I pulled out of here last night. God damn it! What in the hell is the lure of this woman? I was so distracted at the garage today that more than once I had to walk away from my latest design to stretch out, crank my shoulders back, fuck, anything to throw off the extra energy steamrolling through me like a freighter cutting through a fjord.

  I have to possess that beauty. The sooner the fucking better.

  I punch in the door code extra quick and head inside.

  Anders’ eyes pop wide. “Hei, sir …?” Hello, sir …?

  I don’t have time for this bullshit.

  I stride forward while holding up my right hand, palm flat to him, and state clearly, “Jeg er her for henne.” I’m here for her.

  He looks stunned, his expression frozen in place, but he doesn’t protest further. Smart man.

  Once inside the elevator I punch button number five and wait. She’d better be there. The need to see her has been building steadily, a mounting pressure akin to a chopper parked on my chest. It’s never happened before and it’s throwing me a bit. The solution is to just make it happen between us.

  The fifth floor seems to take forever to reach. Once the doors open I take large, quick strides down the hallway. When I reach her door I square my shoulders, knock twice, take a deep breath, and wait.

  Instantly I hear her light footfalls on the other side of the door and see a flash of color behind the peephole before it swings wide-open two seconds later. I scan her from head to toe and then back up again to lock onto those clear, glittering eyes that have haunted me since I last saw her.

  “Jesus Christ, woman, what the fuck are you wearing?”

  Blatant shock crosses her delicate features. “P-pardon?” She nearly chokes out the word, her eyes huge as she takes a large step backward, looking me up and down.

  Suddenly my leather pants feel a little too supple as my dick hardens and swells. My eyes land low on her outfit once again, A tight—very tight—pale pink, long-sleeved Adidas running top, paired with miniscule black, skintight short shorts. Her tits are on full display, hidden only by the thin material. Unusually full for her small frame … beautiful. To top it all off she’s wearing bright purple kicks with neon orange laces. Fucking purple!

  “I, I was just out for a
run,” she stammers, trying to hide her sexy blush.

  I dip my chin and ask, “You were outside, on the streets, running around … dressed like that?” I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at her with a scowl of disapproval.

  “Yes, why?” Her eyebrows are drawn together, her trepidation clearly apparent.

  “Fuck woman, you wanna be raped?”

  She gasps and steps farther back from me, hand flying to her chest. “What! Why, no, no of course not! Why in the hell would you say such a dreadful thing, Mikkel?”

  “You look in a mirror?” I rake my eyes down her once again.

  “Well, yes, of course I looked in the mirror! Just what are you getting at?” She plants her hands firmly against the top curve of her hips. She’s getting pissed off. The agitation flaring in her eyes is getting me so fucking turned on. She’s got a fire burning deep inside of her. I knew it ….

  “Babe, you’d bring any guy who wasn’t gay down to his fucking knees with that smoking body of yours, and that’s not even bringing the beauty of your face and hair into play. You’re lucky you made it back to the building unharmed. You shouldn’t ever go outside dressed like that. Next time you want to go for a run you can do it on the safety of my property.”

  She stares at the floor, clearly stunned and embarrassed by the directness of my statement. Her long red ponytail sweeps down over her right shoulder to reach the bottom swell of her breast.

  “You got plans?” My voice comes out harsher than I’d intended.

  Her eyes fly back to mine but she remains silent, watchful.

  I take a step closer, towering over her, and ask again, “Saturday night, min skjønne, you got plans?”

  Her eyes brighten at the term.

  So, she looked it up. She likes it when I call her my beauty. Good, it suits her. Sweet, soft, and gorgeous. Fuck. She’s so adorable. I’ve gotta have her. Soon.

  “Ah, no actually, I was just about to pop into the shower and then watch a show on the telly. Oh, how rude!” She opens the door wider before stepping to one side. “Please, please come in.”

  I step onto the stone floor of the foyer. The modernist décor seems Spartan and cold, save for a fascinating painting that is hanging against the right wall. It’s unframed, its color flowing out onto the wrapped sides of the canvas. It sits at eye level and is lit softly by the spray of a pin light dropping down from the ceiling.

  My eyes track over the red and gray rectangular segments of color that are nothing special by themselves. But there’s something about the overlapping pattern that makes the painting as a whole fantastic.

  I dip my head in the direction of the painting and say, “You do that?”

  “Yes.”

  I can tell that she’s watching me closely. I stare at it a few moments longer. She’s talented. Very.

  “It’s unique.” I kick my chin up. “Go take your shower now, Elora. We’re riding out.”

  Her head tilts in question. It’s obvious that she’s unsure, perhaps even frightened at the thought of being alone with me. I’m not giving her the chance to back out. No way.

  “Skjønne, seriously don’t like repeating myself babe. What the fuck, is my English that awful?”

  She whispers in astonishment, “I’ve never had someone address me the way you do, Mikkel. I’m not accustomed to it. You, well, you need to be patient with me, all right?”

  My eyes soften. She’s so damn sweet.

  “Yeah, babe, all right. Be ready in ten, yeah?”

  Her sculpted brows draw together. “Well … all right. What should I wear?”

  “Black. And you’ll be on my bike, so bring a jacket and a hair tie.”

  “Right then, well, make yourself comfortable.”

  “I’ll wait right here. Now move your sweet ass.”

  She liked what I said, because she’s trying in vain to hide a little smile that sneaks across her pink lips just before she turns and makes her way to a far room. When she closes the door, I whip out my black iPhone. I decide to use the extra time to text my best friend, Alreck. The smug bastard is living the life in California, totally hooked on his American girl, Vail. I saw him two months ago at the Sturgis Bike rally. He’s so fucking talented that he won the Goddamned worldwide custom design competition. His innovative bike taking first prize, hands down.

  Losing his genius-level talent has been a major hit for my business, setting my delivery times back by at least three months per job, but I can’t help being happy for him. Every time we speak, which is on a weekly basis, I notice that his normally stern tone is slowly becoming more pleasant. The edge is hardly there anymore. The move has been good for him. He should have found that woman years back. Still, I miss him. It was like losing an appendage.

  I use both thumbs to type in the message to him: What’s your latest design, motherfucker? You goin’ to work now in flip flops and surf gear or what? When should I look out for a wedding invite? Heading out to the club tonight. Will throw back a shot in your honor. –M.T.

  * * *

  I slide the little leather strip into the silver buckle adorning my black skirt and turn to assess my outfit in the silver, full-length bedroom mirror. Smoky, kohl-lined eyes stare back at me. Oh yes, this is about as wild as I’ve ever allowed myself to be. I hope he appreciates it! I’ve aimed for an overall impression of supremely wicked. It feels delicious.

  I adjust the shoulders of my little fitted, black silk Catherine Malandrino top. I adore the deep plunging ‘V’ neckline and the sweet hint of black lace trim at the neck and along the tiny cap sleeves. I’ve paired it with an ultra short, pleated schoolgirl miniskirt that has a lovely silver buckle closure at the right hip. I normally would only wear this with black tights but have decided to be daring tonight, flashing lots of skin. Why not? Knee-high black suede Salvatore Ferragamo sex-kitten boots with three-inch heels and a delicate silver zipper running all the way up the back complete my ‘take me down hard’ look.

  I walk to my mirrored dressing table to spritz on a touch of Yves Saint Laurent ‘Parisienne.’ I hope he likes the ultra feminine scent that’s a lovely combination of sandalwood and Damask roses. I reach for my small black Chloe ‘going out’ handbag, along with my smart, black suede fitted jacket, and excitedly reach for the handle of the door.

  With damp palms I think … Time to face him. Head high, shoulders back ….

  His golden eyes are consuming me the second I round the corner into my brother’s lavish, dimly lit sunken living room. I stop near the glass coffee table, my earlier confidence suddenly wavering under his devouring gaze.

  He is silent and remains stock-still.

  Just as I’m about to ask if the attire works for where we’re headed, his rich voice slices through the space.

  “Come to me, min skjønne.”

  The smoldering sexuality lacing his tone is undeniable.

  On trembling legs I cross the twenty feet to stand directly before him. Looking up, I ask quietly, nearly in a whisper, “Do you like it?”

  He tags my left hip, pulling me in close, and that wicked goatee framing his full lips lowers down slowly until I feel it brush lightly against my left ear.

  Warm breath caresses me as he murmurs deeply, “You’re so gorgeous that it’s nearly painful to look at you, Elora.”

  The effect of his distinctive voice, coupled with that delicious scent and the softness of his facial hair teasing my skin leaves me swaying slightly forward into his chest. I reach up to steady myself on his leather, just below his collarbone. I’m both dizzy and aching with need. My right palm rests on the seam of a red patch that reads ‘Torvik’.

  In one motion he closes his hands around both my wrists, backs up and lets go of my left one to reach for the door.

  I hear him mutter under his breath, “Fucking unbelievable. Need to move, now, or we’ll never make it to the party.”

  We step out into the hall. I secure the lock and turn to ask, “Party?”

  “Yep.”

&
nbsp; “What kind of party?”

  We walk the ten feet to the elevator. He punches the down arrow, threads his left hand through my long locks and lands me with, “Elora, take a good look at me, babe. It damn well isn’t going to be a cocktail event.”

  I clutch my suede jacket tighter and fight a twitching smile. “Oh.”

  His eyes roam my face as his fingers slowly skim across my hair. “I’m taking you to my club.”

  “Your biker club, the one named on your jacket?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I smile broadly because I never thought I’d experience something like this. The heady flow of adrenaline begins to course through my body. Saturday night at a hardcore biker clubhouse? You only live once, right?

  As the steel doors close us in, he looks way down at me and asks softly, “You excited, min skjønne?”

  Ooh, I really like that.

  “Very, Mikkel.” Actually, I can’t wait.

  He stares thoughtfully at me and quietly says, “That will do for now.”

  “Sorry? I don’t understand.” I tilt my head at his odd choice of words.

  With an earnest look he tells me pointedly, “You will.”

  What in the world?

  His smile is sincere. It’s the first time I’ve had a good look at his teeth and they’re gleaming white, even and perfect.

  He continues to watch me as the elevator slows and then chimes, signaling our arrival at the main level.

  “Enjoy your evening, Miss Thornthwaite.” Anders gives a polite wave, looking a bit relieved that the massive biker is leaving the premises.

  “Thank you, Anders.” I nod to him as Mikkel leads us out into the brusque evening air. We stride together straight to his big, bad ride.

  Turning to me he holds his hands out, “Here, let me help you with your jacket.”

  I give it to him and swivel about; the anticipation of having his hands on me is intoxicating. I glance back to slip first my right, then left arm into the warmth. He slides it carefully up my arms, stopping once it is in place. His hands rest at my neckline for a moment before he ever so gently sifts through my long hair, succeeding in freeing it to flow down my back.