Left without fulfilment, as soon as I pitched into bed I fantasized that I was back in the snowy dell with Egan; that I was bending over and wriggling my ass in invitation once more. Only this time, we were not interrupted. This time he took me, above and below—and it was everything I’d wanted, everything that he and Azazel had both denied me. I slid into the shallows of sleep, my fantasies becoming dreams, but never quite losing awareness of my body. As my fingers stirred I rose and fell through the surface of consciousness, sometimes directing my imagination, sometimes falling through its rainbow imagery.
Then I woke fully, glossed with perspiration and quivering with orgasmic aftershock, and I threw off my cover and rolled up onto the edge of the bed just to cool down. The wall bulb was near useless when I finally found the switch; it lit the tiny rabbit-hutch room with only a dim yellow glow.
Oh God, I thought blearily. Why are we so screwed up?
At that moment I heard Egan’s door thump open on the opposite side of the corridor. I caught my breath and braced myself for the crash of his fists on my own door.
Oh no. My dream. I was only dozing. I didn’t—did I?
But there was silence.
I sat, hearing only the race of my own heartbeat. No accusations; not even the sound of his feet stomping away down the hall. Just silence.
What is he waiting for?
Me?
I pushed myself to my feet, pulled on a tank top shirt just long enough to afford me some decency, and went to the door. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down between my breasts. The handle felt slippery under my fingers.
Egan was standing on the other side of the door, one muscular arm braced against the frame, wearing nothing but the pair of gray briefs he’d presumably gone to bed in. The sight nearly sent me into meltdown then and there. His expression was grim, but not a word passed his lips. His pupils were still horribly dilated.
I searched his face for any sign of light, but saw none. It was the expression, I thought, of a man who had heroically fought the good fight against his inner demons—and lost. I took a step backward into my room and he followed me, pushing the door closed behind him.
Are we going to fight? To kiss? To talk? I don’t want to talk. Not now. I want you to touch me.
We stood wordless in that dim yellow light, like we were stuck in amber.
Then I looked down. I wasn’t jiggling about naked in the snow now; just clad in a sleeveless top that was so tight my erect nipples drew a bar across the stretched cotton. Egan wore even less. And unless he had taken to smuggling a length of lead pipe sideways under his briefs, he was finding even that garment uncomfortably constricting. He loomed so close to me that I didn’t even have to step forward to put my hand on that imprisoned shaft and feel it kick against my palm.
Oh. He’s had enough of dreams and teasing. He needs sorting out. Now.
I looked up into his eyes, wondering if he would say anything, and wondering what I should say. But we’d run out of words, both of us.
Did he want me to carry on where I’d left off in the snow? To bend over the bed? He was hard and burning under my hand as I squeezed him through the soft cotton. Oh. Oh. Oh.
He stooped a little, just enough so that his cheek brushed mine, his breath on my ear and neck. I’m used to thinking of myself as tall and gangly, no delicate flower—but it suddenly came home to me how much bigger he was; so much muscle and bone. And that was before I recalled his history of extreme violence. It appalled me now to think how I’d had the gall to tease him; we’d shared rented rooms and a pup-tent and even a bed in our journeys together, and I’d never given him enough credit for his restraint, or his honor, or his kindliness.
He could have had me at any time.
Oh, that thought made me run wet.
I’d had my fill of taunting him, for the moment. Now I wanted to give him everything he needed. Keeping one hand on his Calvins and running the other down the glorious hard undulation of his torso, I sank to my knees until my hands could meet. My lips pressed the flat wall of his stomach. Then I slipped my fingers under the elastic of his briefs and pulled them down. His cock bounced free, hard enough to give my face a hot, silky slap.
Oh you beauty…
I took him in my mouth, all the way, and I heard the quietest of sighs he uttered. That was all he did for a long moment; just stand there, almost motionless, as I sucked gratefully at his strong, beautiful length. It was impossible for anything to make it harder, but I could feel the gather of his heavy ball-sack. He was so turned on that for once he would come easily, I thought.
Then he touched my cheek. “Is that all you want?” he rasped.
No. Not all.
My mouth was too full to talk, so I shook my head. Only when I’d wrapped a hand firmly around his girth did I release him from my lips, and I used my hand to pull him with me, step by step, as I crawled backward across the floor.
He followed, allowing me my little dominion.
But once I’d got my rear up on the bed he seemed to come out of his trance, and the transformation was almost shocking. He pushed me back flat onto the mattress, and climbed up to overshadow me on all fours. Grabbing a pillow, he stuffed it under my ass to lift my hips, scooping my weight with no effort. He pushed up my top, then his right hand claimed my sex.
I was a disgrace down there. So goddamn wet. All open, loose petals, like a blown rose after an autumnal storm. He swept down and caught a nipple in his lips, and his fingers sank into me like into melting butter.
“Ah!” I tried to stifle my cry for the sake of any hostel neighbors. His hand was big and his kisses on my breasts were almost fierce enough to bruise me. But I couldn’t hurt—not with his palm down there mashing my sex and his fingers sliding into me, in and out, no friction and no resistance at all. My nipples welcomed every suck and every tug, my back arched, and I grabbed at his arms and felt the muscles working like steel beneath the skin.
And I came. I came on his hand; his wonderful, ruthlessly efficient hand with his strong fingers and his hard grip. I came with my nipples feeling like they were on fire, spitting out stars.
The moment he knew he had me, he switched tactic. Fingers still inside me, but sliding his torso down now, burying his face between my thighs to join that hand. His mouth was gentler now, thank God, but it was all a ruse; he was no less ruthless in his intent. When I came this time he gave me only a handful of seconds to recover before diving in again. And again. And again. Absolutely relentless—and so good, I couldn’t have imagined.
After my third climax—or the fourth, I’d lost all ability to count—he shifted his fingers from my sex down to my ass. That gate had already been overthrown by Azazel and could offer no resistance. I was already soft and greased and hungry, and his fingers slid in to the accompaniment of my whimpers. I don’t know how many fingers…just that it was more than one, because he scissored them to open me, and curled them to touch me in places that I knew nothing about but that sent electric shocks of pleasure through my whole body.
I panicked a bit. I’d never come like this, so fast, so often; each time he whipped my flesh to another orgasm I felt a visceral fear that one more would be enough to kill me—a fear that lasted only long enough for the next wave of arousal to sweep me off my feet. I pawed at his hair with my hands, pushing him away and then pulling him in harder. I started to sob, tearless.
He paused then to let me catch my breath and my courage, and I tried frantically to pull his mouth back onto me. But he had other plans. By the insidious working of his fingers he’d ensured that I was ready to accommodate all of his need. Now, hooking his arms under my thighs, he pushed them back until my knees were pointing over my head, and then he knelt up behind my raised ass and slid in with one slippery push.
So then; he wanted everything that I’d offered him. Everything that Azazel had already had. That made sense to me. And at least he wasn’t rough in the taking. He was pretty gentle, considering. Just hard—so incredibly
hard. I could feel his arousal the moment he entered me; the dream-orgasms hadn’t given him release, but left him desperate to unload in real life; a heavy, imperative need. So there we were under that dim yellow light that made everything look honey-colored; the pine, his hair, our skin. Me pinned into a curled position by him book-ending my ass and bearing down over me. Our stifled breathing in the humid air of the tiny room. Face to face, moving honey-slow, honey-sweet.
Oh God. This shouldn’t feel this good. I’m going to—
I started to keen softly as that strange ecstatic sensation uncurled inside me, stretching out, flowing, taking over every fiber of my body. I was dissolving in a liquid orgasm unlike anything I’d felt in other parts.
“Egan!” I cried, eyes wide, terrified that he could do such a thing to me, that something so dirty could feel so transcendent—and even more terrified that he might stop.
But he didn’t stop. He thrust deeper, groaning, open-mouthed, and through my own rapture I felt the release of his control and the blaze of his orgasm, scorching through my honeyed ecstatic bliss, catching me up and setting me on fire.
Honey burns, I found.
Then he dipped to rest, his face brushing mine. We were both breathing harshly. I could feel every dying pulse of his relief, and I knew that any second now my hips would start to cramp, but I clung to this moment.
“Milja…”
“Oh my God, Egan. Oh my God.”
“There’s no escape,” he mumbled. “Not even in dreams.”
Oh Egan. I wrapped my arms around him. His next words took my breath away.
“I am not the only one for you, I know. But you are the only woman for me, Milja.” He kissed me softly.
I didn’t break the kiss. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t dare.
We slept the rest of the night on top of the covers, curled together. I woke very early, well before it was light, and heard the sound of him showering. Lulled by the hum of water, I drifted back to sleep.
When my alarm woke me properly, Egan was gone.
9
HEATHEN WAYS
I made it downstairs with a feeling of dread barely held at arm’s length. Egan was, to my immense relief, in the restaurant, which had been opened for breakfast sittings. He’d taken a small table by one of the huge windows, and was staring out at the snow. The sun still hadn’t risen, though it was gone eight, and everything looked blue and eerie out there.
As I walked through the room, I was aware of faces turning to look at me, and I held my head deliberately high and tried to ignore how my own face was warming. Clearly people had been talking. I wondered if they were all in on the Asatru cult, and sort of hoped so—I’d rather be known as the bitching völva than as that stoned tourist who’d run naked in the snow.
I went and stood at Egan’s table. He’d watched my reflection in the glass as I approached, I’m sure, but he didn’t look around.
“Hey,” I said with a hopeful smile.
Egan dropped his napkin onto his crumb-dusted plate. “Good, you’ve got time to eat. Harald is getting the snowmobiles ready; he says we’ll set off when it gets light.”
“You should have called me for breakfast.”
“I wanted to take a walk.” He pushed his chair back.
My heard plummeted into my stomach. He wasn’t looking at me, not properly. His gaze skipped around the room as if checking for exits.
“Are we okay, Egan?”
“We’re fine.” He sounded almost weary.
“Last night—”
“We were tripping. The drink was spiked. Don’t worry about it.”
Don’t worry about it?
He stood up while I stared, and waved me at the table. “See you soon.”
I watched him go. Suddenly I didn’t have much appetite.
I decided not to bother with my enveloping winter clothes for the trip to the hof. They made movement clumsy and I felt I’d rather have the freedom. So when I joined Egan again outside I was down to an outer jacket worn unzipped, boots and tight thermal leggings. I kept my wooly hat just to stop my hair getting messy, but didn’t bring gloves.
They stared at me as I emerged from the building and stomped across the hard-packed snow. I was sort of relieved to see that there were only two snowmobiles waiting, not a whole posse. Just Harald and a leathery blond woman—Berit, it turned out—who I remembered vaguely had been behind the bar last night. And Egan, of course. They were all padded up like stuffed toys.
Harald dipped his head to me respectfully and then grinned. “Are you ready, Lady Milja?”
“Where are we going? How far?”
“Up the Memurudalen. Only an hour or so, if the weather holds. You ride with me, your man with Berit.”
I shrugged. If we were going to go along with this, there didn’t seem much point in quibbling. I couldn’t see Egan’s rifle but I hoped, guiltily, that he’d brought his pistol. We were putting ourselves into unknown hands.
I clambered onto the back of the snowmobile saddle behind Harald, but my stomach did a little clench when I saw Egan straddle Berit’s ass and take hold of her waist. Engines roared.
We followed the frozen Muru River from the lake edge up a broad valley. There was no road, so Harald took it cautiously, but there were traces of old tracks in the snow so it was clear we were taking a known route. The sky was overcast today, but I couldn’t tell if there was a threat of more snow; the weather here was not familiar to me as it would be back in my own Durmitor Mountains. The cold wind made my eyes water, but it was toothless against my exposed face and hands.
We bumped and slid our way up the mostly shallow gradient of the valley floor until a cluster of dark blocks at the mouth of a side-valley came slowly into view and then resolved into a low building surrounded by a fence. No—two fences, the outer perimeter chain-link wire, the inner an uglier and less scalable one of galvanized metal stakes. We drew to a halt beside a notice board that proclaimed in Norwegian and English that this area belonged to the Svartfjell Geological Research Station of Oslo Holdings plc and that public access and camping were forbidden.
“Svartfjell,” Harald said helpfully, waving at the mountain peak looming over us.
“What does that mean?”
“Just…Black Mountain.”
My heart skipped. I came from my own Land of the Black Mountain; it felt like an omen.
Harald asked us to wait while he talked to the guards at the gate, then he and Berit crunched off toward the little outpost hut. I was a little surprised they left us with the snowmobiles, though they took the keys, of course. Harald seemed to trust me.
I’m special, in his eyes. Some sort of holy woman.
Egan pushed his shades up onto the top of his head, stamped his numb feet and paced about to loosen up after the ride, staring at the buildings. They looked modern and nondescript, certainly not suggestive of a temple of any kind. A few people, just blobs at this distance, moved about against the snow.
I was surprised that anything should have been built up here so far from the ferry, and that there were any inhabitants over winter, until I spotted a suspiciously flat patch that had been cleared of snow. “Is that a helicopter pad?”
“Looks like it. Sure, there’s a bit of money in this place.”
“Did you bring your gun?”
He nodded, once.
I swallowed. So he had a concealed pistol, and I had a big hunting knife sheathed at the small of my back. It didn’t feel like nearly enough. We could be clearly seen from the security hut windows and there wasn’t a patch of cover in the entire valley. “Can we talk about last night?”
“Seriously?” Egan looked sharply at me, for what seemed like the first time this morning. “You want to have this conversation now?”
“We might die in there,” I said through gritted teeth. I kept my voice low for fear of it carrying across to the guard post. “I don’t want to die with you pissed at me.”
“I’m not pissed at you.”
Egan folded his arms. Water vapor huffed in a miniature cloud from his lips. “If you don’t want to believe me, then fine.”
“Then what’s wrong between us? I thought…after last night… After what you said…”
“Anything I said last night doesn’t count.”
“Doesn’t count?” I was aware of the irony here; we were having what amounted to a full-on argument, the sort with shouting and arm-waving and plate-throwing—only we were doing it in the quietest, most precise of tones and barely moving more than our lips for fear of being overheard.
“Neither of us were in our right minds.”
“I was. And I think I prefer you when you’re not in your right mind.”
That was a mistake, judging from his expression.
I blushed angrily. “I’m sorry, okay? But what we did last night was…incredible. I loved it. Didn’t you?”
He didn’t reply, didn’t break eye-contact.
I shook my head. “I don’t understand you, I really don’t. You do this every time. Every time we get close you back off like you’ve been scalded.” Every time we have sex you run for the hills. “I’ve never met anyone—I mean anyone—for blowing hot and cold like you do. Azazel looks like Mr. Reliable in comparison.”
He blinked; that one had hurt. “You’re not exactly the poster girl for monogamy, Milja.”
My voice shook. “Fine. But at least I know what I want. At least I know who I love. I don’t have a problem with commitment.”
“Commitment?” His voice was a cold white flame. “I have dedicated my life to the Church. I have given up my rights, I have sworn vows, I have laid it on the line over and over for the greater good. I have abdicated all claim on happiness here on this earth. Do you really think I’m short on commitment? D’you really want me to throw all that over to end up with you?”
It felt like a blow to the chest. I looked down, feeling the heat fill my face. “No,” I mumbled.
“Because I would.” He was deathly pale. “I would do it in a heartbeat. I would spit on the Cross if you told me to, Milja.”
The Prison of the Angels (The Book of the Watchers 3) Page 13