by Jagger, Kait
‘Hunh,’ Matthias said. And walked away, shaking his head.
Chapter Sixteen
Luna waited patiently while the nice, middle-aged man at Arlanda Airport’s immigration checkpoint flipped through her UK passport, looking at her photo, then at her. Aware that the photo showed her at her mature, professional best, whereas now she sported a coronet of French braids and a crocheted mini-dress from Zara, she frowned at him in imitation of her expression in the passport photo.
He nodded and handed her passport back over. ‘Welcome to Sweden.’
Lifting her increasingly battered North Face backpack on her shoulders, Luna made a beeline through baggage claim and customs, straight out into the arrivals hall and into Stefan’s waiting arms.
‘Hey, Miss Gregory,’ he greeted her, swinging her up till her feet dangled in the air, kissing her cheek, her temple and the side of her neck.
Luna drew back and wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell like cigarettes.’
‘Too much time with Matthias,’ he affirmed, placing her back on the ground, smiling down at her.
Luna reached up to stroke his eyebrow with her thumb. ‘And you look tired,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s go home and go to bed.’
He gave her a look that was equal parts guilt, resignation and something more, something like anger. ‘About that…’ he began.
Karoline Lundgren’s flat in Gamla Stan encompassed the top two stories of a thirteenth-century townhouse, some of the most expensive real estate in the entire city. It was charming, in its way, with a modernised, spacious lower floor topped by beamed attic rooms and a rooftop terrace with views of Skeppsholmen Island to the east.
Shame about the smell, Luna thought to herself as she and Stefan entered the front entryway, which was dominated by a medieval wall tapestry and heavy oak furniture. Karoline was a collector, a hoarder of period pieces and knick-knacks, and the entire apartment bore the unmistakeable musty scent of an antique shop; one of Luna’s least favourite smells, which she and her cleaning team at Arborage strove constantly to combat.
The apartment also smelled vaguely of Karoline’s cats, Borr and Burri, two Seal Point Siamese who came running when the Chinese bells hanging on the front door announced their arrival. ‘Mao,’ said Borr, rubbing his dark head against Stefan’s calf. ‘Mao,’ said Burri, gliding between his legs as Stefan cast a long-suffering glare skywards.
The main living area, also crammed full of bric-a-brac, was currently populated by a coterie of Karoline’s disciples dressed in their usual funereal garb, drinking champagne and eating finger sandwiches. Like a modern-day Madame de Pompadour, Stefan’s mother hosted regular ‘salons’ where they gathered to eat and gossip – and worship at their patroness’s feet, from what Luna could see. At Stefan’s appearance, a ceremonial cry of ‘Liten Prince!’ went up and right on cue Karoline emerged from the interior of the apartment.
She wore a light-blue crêpe de Chine dress and Luna’s first, insecure thought was that she herself was underdressed for the occasion. As usual. Her second thought was that Karoline looked wan and noticeably distraught. Stefan went to kiss his mother and she clutched at the lapels of his leather jacket, a little noise rising in her throat. Putting his arm around her shoulder, he began to lead her toward the stairs. Three of her hangers-on rose to follow, hovering briefly around her like black moths, but Karoline made a sharp gesture with her hand and they immediately retreated. Stefan, meanwhile, turned to Luna and cocked his head, so with some trepidation she followed them up the stairs.
Karoline blurted something in Swedish the moment they reached the timbered attic. Luna thought it was along the lines of I have done what you asked. His mother drew in her shoulders and stared limpidly up at Stefan, but then her gaze wandered to Luna. And sharpened.
‘I have no secrets from Luna, Moder,’ Stefan said.
Acquiescing with a shrug, Karoline continued, ‘I have broken with him. I told him I could no longer be with him if it meant tearing myself apart from my son. He was… very displeased. He will not accept my decision, Stefan.’ She broke off, trembling.
‘Has he threatened you?’ Stefan asked ominously. ‘What did he say?’
Karoline unleashed a torrent of Swedish then, and Luna was reduced to the role of uncomprehending observer, watching as the older woman alternately wrung her hands and fingered the pearls at her neck whilst Stefan uttered reassurances to her. He had just succeeded in convincing her to sit with him on a settee, the two Siamese vying for places on his lap, when there came the sound of clogs clomping up the stairs. Astrid, clad in a black apron and carrying a plate of food and a cup of tea.
‘Hej, Luna!’ she cried, kissing her on both cheeks before handing Stefan’s mother the plate and cup, prompting a veritable deluge of praise and gratitude from Karoline. In Swedish, of course. Isn’t she an angel, Stefan? So kind, so talented!
Pivoting back to Luna, Astrid quickly read her expression and grabbed her by the arm. ‘Come help me in the kitchen.’
‘Coffee? Or I have smoothies in the fridge?’ Astrid said minutes later, standing with Luna in the top-of-the-range Poggenpohl kitchen downstairs. Luna took in the plastic crates and cooking equipment on the work surface and Astrid explained, ‘My restaurant does Karoline’s catering.’ The leggy blonde grinned. ‘Stefan pays the bills, of course, so it’s a favour to him that I do this.’
They drank coffee and talked about the fire, Astrid insisting on a blow-by-blow description of their rescue of Tilly. ‘Herre Gud! You and Stefan are like superheroes. But, the loss of this house, it’s a big thing?’
‘A huge thing,’ Luna confirmed. ‘I’m still in shock about it. But it’s even worse for Stefan.’
Astrid made a little face. ‘And now another Karoline drama. Poor Stefan. What is it you English say? She says jump—’
‘He says how high?’ Luna supplied weakly.
‘Never high enough.’ Astrid shook her head mirthlessly. ‘Not for Karoline.’
*
‘The Winter War bombing of Helsinki in 1939 destroyed the Salonens’ home and killed everyone in it except for Matthias’s grandfather. A whole family almost wiped out. Matthias grew up with this story, so he has more reason than most to hate the Russians.’
Stefan and Luna were lying head to toe on the floor of his father’s living room, completely naked, propped up on an assortment of cushions and throws. Having arrived home to a note from Christian saying he and Sören were off on a whirlwind trip to Goa, Stefan had promptly hauled Luna against him and divested her of her crocheted mini-dress. Three hours, two indoor and one outdoor sex acts later, they were taking a breather.
‘Mika never told me that,’ Luna said of the piece of Salonen family history Stefan had just divulged. Then cast him a suspicious glance. ‘Are you trying to make me feel sorry for Matthias?’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he demurred, rolling toward her and biting the pad of her foot. ‘For his crimes against your personal autonomy alone, I know Matthias will always be your sworn enemy.’
Luna huffed and shoved his shoulder with her foot. ‘Piss taker,’ she accused fondly.
‘Swede shagger,’ he riposted, his laughter mingling with hers. At length, he propped himself up on his elbow and said intently, ‘No, I am trying to tell you why I need him for this. Also, I trust him more than any man I know.’
Luna considered this for a moment. Then said, ‘He doesn’t work in security, does he.’
‘No,’ Stefan admitted. ‘Matthias’s job is more… specialised. And that’s another reason I needed him.’ His eyes met hers. ‘This is going to end now, Luna. I have what I need to end it. I will arrange a meeting with the Russian next week and I promise you, after that he will disappear from our lives.’
‘And your mother?’
He exhaled heavily. ‘I can’t entirely discount her claim that he threatened her, so I’ve made arrangem
ents for her to move into a hotel until the matter is resolved.’
Luna smiled. ‘An expensive hotel?’
‘Ah, you are coming to know my mother well,’ he confirmed humorously. ‘A very expensive hotel.’ He reached for the leg closest to him and slung it over his waist as he repositioned himself with his head resting against the inside of her opposite thigh.
‘Hmm,’ he hummed, taking in the view. ‘You have been doing some landscaping.’
Luna pointedly studied the ceiling. ‘Do you like it?’ she enquired shyly.
‘I do. I like it very much.’ He settled himself closer. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I like you unlandscaped as well, a secret garden just for me. But this has the advantage of increased visibility, which is…’ He paused. ‘Have you ever looked at yourself down here, flicka?’
Luna wriggled self-consciously. ‘Not really.’
‘You should. Someday I will bring a mirror.’ This was too much. With a muffled shriek, she flung her wrist over her eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed about this,’ he admonished gently. ‘You are very lovely here, especially when you come. The only thing better than watching the way you come is feeling it under my mouth. I want to do both tonight.’
At once aroused and bashful, Luna raised both hands to completely cover her face. ‘I can think of better uses for your hands, Luna,’ came his voice. ‘Let me watch you pleasure yourself.’
Unable to deny him anything, she slid her fingers down to her mons, ran them along the soft, exposed skin of her outer labia and into herself, lubricating her fingertips. His hardness nudged into her leg and her gaze flicked to it, then back to him.
‘You too,’ she prompted.
Before Stefan became her lover, Luna would have sworn that there was little connection between what her eyes saw and her body felt, the visual always subservient to the tactile, the emotional. But watching him stroke himself – the spare, efficient action of his hand on his cock, the involuntary undulations of his hips, the… ahh, the rapturous torment in his eyes as he in turn watched her fingering, then rhythmically rubbing herself… it stirred her. It made her keep her eyes open when she would have closed them, the better to savour the drop of pleasure in her clitoris growing to a pool of sensitivity. It made her… God, it made her…
‘Come with me, please,’ she moaned, slowing the movement of her fingers to delay the inevitable rising tide of her orgasm. And then it was upon her. She stiffened and curled up off the pillows, chin tucked into her chest, eyes fixed on him all the while as he abruptly turned onto his back, groaned loudly and shot a plume of semen into the air.
Collapsing back against the cushions, Luna closed her eyes and floated, vaguely registering it when Stefan extricated himself from her legs. ‘Stay right where you are,’ he said, and padded towards the kitchen. ‘Don’t move,’ he said, washing himself off in the sink. Moments passed, and then his voice came again, from between her legs. ‘Open a little wider, käresta,’ he said, kneeling between them.
Luna opened her eyes and squinted up at him. ‘Oh, Stefan,’ she laughed tremblingly, as he batted her hands aside and lowered his mouth to take their place.
*
Luna woke the next morning to find a large, long box with a red bow on it sitting on Stefan’s side of the bed. There were noises from the kitchen, pots being stirred, coffee brewing, and her shout of, ‘Is this for me?’ was drowned out by the sound of the mixer being turned on. Unable to wait another minute, she ripped the ribbon off and impatiently shook loose the lid, tearing at the tissue paper underneath. And squealed loudly.
Stefan came running, appearing in the doorway to find Luna bouncing on her knees atop the mattress, clapping her hands. ‘Oh my God, oh my God, I love it!’ She reached into the box and pulled out a one-piece biking suit in contrasting white and black leather with racing red sleeves.
‘Hideout leathers, custom made to your measurements,’ he announced proudly, plopping down next to her and reaching under the bed to retrieve another box. ‘Boots, gloves and thermals too.’
Grinning from ear to ear, Luna clutched the suit to her chest and inhaled the scent of leather and Kevlar. ‘These must have cost a fortune,’ she crowed giddily. ‘I’ll have to give the Enduro a good wash, get it tarted up before I wear them.’
‘No, no,’ Stefan corrected. ‘These are your Stockholm leathers, for when you come out on the Ducati with me.’
‘Oh,’ Luna said, her smile becoming slightly fixed.
‘I thought we could go out to lunch on it today,’ he went on. ‘A little treat to thank you for holding down the fort at Arborage for these past two weeks.’ He stretched and patted her knee.
‘Great,’ said Luna.
It was looking a gift horse in the mouth, Luna told herself as she sat behind Stefan on his Ducati later, her hands resting lightly on his hips. He’d bought her custom-made leathers that fit her like a glove, he was taking her out to lunch and generally treating her like a princess.
But.
But she did not like riding pillion. She never had. It was the reason she’d taken up motorcycling in the first place, the fact that she’d rather be in charge of the bike than sitting helpless behind the rider, second guessing his every move. It wasn’t that Stefan wasn’t a proficient rider. He was. And he looked bloody amazing in his own black and red Dainese leathers. She was sure they made a hot-looking couple, riding down the sunlit streets of Södermalm. She should be enjoying herself. She was enjoying herself. It was just the ungrateful little control freak in her that chafed at being reduced to a passenger.
After crossing the bridge into Stockholm proper, he pulled onto the motorway. And then she knew jealousy, hearing the full, throaty roar of the Ducati’s engine as he opened it up. This had better be a really good lunch, she thought to herself gloomily.
Less than an hour later they pulled up in front of the grandstand on an outdoor track, where a wiry forty-something dressed in racing leathers stood waiting for them.
‘Luna, this is Torsten, an old friend of mine,’ Stefan said after they’d dismounted and gone to join him. Luna smiled and stole a glance over the man’s shoulder at the shining black Ducati Mostro parked behind him, trying to quell another stab of envy. ‘Torsten’s going to give you some pointers,’ Stefan continued, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘On your new bike.’
Luna’s mouth fell open. ‘My bike?’ She gaped at Stefan, then stood on tiptoe to gape at the Mostro, then gaped at Stefan again. ‘This is my bike? You bought me a Ducati?!’ Stefan smiled his honey-on-toast smile and she leapt at him, throwing her arms around his neck and squealing like a girl.
‘You should have seen your face this morning,’ he teased, rearranging his features into a dismayed frown and enunciating haughtily, ‘I? Luna Gregory? Ride pillion?’ Luna drew back and gave him a sharp poke in the shoulder, then squealed again and skipped over to the Ducati.
Torsten, Luna later discovered, was an ex-MotoGP rider who now ran his own team. And he did not suffer biking fools gladly. Looking her up and down, he said with a note of scepticism, ‘So, Luna Gregory, you know how to bike, yes? I don’t need to hold your hand?’ In response, Luna reached for the Ducati key and turned it, checking to see if the bike was in neutral, then cracked the starter button. And raised her eyebrow at him. ‘You know this is a little different from your Enduro, right?’ he joked. ‘You might have to change gear every once in a while.’ Pursing her lips at him, Luna threw her leg over the Ducati, put her right foot down and kicked up the side-stand with her left. Dipped the clutch and punched the gear down into first. And blipped the throttle.
Both men laughed and Stefan handed Luna her helmet. ‘Have fun, flicka,’ he said.
What followed was easily one of the best afternoons of Luna’s entire life. Torsten borrowed Stefan’s bike and rode with her for three laps, showing her the racing line, where to brake and turn in on the bends. Then
he let her ride alone for a few laps, he and Stefan watching as she gained in confidence and speed, knocking through the gears with just her foot, anticipating the bends on the circuit, sidling her ass over on the saddle and leaving her braking just that little bit later. And God, how Luna loved wiping the dubious expression off Torsten’s face, hearing him shout to Stefan when she pulled up after her sixth lap, ‘This girl knows how to get her knee down.’
After that the men took turns on Stefan’s bike, racing round the track with her. Torsten had no trouble leaving her in his wake, of course, but Luna fancied that Stefan found it more of a challenge pitting his skills against hers. And she loved it, loved it every time she outbraked him into a turn, got on the gas that little bit faster coming out of it.
Later, when Torsten had taken his leave and it was just the two of them sitting on their bikes, helmets off, in the empty stadium, Luna gave her new bike a little rev, listening to the gorgeous sound of its engine. ‘I’m not going to say this is better than sex, because it’s not, but…’ She wriggled provocatively in the saddle. ‘I do feel a bit like I’m cheating.’
Stefan laughed and held up his gloved hands. ‘Don’t worry about me.’
‘No,’ she said earnestly. ‘Cheating on Michael, I mean.’ Her Enduro.
Chapter Seventeen
They rode home in the sunset after a brief, thoroughly arousing discussion about just how grateful she was for her new bike, how she was going to show it, and how maybe she’d leave her leathers on while she did it. She could only imagine that all this talk got Stefan a little distracted, and a little uncomfortable in his own leathers, because she got ahead of him on the ride back to Stockholm. Driving through the city, every light seemed to go her way. Occasionally she’d look back to see him stuck one light, then two behind her, and when eventually she lost sight of him Luna smiled inside her helmet. She would have dinner on the go and a glass of champagne waiting for him by the time he got home.