‘Twenty-nine,’ he said, pointing a thumb at himself. ‘Thirty in August.’
‘Me too! I mean, I’m an August baby too. But I don’t like birthdays.’ She tucked herself into his chest again.
‘Cake? Parties? What’s not to like?’ Magnús asked before thinking better of it. ‘Oh, I get it, I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You try having a birthday with no parents. You just kind of want to forget it.’
‘Not even a cake?’
‘I banned birthday cake, and cards, and all the rest of it. No birthdays for me.’
‘Alex, that is so sad.’
She pulled away so she could look at him, his eyes so sorrowful thinking of the things she’d been through. Right at that moment, she didn’t feel sad or sorry for herself at all, and she told him so. In fact, she felt nothing but comfort and warmth.
It took only a few electric seconds for them to abandon their wine glasses and for the book on Magnús’s stomach to slip to the floor.
Magnús brought his fingertips to her cheek.
‘You know, I wanted to kiss you very much yesterday,’ he stated, his voice so low Alex felt its effect upon her core.
She only let out a held breath and allowed her eyes to dip to his lips.
This time it was Magnús who leaned in, determined not to let anything come between them.
He pressed his lips to hers with a fiery yearning and they sank even closer, the softness of their mouths touching and the heat from the hearth melting away the last twinges of tension in their muscles, their nervous energy dissipating and turning into something else, something spellbinding.
The awareness of having not only all night but all of the Christmas holiday stretching out before them helped Magnús pace the kiss, even when Alex drew him down onto the rug so they lay in each other’s arms.
The exquisitely slow pressure of his mouth and the tantalising way his tongue parted her lips and coaxed her to deepen her kiss told her that he was going to take his time, and the way she let her hands roam down across his back to press at the base of his spine told him that was what she wanted too.
He rolled her with him so he lay on his back, loving her weight laid out upon his, and she pressed herself against him all the more while his head rolled back, her mouth finding his throat.
He gasped like a drowning man, holding their cores together with the firm pressure of his hands spread across her back.
The growl in his throat as she mouthed his earlobe and bared her teeth against his skin was enough to send Alex reeling and all thoughts of her old life left her consciousness.
All their awareness reduced to only the heat from the fire, the hardness and softness of each other’s bodies as they pulled away winter layers and took in every tiny detail of the other’s skin and how it felt to collide and sink together under green, blue and red Christmas lights.
For Magnús, there was nothing but Alex, the woman astride him, her white-blonde hair falling over his chest. There was no mermaid, no mysterious runaway, no faraway bookshop, failed or otherwise, and none of his old bruised ego either. There was only their fingers clasped tightly, palms pressed together, their kisses and gasps mingling over now distant music.
For Alex there was only their bodies rolling together like the ocean tides and deep, unthinking, breathless pleasure and the promise of a long stormy night ahead to do it all over again and again.
As the fire grew low and Alex shifted in the spot on the hearthrug where they’d both collapsed into a sleepy heap, Magnús lifted his eyelids drowsily.
‘Are you cold? We can move upstairs,’ he said.
‘Not cold,’ she murmured. ‘Happy.’
‘Mmm.’ Magnús held her close, his hand across her stomach. ‘Alex Robinson?’
‘Hmm?’ Her eyes were closed again.
‘I like you.’
‘Mmm,’ she smiled, absorbing the words.
‘I like everything about you,’ he said again, softly kissing her shoulder.
