I roll my eyes. “I meant we are very different heights.”
“And yet equal stature.”
“Pardon?”
He grins. “Bathe, and when you are dressed, come to me in the kitchen. You remember the way?”
I nod, and he’s gone, leaving me standing in the beautiful room. I lick my lips. My whole body thrums with an energy that’s unusual for me. Sex has always felt like a scratch to be itched.A surface need. This attraction I’m feeling is different somehow—maybe because Sigurd fascinates me—and a deep urgency fills my whole body to know what he feels like inside me, to touch his skin and feel his lips on mine.
I take a shuddering breath and try to push the disconcerting thoughts away, but they stay with me while I shower.What if?the voice whispers.What if you take a chance? What if you see where this attraction leads you? What if…?
Chapter Three
I take my time in the shower, letting the heat and the steam chase away my chills. I pinch some of his shower gel, and the glass enclosure fills with the scent of sandalwood and amber. It’s like he’s in here with me, and for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to shower with him, to have his big body sliding wet against my own. My cock stirs, and I give in, briefly lowering my hand and fisting my length. It’s stiff and throbbing, and I can feel the seed slippery on the head. My whole body tingles, and I bite my lip to hold in a moan.
“Sigurd,” I whisper, his name falling from my lips without any control.
My eyes fly open as I hear a low rumble.
It’s deep and fills the room, and my hand falls from my cock. The sound dies away, leaving only the noise of running water.
What the hell was that? Is there a train line running near here?
I shake my head, laughing at myself. Of course, thatmustbe it. It accounts for that rumbling I heard earlier too. It was a train passing on a nearby track.
My mood is broken, so I shampoo my hair quickly and then climb out. The towels are set on a heated rail, and I sigh inpleasure at the warm, soft fabric. My flat is small, and the shower enclosure is tiny. Every time I turn inside it, the curtain clings clammily to my skin. This is luxury.
Knotting the towel at my hips, I peek into the bedroom. It’s empty and there are some clothes laid out on the bed. They turn out to be sweatpants and a tee. He’s a lot taller than I am, so I roll up the legs a couple of times and slide on the T-shirt, which advertises a surfing competition in Newquay. It’s far too big on me, so I knot it at the hem. I run my hand through my hair and catch sight of myself in a big mirror resting against one wall. I look faintly ridiculous—like a child playing dress up. Nevertheless, something in me thrills at wearing his clothing.
The mirror is huge, and the frame has intricate patterns carved into it. Intrigued, I step closer. My eyes narrow. They look very similar to the carvings I imagined I saw on the rocks down at the beach. With a sudden shock, I realise the glass has grown cloudy. The clear, reflective surface is now opaque, almost like milk, and even as I watch, it swirls slowly. I reach out, and the surface roils as if liquid is moving away from my touch. There are lights in it now, almost like stars, and when my finger touches it, there is no glass, just a silky feel like satin slipping through my fingers.
“I would not do that, Cary.”
Sigurd’s voice startles me, and I spin around to find he’s leaning against the doorjamb, dressed now in jeans and a navy jumper with a white T-shirt peeking out at the neck. Ironically, he looks even more like a Viking now than when he was naked. He’s also rather incongruously holding a tea towel.
“S-Sorry,” I stutter. “The mirror is very strange.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I turn back to the mirror and suck in a sharp breath.
The mirror’s surface is once again clear, and my reflection looks back at me. My eyes are enormous and worried.
“But it didn’t look like that a minute ago,” I say, spinning back to him urgently. “Did you see?”
He nods gravely, and I relax, knowing he saw it too. The way my day’s going, I was starting to worry about my mental health.
He says, “It is always unwise to touch things without knowing their provenance.”
“What do you mean?”
He walks closer, and I look back into the mirror, seeing his reflection next to mine. We look strangely right together, with him tall and lean, hovering almost protectively over my slighter figure. I quickly push that thought away before it takes root and makes me do something stupid.
His eyes hold mine in the mirror. “Objects have a life of their own, do you not think?”
“It’s not something I’ve ever considered,” I confess.
“Ah, well. All things in this world carry flashes of their history, and sometimes that history can be a dark one. It is why the old ones always said to look and not to touch.”
I flush, feeling mortified. “I’m sorry for touching something that belongs to you.”
