I make a protesting noise as he pulls away and then gasp when he immediately grabs my legs and spreads them. He takes my buttocks in his big hands, spreads my cheeks, and licks me.
I scream, the sound high and ecstatic as he again licks across my opening. His tongue is hot and rough, and it abrades the delicate skin in a way that makes my eyes cross. I grab handfuls of his hair and pull him closer, staring at the ceiling blindly and grunting as he pushes his tongue into me.
My eyes widen as he delves farther. Just how long is his fucking tongue?
Then my thoughts fly away as lightning travels down my spine. His tongue is brushing the nub of my prostate. I moan helplessly as he does it again and again. He swats my hand away from my cock and wraps his fingers around it, squeezing. Thenhe carries on licking my hole before pulling back to suckle on the rim. It’s so good and so infuriating—like an itch I’m desperate to scratch. Too much and yet not enough at the same time.
I can feel the wetness in my arse from his spit, and his grip on my dick is perfect, the calluses on it rough and catching at the delicate skin. How does a writer have such hard hands?
I cry out in protest when he pulls away. He wipes his hand over his face, cleaning the wetness, and we stare at each other. His cheeks are flushed, his mouth swollen, and I’m no better.
“Please.” I writhe on the floor, no pride left. “I need to come, Sigurd.”
He gasps at the sound of his name, his eyes wild. Then he lifts my cock and takes it down his throat in one smooth slide. He moves back enough to growl, “You can pull my hair. Be as rough as you want. I just need your skin on mine.”
I nod frantically and fist my hands in his soft hair, dragging his mouth back onto my cock. He watches me, his eyes heavy-lidded and his throat working. I raise my hips, wanting more and more, and then he slides two fingers into me. He crooks them, rubbing my swollen prostate as he sucks.
It’s game over. I don’t ask him if he minds me coming in his mouth, because somehow, I know he wants it—wants it desperately—and I unload down his throat, spurt after spurt as I force myself up into his mouth and down onto his fingers.
Then he collapses onto me, kissing me wildly and sharing the taste of our spunk between us. Eventually, the kisses lose their wildness, and we lie tangled on the kitchen floor.
I feel stunned. Where did that come from? One minute we were picking up pieces of broken pottery and the next he was rimming me like a god. Not that I have any complaints. I feel completely satisfied, my whole body a hum of pleasure, and I laugh out loud. It’s sudden and surprising, but he just looks up and smiles rather than being offended.
“That was bloody epic. Where have you been all my life?” I say, still chuckling.
His lashes come down, hiding his eyes, and he drops a kiss on my clavicle, licking along the thin skin there.
“You were not born for most of mine,” he says softly.
My brow furrows. “Pardon?” I manage to get out, but the word is thick, and I can feel sleep tugging at me.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “I won’t forget you.”
“What are you thanking me for?” I slur.
“Let go,” he says, and there’s a command in that gentle, accented voice that makes the darkness of sleep instantly wash over me.
I don’t know how long I sleep, but I come awake slowly to the notion that something is strange.
I’m lying in a bed, the sheets warm around me, the mattress firm. And I can hear words being spoken. I recognise Sigurd’s warm, accented voice, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. It takes me a few seconds to realise that he’s talking in another language, maybe Norwegian. He sounds as if he’s answering someone.
I force my eyes open, but my sleepiness is immediately shoved away at the sight of the room. It’s lit by small lights that glow gold, pink, and blue. They move around, trails of sparks floating behind them. They seem to be dancing, swirling in the air and leaving the sweet, warm scent of amber and sandalwood behind them.
A glow emanates from the room’s corner, and a thrill of fear passes through me when I see the carvings on the mirror’s frame are illuminated and the glass is milky white again.
Words filled with lyrical beauty drop into the silence, and I see Sigurd. He’s naked and sitting cross-legged on the bed. His hair is loose, trailing down his back in red-blond strands, and even as I watch, the lights hover around him, darting here and there, almost as if they’re playing with him.
“Sigurd?” I say, my voice sleepy and hoarse.
He jerks toward me. “Cary?”
I knuckle my eyes. “What are you doing?”
The lights suddenly blink out all over the room. For a second, the walls seem to glow, and then the room is dark again.
“You know me?” he asks tentatively.
I blink at him. “Yes, you’re Sigurd. Are you okay?”
