“Your sisters-”
“No. My parents knew better by the time Elle and Grete came along. They realized there was stigma in not paying for medical care here.”
“Pretty names.” She relaxed by degrees. “What’s your mom like?”
“Plump. Rosy. Cheerful. Hardworking.” The adjectives came out of him staccato, as if the description hurt. “Her apple strudel is to die for. My dad is a carpenter. He makes furniture, cabinets, pretty much anything you could want.”
“Like that chair.”
He nodded.
“Do you ever go see them?”
His silence spoke volumes. Well, she couldn’t blame him. It would be a special kind of torture to stand outside the house, knowing if he knocked and said, Mom, I’m home, that she’d cry and call the police. Because her son was dead, lost to her six years ago through an ability that could be as much curse as gift.
He shrugged, shaping the curve of her spine, as if she were worry beads that soothed him. “I remember the way the house always smelled of cinnamon and warmth. Sometimes,” he exhaled unsteadily, “I dream of going home.”
Don’t we all, love. Don’t we all.
Søren woke in increments, becoming aware of his surroundings in the slow, peaceful progression of one who had a clear conscience. That was so obviously untrue that he started fully awake and found Mia still curled against his chest. Everything seemed quiet. They had slept straight through until early morning, so he felt shaky. Dizziness, nausea, and blind spots would soon follow if he didn’t eat.
So he pulled on his jeans and stepped out into the chilly predawn light. Beneath a tarp, the last firewood he’d cut lay waiting. Søren loaded his arms and went inside to build a fire on the stove. Oatmeal and honey was hard to get wrong, even on an old-fashioned stove, so he pulled the pot from the top shelf. By the time he had the thick porridge simmering and ready to eat, Mia was stirring.
She pushed herself up on her elbow and shoved tousled inky hair out of her face. “What time is it?”
“Breakfast time,” he answered, scooping the food into wooden bowls his father had carved and polished.
With a little groan, she rolled out from under the warm quilt, hopping with endearing dismay as her feet met the cold wood. Mia dressed swiftly and presented herself at the kitchen table. His father had built everything inside this cabin, including the futon frame, and his mother had made the mattress. For him, being here was both pleasure and pain, a reminder of all he’d lost.
“I stand in awe of your expertise.” She took the spoon and dug in.
“Thanks.”
Søren sat down and ate his food in determined bites, trying not to see his father in his mind’s eye, meticulously crafting the utensils from bits of fallen wood. He could almost smell the flax seed his dad used in the final step. From the time he was fourteen, in the summers they’d hop in the car and take a road trip together. Giving the women a break, his dad always said, but the truth was, they both craved the quiet and solitude.
He’d always been a little out of step with the world, even before it broke his heart.
After they finished eating, he used a few drops of soap in one of the bowls and scrubbed up the dishes while Mia fixed the futon. She straightened and gave the bathroom a wary glance. “I want a shower but…”
“You’re not looking forward to the cold. The water comes from a mountain stream, so it’s pretty brisk. Hell of a way to wake up.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Søren couldn’t believe he was about to offer this. The accompanying mental images dried his mouth out. “If you want, I can heat some water and help you wash up.”
“I suppose you have an old copper tub to fill.” She raised a brow. “Is this where we indulge our pioneer fantasies?”
He smiled. “No. I’ll just pour a little over you in the shower stall, let you wash, and then pour the rest.”
“So you’ll be watching.” Her dark eyes took on smoky hues.
“I suppose I will be.” Suddenly the cabin felt very small… and very warm.
“Let’s do that, if you don’t mind. I’ll face the cold another day.”
Since the fire was still high, it didn’t take long to warm three pots full of water. He let Mia test it on her skin, and she pronounced it suitable. Søren didn’t know why this was affecting him so profoundly, but his hands shook as he carried the first pot into the bathroom. He stood in the doorway, watching her undress.
Each movement provoked him, from the way she bent to slip off her socks to the way she stretched in pulling her shirt over her head. At last she stood before him, tousled and naked, and his cock spiked to readiness. He could easily press her against the wall and take her from behind. Only the wildness careening through him kept him still while she stepped into the white shower stall.
“Ready?” he asked huskily.
Mia wore a witchy smile as she turned her face up. “Ready.”
He drizzled water over her head, watching the silvery trails against her skin. Her nipples pebbled from the contrast of warm water and cool air. “Do you want me to wash your hair?”
“Yes, please.”
He set the pot on the back of the toilet with the others and took her shampoo from the sink. Using a small dollop, he started at the top of her head, added a little water for lather, and worked it through her hair to the ends. She leaned into his hands with a throaty moan. Søren spent longer than he needed in massaging her scalp, his body responding fiercely to each of her moans. At last he could take no more and grabbed the rinse water. Carefully he poured it over her head, tilting so the soap didn’t run into her eyes. It took a couple more rinses until the water ran clear.
From that point, he didn’t ask her what she wanted him to do. He couldn’t stop touching her; she belonged to him. His to protect, safeguard, and care for. Snagging a washcloth from the shelf above the commode, he dipped it in the pot, smoothed it across a bar of soap, and then dipped it back in the water. Brisk agitation created a nice lather, and then he began to wash her.
Her breath hissed as he ran the fabric over her, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she stood quiescent, as if she sensed in him the need to finish what he’d started. Mia watched his progress, eyes avid. Her arousal showed in her quick, shallow breaths, the way her stance opened in anticipation of his fingers between her thighs.
To tease her, he washed everywhere else first, lingering on her breasts and the curves of her ass. He rinsed the cloth and retraced his steps on her skin until little whimpers were escaping her. Søren loved seeing her this way, especially knowing her gorgeous eyes were fixed on his face.
“Almost done,” he said, smiling.
“You wouldn’t leave me like this, would you?”
“Like what?”
“So massively turned on.”
He shook his head, sinking to his knees before her like a supplicant. Her breath caught as she watched him, but he didn’t intend what she suspected just yet. First he needed to see every shift, every flicker.
Mia moaned when he set the damp, warm cloth against her labia. A soft, barely there tickle against her clit. Her warm, clean skin enthralled him, paired with the luscious pink of inner flesh. Søren toyed with her until she rose up on her toes, pelvis thrust forward in a silent plea.
That was when he let the washcloth drop. Smooth and hot, slick with want-he’d never seen anything so lovely. Her clitoris begged his attention. As he leaned in, her hands lit on his head, guiding him where she wanted his mouth most. There was nothing so delicious as fresh, yearning woman. She undulated against him, mindless in her pleasure.