Nordic Lessons (9 page)

I swipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, ignore his question and stride into the open bay to see my beauty.
We have a lot of ground rules to cover tonight.

* * *

He looks like an imposing warrior clad in indigo blue. Both blood and oil streak his broad hands, and I watch in fascination as red drops from a fresh cut on his top lip drip steadily down his chin.

So unbelievably raw and hot ….

“You’re … you’re bleeding badly. Here, sit, let me have a look.”

Without protest he takes a seat on a rolling stool next to a neon orange and black motorcycle. I reach down into my handbag, pull out a mini pack of Kleenex, and dab the blood as gently as possible. I move in close to inspect the severity of the cut.

He stays very still but I can tell that he’s struggling to control his breathing. He watches me closely as I speak, “Well, it seems you are lucky. You’ve narrowly avoided the need for stitches. What in the world was that bust-up all about?”

“Old school mate, lots of bad blood. Too long a story to get into right now, though.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes raking me from head to toe. “You look beautiful.”

I flush and glance quickly at my cobalt blue wrap dress and ivory cropped jacket, decorated with several silver zippers, some of them functional. Over-the-knee black suede Prada boots round out the outfit.

“Thank you. I had the appointment I mentioned to you at the downtown gallery today, hence the proper attire.”

“I look forward to hearing all about it over steaks tonight,
min
skjønne
. I’m sorry you caught the tail end of that mess out there. Not something I wanted my girl to see.”

He reaches out to touch me on the hip but freezes when he notices the filth on his hands. “Let me get cleaned up. Jag’s finished, have a look.” He cocks his head to the far bay of the garage. “It was the starter. Put a new one in, and it’s good to go now.”

I smile and take in his midnight blue, button-down short-sleeved work shirt. His forearms are tanned and thick with honed muscles.
Mmm ….

The oval patch stitched on his right breast pocket reads, ‘Slave driver.’ Stealing a glance at Bern, who’s standing nearby pouring coffee, I see that his reads ‘Jack Meoff.’ ”

What in the world?

I burst into an involuntary fit of giggles and finally am able to ask, “What
are
these ridiculous patches all about? Your idea?”

His eyes brighten and his lips twitch. “Every Christmas, we have a dark, running joke. We pick out fitting nicknames for each other, order the shirts, and regardless of what you’re stuck with, you gotta wear it every Monday to the shop.”

I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes. “And what happens if you refuse?”

“You don’t.” Curt. Abrupt.

“But if someone did?” I say between giggles.

“Then you gotta wear it for two weeks straight.”

I finally manage to contain my laughter. “That’s outrageous!” I level him with a heated, questioning look before asking, “So, is it true?”

“What, babe?”

“
Are
you a total slave driver?”

I watch in fascination as he goes very still, eyelids dropping slightly. Then, holding me in his smoldering gaze, he says with supreme confidence, “Absolutely, Elora.”

My breath hitches as I whisper ever so softly, “Oh.”

A dark vision of him as the ultimate master in the bedroom begins to form in my mind; it’s graphic and irresistible.
It’s undoubtedly about to become my sensual reality.

Gunnar walks up, interrupting the sexual fantasy. Speaking in heavily accented English, he tells Mikkel, “Here’s her helmet.”

I watch him reach out to take it from the huge man. He gives it a once-over, turning it around in his hands. Gunnar’s patch reads, ‘Hugh G. Rection.’
These guys are incorrigible.

I choke out a laugh. Gunnar grins down at his chest and says, “Like that? Pretty funny, right? They finally picked the perfect patch out for me this year.”

From the stack of papers he is going through on the desk, Bern pipes up, “Yeah right, Gunnar. You do realize that the guys who have to talk about it don’t have jack shit going on downstairs.”

Gunnar gives a loud snort before saying sharply, “The ladies are always more than satisfied. Can’t get enough!”

Mikkel shakes his head in exasperation and I can’t stop laughing at their ridiculous banter.

“All right, Elora, I’m going to follow you over to your place. I’ll park on the street and wait for you. Need you to carry your helmet in the Jag, no room on my ride.”

“Of course.”

He holds out the sleek, matte-black modern helmet that reads ‘Arai Corsair V’ in smoke gray lettering down the side. It looks very expensive and well constructed, which in the motorcycle world must mean top safety.

“Thank you, Mikkel. It’s very nice. Are you certain?” I’ve come to know him well enough to understand that protesting his generosity is futile.

He ignores my question, instead saying, “Try it on,
skjønne
.”

He pushes back and the stool slides along the dark gray concrete floor. I watch him cross his arms and wait expectantly. I set my handbag down on top of a triple-decker red tool chest and lift the helmet up over my head. It easily slides down into place. My first impression is that it’s supremely warm and comfortable. I can see Mikkel clearly through the shield of plastic. I grin at him.

I’m not sure if he can hear me well with the visor closed so I say loudly, “It’s quite nice!”

He obviously did because I hear him say, “Looks hot, Elora. Like it on you, good choice.”

I pull it off, shake my hair and set it down near my handbag. “I need to settle up with you for the repairs to the Jaguar.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Mikkel, this—”

I’m cut off mid-sentence. His palm comes up flat out in front of him, a clear indicator that I should hush up. He speaks quietly. “Elora, let me do this for you, all right? Been a fucking long day, babe. Let’s get rolling. Need a shower asap.”

He stands and moves toward the oversized sink. He pumps a substance in a massive orange bottle labeled ‘Gojo’ onto his hands and scrubs them vigorously before toweling them off and turning back to me.

“Keys are in the Jag. Let’s go.” He calls loudly toward the office, “Bern, you good to lock up tonight?”

“Yeah, my man, I’ll be here finishing up the brakes on the Frenchman’s ride.”

“Excellent, looks like it should be ready for shipment a week before we projected. Call me if there are any more issues tonight.”

“No worries, you two have fun.”

He stares right at me, those tempestuous eyes burning with intent. “Oh, we plan on it.”

Breath leaves my lungs in a warm gush as the throbbing between my legs intensifies to manic levels
.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I’m in for a very memorable evening, and I’m more than game for his sinful play.

M
y arms tighten around his waist as we bump along the narrow dirt road. Lush trees surround us and the foliage is so dense that little else is visible.
Where in the hell is his house?

He’s given me no clue. I never would’ve guessed that we’d be headed for a twenty-minute ride outside of the City Centre. It begins to make sense, though; he seems like a man who needs both his space and long periods of privacy.

This late in the afternoon the fall air is brisk, and I’m relieved that we’re nearly there. The single layer of my dress offers me little in the way of protection against the wind and my legs are starting to feel like twin popsicles. Peeking up over his wide right shoulder I see a structure emerge through the trees. It’s horizontal and light in color, constructed out of birch or perhaps a light Aspen. Long, rectangular windows are interspersed along the body of the distinctively modern home.

He steers us around the right side and down a curved, sloped drive that’s paved in blacktop. As we come to a rolling stop, I feel him reach into his pocket. He pulls out a small black garage door opener and presses the button. The double bay door comes to life. I hold fast as he eases us into a generous space next to a mammoth black SUV.

The motorcycle shuts off and his palm touches my hand, the one that rests snugly against his jacket. “Ready to head inside, Elora?”

“Mmm, hmm.” I murmur against his back.

Suddenly the silence is heady, amplifying my nervous energy. I’m struck by the fact that we’re completely alone together and that he is fully in his element. My heart pounds solidly in my chest as a wave of excitement crashes through me.

“Okay,” he says, “go ahead and dismount.”

I reach up to his shoulders for support and swing my leg over and off of his ride. Taking a look around, I see that everything is exceptionally clean and tidy. The floor is a gray concrete that gleams from a glossy veneer. Even his black SUV is free from any hint of grime or dust. In fact, it’s so clean and shiny that I bet I could apply my makeup in the reflection of the jet-black paint job.

A fastidious biker? Well, isn’t he just full of surprises ….

A light brush of a hand between my shoulder blades pulls me out of my thoughts. “After you,” he rumbles in a low voice as we move toward a flight of stairs that lead to a closed door. I hear the garage door sliding closed behind us as Mikkel reaches around me to twist the handle and push the door open for us.

My first impression of his home is that it’s beautifully quiet and filled with streaming light coming in through the long row of windows. Through the glass I take in the streaky, rust-red sunset that hovers over a sparkling lake. I move over toward the sliding doors to gaze out at the tranquility. “This property is spectacular, Mikkel. I can understand why you live so far out of town.”

He stands beside me, my left shoulder just touching his upper arm. He stares out and begins thoughtfully, “This property belonged to my grandfather. Until ten years ago, nothing was on this land but a rickety fishing cabin. When
bestefar
passed away, he thankfully left the property to me, must have been from all of the memories of the times we spent together in the forest. I would drive my family mad, begging them to drive me out here so I could fish all day with my
bestefar
.”

“When did he pass away?”

He responds slowly, in a wistful tone. “Fifteen years ago now. The man smoked like a fucking chimney. Heart gave out. He was a fantastic human being.”

“What was his name?”

“Magnus. His name was Magnus.”

Silence prevails for a long moment before I say, “It’s so amazingly quiet out here. You must enjoy the solitude after all the noise in the garage.”

He continues to gaze out at the rippling water and says pointedly, “Absolutely.”

“Do you ever get lonely way out here?”

He turns to me and my lips part lightly. In this light, his irises look exactly like molten gold.
Mesmerizing ….

He smiles kindly, a few thin lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes as he says, “Never. In fact I embrace the isolation, need it deeply,
min skjønne
. Always have.”

A mysterious emotion takes over his hard male features, something akin to fierce longing. It happens quickly and is so stunning that I want nothing more than to twine my arms around his neck, to pull him down to me.

We stare at each other in silence for a thick moment before he whispers quietly, “I’m fucking filthy, babe, need to shower in the worst way. Make yourself at home, have a look around, I won’t be long.”

I watch him walk away, his shoulders so wide as he heads across the spacious living room in long, smooth strides. He stops for a brief moment to pick a remote up from a side table. He aims it at a grey slate fireplace and in seconds the gas logs jump to life. When I glance back from the fire he’s disappeared somewhere down a shadowed hallway that runs parallel to the front door.

I cross to the custom fireplace and watch the flames flicker and dance in the waning light. Two black steel braces jut out from the stone above the blaze. They hold an unusual, rectangular-shaped glass box. Curious, I take a few steps back to see it at a better angle, lift my head up and stare at the ancient, weathered object. It’s an incredibly old, battered sword, Viking era perhaps? It’s difficult to tell. I’m not an expert on weapons by any means and the condition is poor at best. It’s safe to say that this once proud sword has seen better days; however, there is something beautiful about its weathered surface. Deep, marring grooves and nicks cover it from tip to handle and the color, once a shimmering silver, is now dark, grayish-black. How many men have fallen from this powerful weapon and who would have wielded it over his powerful shoulder? Certainly back then it was a necessary tool for both survival and protection. My mind conjures up a fierce Viking in battle. The heavy sword swings with ease from the bloody hands of a massive, rough warrior. He’s laser-focused and intent only on the next kill. A shudder runs up my spine at the violent image. I turn away and glance around.