Skin Tight (28 page)

“So you needed a spot to lay low for a while.”

“There’s no electricity,” he went on. “So showers will be cold. And at night, we’ll use lanterns and candles. There should be a jug of kerosene around here.”

That was when she realized the stove was unlike others she’d seen before. It had a flat top, an oven with a weird crank handle, and a pipe venting out through the wall. To either side, there were simple shelves, where Søren was stacking the canned goods. He filled the stove with the wood stacked to one side and kindled the fire.

“Um. You don’t expect me to cook on that, do you?”

He shook his head. “I can manage. I’ll just be heating things.”

Weariness beat at her like wings. “Can I fold down the futon?”

“Be my guest.” His voice came laced faintly with irony.

“Like I have a choice,” she muttered.

“That is unfortunately true. I’m not going to offer to sleep on the floor, Mia. It gets chilly at night.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He rounded the other side and helped her set up the bed. A tattered quilt came out of a chest beneath the window, and he found sheets that were faded to a soft buttery yellow from many washings. Pillows came out of the chest likewise, and she touched the embroidery with tentative fingertips.

She didn’t understand him. He had roots. He had permanence. If he’d wanted, once he’d escaped from the facility, he could have gone home to a family that loved him. Instead he’d tried to kill himself, failed, and then devoted his life to vengeance.

But maybe that time had changed him, made it impossible for him to settle into a normal life. Mia remembered hearing that about war veterans. Or perhaps he was afraid returning would endanger his family. Based on what she knew of him, that made sense.

While she’d been woolgathering, he had made up the bed completely. Bone weary and aching, Mia pulled off her clothes and crawled onto the mattress in her underpants. He met her halfway, his skin a pleasurably fevered shock against her own.

“God, you feel good.” His hands roved her back, not a sexual touch, but more as if he were memorizing the feel of her.

“I’ll fall asleep,” she reminded him.

His chuckle stirred her hair. “I don’t want that. I just want . . . this.”

Mia nestled against him, listening to his heart. “Tell me about them.”

“Who?”

“Your family. The ones you never see.”

While chasing vengeance for a little girl who never sees you.
The futility of it plucked at her heartstrings. He was the most broken man she’d ever met, like a diamond improperly cut, so only when you held it to the light a certain way could you see the brilliance within.

His breath gusted. A sigh.

“I have two sisters, both younger. My parents immigrated from Copenhagen when I was very small. They didn’t realize the difference in medical care, so they thought nothing of taking me to a free clinic for my vaccinations.”

“How did you find out?”

“In my late teens, I wondered why I was different—and so I dug around on fringe websites and alt.net user groups. There, I met someone named Mockingbird engaged in a similar search for answers.” His hands threaded in her hair as if he needed touch to ground him. “We struck paydirt in a remote database. At the time, he was the hacker, not me, but he shared what he found: names, dates, test results, control groups. My name was on that list. To Micor—and their parent company, the Foundation—I was just an experiment. And so were thousands of other children. Over the years, we’ve kept in touch. He . . . aids me in my work, offers information, mostly. We’ve never met in person.”

“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.”

 

 

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.

Søren clutched her hips and tasted her deeply, laving where she liked it best. To his delight, she began to utter guttural instructions. “Faster. There. More.”

“Here?” He teased her, licking low.

Her answer came in the form of a tug on his hair. Laughing softly, he complied—lips, tongue, graze of teeth—and she went wild, bucking. Mia arched, sobbing, “Søren!”

And he almost came in his pants. His erection hurt, smashed up against his zipper, but if he unfastened, he might come. He just needed a minute—

Those thoughts were forgotten when she started to cry. Troubled, he slid up her wet body. He clutched her close and gentled her through the aftershocks. She clung to him. But when she raised her eyes to his, she surprised him.

“Tell me you have condoms,” she demanded.

“Do you think I’d buy a whole case of beans and
no
protection in preparation for taking you with me into the mountains?”

A smile curved her lovely, sensual mouth. “I’m almost afraid to answer.”

“Come on, naked girl. Let me show you my stash.”

“I bet you say that to all the naked girls.”

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t.”

There was precious, precarious weight in that moment. She gazed at him, likely reading more than he wanted. And yet he could deny her nothing because she
could
see.

“There’s one problem here,” she said, gesturing.

“And that is?”

“You have on too many clothes for me to . . . play with you.”

The words felt as though she’d reached into his pants and squeezed his cock. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

With shaking hands, he undressed. Søren didn’t think he had the stamina for foreplay, but it was just as well. As soon as he got his clothes off, she took a foil packet from the box and tilted her head toward the futon.

“Take a seat. I’ll be with you presently.”

Perching at the edge, he said, “You make me feel like I’m in a doctor’s waiting room.”

“Yet your interest hasn’t flagged. Does that mean you have a naughty nurse fantasy?”

He watched her with unconcealed impatience. “That depends. Are you the nurse?”

“Sorry. I don’t want you ever losing sight of who I am.”

Søren understood that from the inside out. He groaned as she took him in hand and rolled the latex down his shaft. To his relief, however, she didn’t linger or offer excessive stimulation. At last, she slid onto his lap, her legs wrapping around his hips.

“Lift up,” he whispered, aiding the movement with his hands.