I plop down next to him, smiling as I take one of wine glasses.
“I love your house,” I say, glancing around. Pictures of actual people sit on his fireplace mantle. “I expected a coffin, truth be told.”
He laughs, leaning forward and setting his wine glass on the coffee table. “I had help from my sister decorating it, so I can’t take all the credit.”
“Does she live close by?” I ask, setting my glass next to his.
He nods. “Yep. Her name is Annika. She has two young sons.”
I smile. “You have nephews?”
He nods. “I love those little fuckers.”
Laughing, I lean back. “Tell me more.”
He turns to face me. “About what?”
“About you,” I answer.
His face softens a bit, and he falls back before bringing his feet onto the coffee table.
Whois this Anderson, and what has he done with the stoic man I met on the plane?
“I have—had—two sisters.” He’s quiet for a beat, but I let him continue at his own pace. “Kirstin—the youngest—died about a year ago. Drug overdose.” The words hang in the air as I process them. Reaching out, I take his hand—and he lets me. “She had problems for a long time. She was the youngest. We were close in age, and she just… never really felt like she fit in anywhere. By the time she died, she’d been living on the street for years. Annika—the oldest—and I, we tried. My parents fucked off back to Sweden the second she turned eighteen, and we spent the next two decades trying to help her, trying to save her.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, shaking my head. “I’m so sorry.”
He gives me a small smile and looks away. “There was nothing we could’ve done.”
I swallow thickly. “So, you and Annika are close?”
He nods. “She’s two years older than me. She had fertility problems, so when she got pregnant with the twins, she decided to leave her job and stay home.” He chuckles. “She’s sort of losing her mind now.”
I laugh. “I bet. Sounds like a handful.”
“They are.”
His eyes meet mine, and something tugs at my heart—something deep-seated and profound. He must sense it, too, because he climbs on top of me, hovering over me. His face is inches from mine. I keep waiting for him to kiss me, to trail his hands under my dress, but he watches me with an expression I can’t place. Slowly, he lowers his head to mine, kissing me with fervor. Cupping my face, he thrusts subtly against me, and I groan into his mouth.
“Fuck, Natalia,” he whispers, his voice shaky.
I respond by reaching out and unbuttoning his jeans. He hisses, trailing his arm down and moving my underwear to the side as his cock springs free. There’s no pretense, no foreplay. He enters me, driving into me as I arch my back, taking me with a need so different from the first time. Tonight, there’s a gnawing ache in my chest. Something formidable is forming between us, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
He doesn’t take his lips off mine the entire time—doesn’t do anything other than move my hands above my head, holding them there as he slowly thrusts, circling his hips, his tongue circling mine. I writhe against him instinctually, meeting every movement with my own, until we form some kind of rhythmic dance together, our heavy breathing the only sound. He lowers his head and kisses my neck as my orgasm blazes through me—my ragged breathing turning into something feral, something primal. He bites down on my neck, and it sends me over the edge.
Wave after wave undulates through me, making my toes curl, making my head tip back farther. It’s like someone is wringing me out, like I can’t contain the feeling of it all. A sob escapes my lips as I look up at Anderson—who’s eyes are focused on where we’re joined—and then they snap to me, so raw, so hungry. Just the look on his face, the way he bares his teeth as he gets close…
My core tightens again, and I clench around Anderson for the second time. I cry out, surprised as I rock my hips, and then it jolts through me. Stronger than the first, all-consuming. I squeeze my eyes shut as my toes—every fiber inside me—curls.
“Look at me,” Anderson growls, and when I open my eyes, he empties inside of me. Roaring, he drives into me hard, deep, keeping himself inside me to the hilt while he comes, and when he stops pulsing, he collapses on top of me and rolls to the side so that I can breathe. He slips out of me, and I start to get up so that I don’t make a mess on his couch, but he holds me down—his eyes closed, grabbing for me. I curl up in his arms as our exhales fill the room, and he doesn’t let go. He holds me tight, fisting my cardigan as he kisses the top of my head.
“I don’t want to ruin your leather couch,” I explain, trying to pull away.
“I don’t care about the fucking couch,” Anderson says, his eyes still closed, his expression content.
I stop protesting, letting myself lie against his body. He’s radiating heat, and with my head in the crook of his arm, I can feel his heartbeat—and it’s thundering against his chest, throbbing in the skin of his neck. He’s sticky and sweaty, still fully clothed like me, and the front part of his hair is damp. He keeps his eyes closed, a hint of a smile on his lips as he nuzzles in closer.
Anderson Møllen is a cuddler.
